March was beginning to seep into April and into Minki’s pores. His eyelashes fluttered wetly against his cheeks like crash cymbals, collapsing under the weight of clouds in mourning; drip and drop until they melted into his mouth, tasting of lychee and distinct nothingness. The tips of his ears had also turned pink from the cold, the same shade as the water lilies that never survived the winter, yet he remained still, on the window sill, watching his cigarette wither and dampen in between his fingers. He was almost certain that smoking inside the studio was forbidden, but at this hour, the campus was as barren as his childhood photo album, and he had never, not consciously, disobeyed the Palladian law. He was allowed this once, to indulge a vice that desperately. All the windows were ajar, letting the spring coddle the pile of fabrics on the floor, including the silk chiffon spoiled with metallic threading—the reason for the pulsating ache behind his lids. As a person, Minki could be forgiving. Sometimes he couldn’t, but then he would forget it, and forgetting was easier and less cruel. But he was tough on himself, always in the shadow of his own boot that towered over him in threat of crushing him like a helpless bug. He liked his work to be pristine, polished to perfection, as though he had clutter to hide in his own life, sweeping it up under a sheepskin rug.
Minki also had an aversion to working with other people, because he could simply never put any faith in them to do him right. When other kids were dreaming about hitching a ride on a giant eagle to soar across the skies, he would feel starved for the ability to feed off other peoples’ talents, or passions, until he’d grow to become a Frankestein’s monster that would thrive in anything the human brain was even capable of imagining. But alas, he wasn’t, which had been painful to admit to his supervisor, even more than getting a stubborn splinter out of your calloused skin, and now he was stuck waiting for someone who had the cheek to be terribly (hyperbolised) unpunctual. Minki’s face was glowing like morning dew by the time the door creaked open and he took a drag of his dripping, half-extinguished smoke in greeting. He hadn’t been expecting anyone in particular, the name Subin not ringing any bells, but that face... Minki squinted at him, as if he was a mirage. “Oh, it's you.” Was he wandering like a lost lamb? Unless... Minki's teeth caught the desaturated glow of the setting sun, suddenly feeling like his headache had been washed away by the rain. “Here for round two?”
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