(I/H) 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄 || mewgulf

gokotta.

Sunlight welcomed itself into the studio, weaving between the cracks of birch windows and then sprawled onto the unmade bed, where an artist in his fresh twenties was sleeping soundly. His eyebrows scrunched when a ray streaked his sculpted face and slowly but steadily, hazelnut brown lively bursted through his thick lashes. His hands flung up to meet his cotton-soft obsidian hair to ruffle a little and wiped down his tired, sleep-worn face.

Monday, half past six, read his bedside clock.

Peculiarity. He realized himself being drowned in deep thought since he usually didn't get up prior his usual morning hour, which was always seven sharp with an additional five-minute saving for making his bed. After that, the routine went on with him brushing his teeth, getting dressed, cooking up some lovely breakfast, then he would sat himself down on the wooden stool, with his usual small-tipped brush in hand and his kaleidoscopic acrylic tubes scattered on the mat, and peacefully worked his way until either a customer came in with an order or closing time. Life was a never-ending cycle to Mew, and he followed it like clockwork to the extent that he himself felt attached to the autopilot. That is, if he did one thing that screwed up the whole scheme, he would feel exaggeratingly under the weather; even if he woke up prior or later than one minute, he would be annoyed since it wasn't the seven sharp sunlight he was bathing in. Today he woke up thirty minutes earlier, and although he had expected a thirty times grumpy morning Mew Suppasit, he felt refreshed and surprisingly took a liking to the mild sunlight which wasn't as prickly as his old golden hour anymore. Warm sun, light breeze. One swing of his window and they hastily overflowed his cabin, creeping into every nook and cranny, dusting off the exhaustion lingering on his mattress.

Mew started off his busy day with a smile.

His eyes wandered off to the distance, where the bustling town market was usually situated and his ears desperately searched for the first chitter-chatters of the day. Yet, to his astonishment, it was nearly inaudible to the fact that Mew can soundly hear the rustling of Indian almond leaves - nature's music drowned in the busy market hours. There were few shoppers occupying the jewelry and cutlery stalls while other stall-keepers set up their tables or basketfuls of produce. Cicadas fabricated its heavenly music with their wings, filling up the morning void with white noise and here Mew was, astounded, agape and greatly appreciated, that on this Monday just by waking up thirty minutes earlier, he got to witness one of nature's beautiful compositions and how delightful it would be to relax to its tunes and let his imagination unfold on canvas. It was summer, it was youth and it was bursting with the recklessness of adolescence. It was nouvelle.

Speaking of which, did the boy wake up?

His slippered feet took him outside to the serene landscape that marveled in front of his naked vision. Sound, scene and the dewy aura of fresh Monday morning merged into one and blessed his five humanly senses, of which were man to have more, Mew would have used them all to perceive the beautiful and the interesting of early hours, just like how he would perceive the young man's beauty. The unidentified. His beauty was like no other that Mew had witnessed before and it hit him like a carriage running headlong. His windswept hair was a darker shade of spun ebony, his lips crimson pink like the luscious skin of mid-summer nectarines, the build of his body was the fusion of a willow's grace and a century-old's solidity, his smile so bright even the Sun would be jealous and shamefully hid behind the clouds and his eyes. His eyes. Never before Mew had seen so much stars beheld in a passionate and naughty gaze. It was celestially and galactically mythical to posses such orbs. His character was both real and surreal, childish and mature, with profound contrast yet a seamless harmony that even Nature itself couldn't comprehend so well. Why, was it nature that resembled the boy or was it the other way?

Chiang Saen unraveled a new coat and Mew felt as if he was in cloud nine before he decided to sit down the porch leading to his front door only to nibble bit by bit like a cookie, whaling away the rest of fifteen minutes. He did think of the time as an opportunity for him to get changed, which he should have done prior to walking out of his safe cabin just a while ago, yet, he couldn't care less. What is not beauty can wait and dressing to impress can wait. That is, nature is too profound a beauty to be disregarded. Besides, he was from head to toe in his pajamas and since when were pajamas not decent clothes? Since never. His mahogany boots and beige laced shirt can just take its time to relax in his closet...

"Monsieur Suppasit?"

And Mew regretted what he had conversed in his mind immediately.

"Ah," Mew quickly gathered himself to stand up when he saw the anonymous boy's head popped out from a corner of the small flower garden in front of his home. His hands frantically dusted off the dirt that clouded the floorboard of his porch, cleaning his pajamas and his eyes shot at the boy, who was standing only a meter or two away from him. The only thing that was in between them was a woven basket and Mew's porch balcony.

"Did I seem to scare you?" The boy laughed sonorously when Mew's eyes met his, his hand reached up to scratch his head out of embarrassment, to which the artist's eyes followed it attentively. "If I did, I'm sincerely sorry."

"N-no!" Mew put up his hands in disagreement and retreated it quickly afterwards since he saw a small jolt on the boy's shoulders. What a great impression he left. "You didn't... scare me."

"You seem unsure," The younger said, his head cocking to the side and he flashed, to Mew, the brightest smile he had ever seen in the entire universe revolved. Did his heart summersault? Did his mind play a soft tune in the background and did his orbs shade a haze of pastel around the boy? He didn't know, yet he absolutely admired how his working brain managed to conduct all of the mentioned in one go.

"A little... I'm unsure because I didn't know who I was going to greet me this early of a morning Monday." Mew retorted softly and smiled a bit at the boy's indication. He saw his eyebrows raised a bit, maybe that he's satisfied since the artist had given away that he scared him or just simply an agreement.

"Well, it's Gulf, the Kanawut's baker boy!"

Gulf.

Mew felt his tongue tap on his palette, down to forming his lips into a thin line. One. A half. Gulf. His voice box itched and heated inside his throat like hot red coal from the sensation of needing to say the name aloud. Gulf. So sweet, so honey-like, so tender that Mew agreed the name complimented his looks so seamlessly.

"Your marmalade is here, monsieur." The younger dangled the jar in front of Mew and he was quick to notice what was under the blanketed basket. Glass shimmered with thick golden liquid, lidded on top with a red checkered ribbon and it was the trigger that brought back yesterday. The encounter, the delivery and his mother's daisies. His palate was sweating to be indulged in the luscious sweet treat, yet he just had to look at him once more.

"Thank you, Gulf.."

Bidding lingering adieus, he stood still, admiring Gulf's lanky silhouette taking away all his morning intentions and vanished just around the corner of his studio.

A/N: Dying for more TharnType workshop moments these days while not meeting deadlines is a whole mood.

I am that mood.