#zenv

He’s sitting on the couch opposite Zen, legs crossed and sketchbook laid across his lap, glancing up at Zen, his model, every once in a while, smiling. He’d asked Zen if he could draw him twenty minutes ago with a stutter and pink dusting his face, now sketching his complexions, biting his lip while he does it.

V’s working on the details of his right eye when he hears the metal beer can strike the table, and Zen’s voice.

“Have you always wanted to draw me?”

He looks up at Zen, blue eyes meeting red, stifling a smile.

“I...” He glances at his paper and back at Zen. “... have.”

“Why didn’t you ask?”

“I found that I couldn’t take my eyes off you,” he says. “And I... drew what I remembered.”

And he can see by the way Zen’s face lights up and he bites his lip to restrain his own smile, that he recognizes his attraction, his infatuation—and maybe it was a confession, what V had just said.

He doesn’t look up from his drawing when he speaks again. “You’re beautiful.”

He knows Zen’s been told that numerous times, but he means it in more ways than one. He’s beautiful, beautiful, and he makes V want to draw, draw, draw, and write poems, love letters.

V doesn’t want to erase—he won’t erase any part of Zen. He finishes his right eye with a final stroke of his pencil, beginning to draw his smile, his exhilarating smile. When he looks up from his paper, he catches Zen’s eye before it averts.

He returns to his drawing with a small smile and the image of Hyun in his mind.

/

He’d gathered his paint and brushes, wanting to add a little color to his drawing, and Zen sits closer to him and watches. He’d taken off his shirt, commenting on the heat of the room, and V resisted the urge to crack a joke.

Zen’s flirting, he can tell. He’s leaning closer to him with his arm on the couch around his shoulder, watching him paint, and V’s trying not to stare at his chest. He can feel Zen’s breath hot on his neck, and his overwhelming presence.

One, two, three, trying to calm his racing heart.

“I’d use colored pencils, or something,” Zen says. His arms shifts as if to move to V’s shoulders, but it stays where it is. V wishes he’d just pull him close against his chest.

“I like paint. It’s more fun.”

He smiles, and Zen gives a confused look, laughing.

“What does that—?”

On impulse, V takes his paintbrush, doused in fiery red, the color of Zen’s eyes, and wipes it across his nose, paint smearing his skin. The noise of surprise and the laughter that escapes Zen sends his heart racing, and Zen wipes the paint off his nose with the back of his hand.

“How dare you.”

The drawing and the paint are moved to the coffee table, but V’s still armed with the paintbrush.

“It’s non-toxic.”

And he reaches forward to smear paint on Zen’s bare shoulder, Zen retaliating by rubbing his paint-stained thumb on V’s cheek. Before he knows it, Zen’s leaning over him, sitting on his lap, V’s paintbrush dancing across his chest.

They’re laughing, moving closer together, and Zen’s wiping the paint off his skin and onto V’s face. His smile is warm, eyes darting to his lips.

“We’re getting it everywhere,” V says, hugging his waist and smearing paint across his back. There’s paint in his hair, on his skin and his clothes, and Zen’s chest is pressed against his, thumb rubbing over his lips.

He doesn’t look away from Zen’s eyes when he speaks again. “You’re beautiful.”

A faint taste of paint on his lips, Zen’s fingers burning on his skin. They’re so, so close, the cold of the paint against the heat of Zen’s lips against his own, and it’s like a burst of color.

He smiles into the kiss, breaking it with a laugh, Zen’s head falling onto his shoulder, and he laughs too. Lifting his head up, kissing V again, humming fondly. V’s gliding his hands across Zen’s chest, red paint on his fingers, and Zen slips his tongue past his lips.

It’s a messy, uncontrolled kiss, and they’re laughing, breaking and breaking the kisses with smiles. Their hands glide across skin and clothes, searching for a place to rest—and V pushes against Zen’s chest, laughing when he lets out a gasp.

Zen, the kiss, everything about this—it’s beautiful. He’s lost in the warmth of Zen’s touch, his overwhelming infatuation.

Zen whispers something against his lips about the colors of the rainbow, and V pulls away to kiss his neck, tracing circles into his skin.

“Do you have more colors?” Zen asks, and V smiles against his neck.

“Yes. Which one—?”

“Blue.”

/