Duan's lectures had ended early and he had absolutely nothing to do with himself.
He stood outside the architecture building for approximately three minutes weighing his options and then pulled out his phone and texted Jet.
*Where's Jun.*
Jet replied in under a minute. *Studio. Third floor. Why.*
Duan was already walking.
---
The studio was quiet except for the sound of a brush moving across canvas.
Duan slipped through the door and found a spot on the bench along the far wall without making a sound. Jun hadn't looked up. He was standing in front of a large canvas, completely inside whatever was happening on the surface in front of him, brush moving in slow deliberate strokes.
Duan had seen him sketch before. This was different.
There was blue and green paint smeared along Jun's left cheek where he'd touched his face without thinking. More on the front of his white shirt. He clearly hadn't noticed either. He was just painting, steady and unhurried, his wrist moving with a precision that looked effortless and probably wasn't.
Duan sat there and watched him and it was fine.
Then it wasn't fine because Jun was taking a very long time and the bench was hard and Duan's legs had opinions about sitting still for extended periods.
He got up.
He crossed the studio one careful step at a time and came to a stop directly behind Jun.
Jun's brush kept moving.
Duan leaned in close, close enough that his mouth was right beside Jun's ear, and said quietly —
"Are you done yet?"
Jun's whole body flinched.
The bucket of paint in his hand went sideways. Duan had about half a second to register what was happening before a streak of deep blue came down across the front of his shirt.
Jun cursed. Loudly. He dropped his brush and his hands were already moving, pressing at the fabric, trying to work at it before it set.
Duan watched him struggle with it.
"Hey." He caught Jun's hands. "It's fine."
Jun looked up at him. His expression was doing several things at once, the loudest of which was annoyance.
"I'll wash it later," Duan said. "Don't worry about it."
Jun's foot connected with his shin.
Duan took the hit and said nothing. Jun turned away and pulled off his apron and hung it on the hook by the wall with more force than strictly necessary. He came back and stood in front of Duan and held out his hand.
Duan looked at it and placed his palm cooperatively on top of Jun's fingers.
Jun swatted it away. "Your keys."
"My keys?"
"We're going to my place to wash that off before it sets."
Duan blinked.
Then something shifted in his expression — slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth pulling up.
He bent down slightly, just enough to bring their faces level, close enough that Jun could feel the warmth coming off him.
"Jun," he said, low and easy. "Are you trying to get me into bed."
Jun's stomach twisted.
He kept his face very still.
Duan stepped closer. Jun stepped back. Duan stepped closer again and Jun's back met the wall.
Duan's hands came up on either side of him, not touching, just there, and he looked at Jun with that smile.
"Is that it?" he said.
Jun opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Duan leaned in and his mouth found Jun's ear. "You're so cute when you blush."
Jun's foot shot out.
Duan was already across the studio, smile stretched wide, completely victorious.
Jun grabbed his bag.
---
Jun's building was close to campus. Ten minutes in the car, maybe less.
His condo was exactly what Duan had expected somehow — clean, minimal, everything in its place. But the art was everywhere. Canvases propped against walls, rolled sketches in a jar by the door, small studies pinned above the desk. Projects stacked in careful piles. It smelled faintly like paint and something warmer underneath it.
Duan stood in the middle of it and looked around slowly.
Jun had already disappeared around the corner. He came back a few minutes later wearing a fresh shirt and stopped in front of Duan.
"Take it off," he said.
Duan's hand flew to his chest.
"Jun." His voice was wounded. "I'm not that kind of person."
"Take the shirt off or I'm throwing you out."
"Are you sure you're not trying to—"
"Duan."
Duan laughed and pulled his shirt over his head and held it out. Jun snatched it without looking at him and walked back toward the laundry. He reappeared two seconds later and threw a folded shirt directly at Duan's face and disappeared again without a word.
Duan caught it. Shook it out. Put it on.
It was Jun's. Slightly small across the shoulders. He looked down at himself for a moment and said nothing and felt quietly unreasonable about it.
He turned back to the room and started moving through it slowly. He looked at the canvases propped against the wall, crouching to look at the ones at the bottom. An interior study. A building facade. Something in grey and ochre he spent a while in front of. He straightened up and moved further along, checking the small studies above the desk, picking up a rolled sketch and carefully putting it back.
He ended up at the small table in the corner by the window.
A sketchbook sat on top of it.
He looked toward the hallway. Quiet.
He picked it up.
He told himself he was just going to look at the cover.
He opened it.
Architectural details. Hands. A staircase railing. Interior spaces. The ocean, flat and wide, the lines loose and sure. He turned slowly, taking his time.
He turned the page.
A boy sleeping.
Head drooped slightly, one hand loose, hair falling around his face. The line of his jaw, clean and defined. Long lashes. Lips slightly parted.
Duan went still.
He looked at the drawing for a long moment.
Then he smiled. Slow and wide and completely helpless.
He didn't know when Jun had drawn it or where. He just knew whose face it was. He'd been looking at it his whole life.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Jun came around the corner and his eyes went straight to the corner table before he'd even fully entered the room.
To the empty corner table.
His gaze snapped to Duan.
Duan stood there with the open sketchbook and said nothing. He didn't need to. His face was doing all of it.
Jun crossed the room and grabbed for the book. Duan turned sideways and held it out of reach.
"Is this me," Duan said.
"Give it back."
"Jun—"
"It's none of your business." Jun made another grab. Duan stepped around the table.
"You drew me," Duan said, still smiling, still moving just out of reach. "You actually sat down and drew my face—"
"Give me the book right now—"
"And didn't say anything—"
Jun lunged and got it back and snapped it shut and held it against his chest and his face was doing something he clearly had no control over, colour rising on both cheeks, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past Duan's shoulder.
Duan watched him.
Then he came around the table slowly. Jun took a step back. Then another. Then the table was behind him and there was nowhere left to go.
Duan placed both hands flat on the table on either side of Jun's hips.
Jun had the sketchbook pressed to his chest.
Duan looked at him. When he spoke his voice was quiet and even and completely serious.
"Do you like me, Jun."
"Stop saying nonsense."
"That's not an answer."
Jun turned his face to the side. The colour on his neck was creeping upward.
"Look at me," Duan said.
Jun didn't move.
"Jun."
Slowly Jun turned back and met his eyes.
They were close. Closer than they had ever been. Close enough to feel each other breathing. Jun's back was against the table and Duan's hands were on either side of him and there was genuinely nowhere to go and Jun knew it.
Duan's voice dropped. "Do you like me."
The silence stretched out.
Jun's jaw moved.
"I don't know," he said.
It came out small. Unguarded. Like something that had been sitting there for a while and had finally slipped out without permission.
Duan looked at him for a moment.
Then that smile came back, softer than the usual one. "I know a way to help you figure it out faster."
It was too much.
Jun shoved both hands against his chest hard. Duan stumbled back laughing and caught himself on the edge of the table and the sound of it filled the quiet condo.
Jun turned away and pressed the back of his hand to his cheek.
He walked to the bookshelf and put the sketchbook away with his back to the room.
---
By the time the laundry was done it was dark outside.
Jun came back with Duan's folded shirt and held it out. Duan took it and looked around the condo with the expression of someone who had decided he was comfortable and saw no reason to change that.
"I should probably just stay," he said. "It's late."
"Goodnight Duan."
"The drive back—"
"Is ten minutes."
"Jun—"
"You come through that door again uninvited," Jun said, pointing at it, "and I will never let you in again."
Duan looked at the door. Looked at Jun. Picked up his bag.
He walked to the door and turned around one more time with his hand on the frame.
Jun pointed.
Duan went.