𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐧 • 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

2; a form of solace

choi seungcheol's company was big. it was named 'canvas', and every floor they passed was busy. everyone talked, clients and workers alike, and minghao felt like he did not belong here.

he was given a room in the highest floor of the company building, where his door was right beside the president's (which is seungcheol) office. after he was given the keys to his room and new clothes, he was instructed to take a bath and change into clean clothes.

which minghao did.

now, minghao sat like an awkward child in expensive clothes on his new springy bed, staring at the wall as he waited for further instructions. minghao quite liked being free, yes; but he was new to this, and he preferred if someone told him what to do than to move on his own and destroy several things.

seungcheol didn't enter minghao's room again for the next ten minutes, which alarmed the young man a little. what if this was a trap?! minghao had seen so many fake-kind people who had done this to him, or to other people.

what if this was a more gentle way of zuivet killing minghao off? minghao personally wouldn't mind—but he wished that if he were to get killed, they should've just done it straight up and not create false hope for him because he was actually starting to believe thag this choi seungcheol was legit and not a liar, which he totally is—

"SIR! SIR! I RAN OUT OF—" a painfully deafening voice blasted, after a loud door slam. minghao realized that it was his door that was opened—and so he got into a defensive stance. "oh.. wrong room."

oh. a clumsy worker. minghao dropped the defensive stance.

there stood a man wearing a nice dress shirt and a loose blue tie with a wool suit coat on—which was devastatingly stained with different colors of paint. he had brown hair, and his eyes were as wide as saucers. he was taller than minghao, too.

he was colorful.

perhaps, he was the most colorful and lively person minghao has ever seen, or met. he looked so panicky and excited at the same time, which minghao was confused about. what's with all his screaming?

"who are you?" minghao asked, curiously walking towards the newcomer. the stranger let out a scared 'ah!' and stumbled back. was he scared?

"n-no, who are you!" he pointed at minghao using his index finger—but minghao didn't flinch even once. "why are you in the spare room?! did you eat mr. choi?!"

"i am no cannibal. i am his guest." minghao simpy replied; walking even closer in his unstable legs to observe the stranger who rudely barged in. "who are you?"

"oh— in that case, i-i'm mingyu, an artist working for mr. choi!" he sloppily bowed, getting his outfit even more messy. minghao's eyebrows creased. "nice to meet you! are you a client?!"

"i wouldn't say i'm a client." minghao says, unable to sense that it was his time to introduce himself. "mingyu. you're so... colorful, and lively-looking. what did you do?"

minghao was curious. can he also do something to make himself look more colorful and lively? to look like mingyu, he guessed.

mingyu cleared his throat. "colorful—oh! i was looking for a tube of paint, but i stepped on my palette and the paint on it splashed all over me—and on my face, too. it was like an explosion." he laughed nervously.

hmm, so being colorful and lively requires you to be an artist who experiences... explosions?! aren't explosions occurring only in war?

"strange. i've experienced explosions before, but this is what i got." minghao traces the scar across his forehead, which ended on his left cheekbone. it was a pretty noticeable scar that minghao used to hide with his long hair.

"eh.. not a bomb explosion, but a paint explosion." mingyu nicely explained, scratching the back of his head. "it happens more often in my workplace."

"you... paint, right? why do you paint? what do you paint? why does the president of the company think that this business is a business at all?"

mingyu chuckled, smiling coyly. "us artists paint commissions. some people want their portraits hung onto the walls of their house, or they want a piece of art that reminds them of a secenery they can view without leaving the comfort of their home."

minghao let out an 'ooh', which mingyu giggled at. he understood the company's purpose now—but he didn't think it was essential at first, because he never had these type of luxuries in life before. he couldn't choose what clothes he wanted to wear, he couldn't talk without permission, he couldn't pick whatever he wanted to eat—he can't ask for a painting so he can admire it all day.

"that's interesting. then, why did you pick this job? it gets you messy." minghao follows up.

"well, painting is some kind of solace for me. it makes me feel happy. it makes me feel good, that i am able to show someone a beautiful sight. it makes me feel good that i can make others happy by painting a scene, a person, or something that they truly love or adore," mingyu kindly explained, having an infinite patience. "you? what's your job?"

"is a job supposed to make you feel happy and good?" minghao asked. is a job supposed to consist of paint explosions, not explosions that leave an eternal mark on minghao physically and emotionally?

the colorful artist hummed in agreement, smiling. "of course it is!"

"my previous one... did not make me happy at all. it hurted me."

mingyu nervously laughed, placing a hand on minghao's shoulder. the war machine flinched, ready to grab the taller's arm and hurt him before he could hurt minghao—but then mingyu retracted his hand fast.

was it not a threat? what was it then? a... pat?

"well, i hope you find happiness in what you want to do next, stranger."

at that, minghao's eyes sparkled.