The gallery interior gleamed. Its polished marble floors reflected the soft amber lighting from overhead spotlights. A gentle guqin melody drifted through the air, its elegant strings creating an atmosphere of refined contemplation. Silk banners hung between the walls, their crimson and gold hues adding warmth to the pristine white space.
Sun Weiming spotted him from across the room. Slender. Tight jeans framed the length of his long legs. A scarf hanging from his neck. Hands behind his back. Head tilted as he studied the painting before him. Even from behind, the man radiated an intensity that pulled Sun Weiming toward him.
Sun Weiming's feet carried him forward without conscious thought, the champagne flute trembling slightly in his grip. Heat spread through his chest as he drew closer. The stranger's profile came into sharper focus. The strong line of his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly in concentration. Sun Weiming's pulse quickened. He forced himself to stop at a respectable distance, though every instinct screamed at him to move closer.
"You like this painting?"
The man nodded without breaking his gaze from the canvas. "Very much. I can't take my eyes off it. It's stirring something deep in my soul."
The man's voice seemed to blanket him. Soft and warm. With a sweetness that caused Sun Weiming's skin to flush.
"Really?This one?"
He stepped closer without thinking, his body moving before his mind could catch up.
The man turned around sharply, his brows furrowed. However, as his eyes fell on Sun Weiming, his expression softened. "Yes," a gentle smile played at the corners of the man's mouth as he spoke. "It's a good painting, don't you think?"
Sun Weiming hesitated. His eyes flicked to the painting, then back to the man. "Yes. But… there's so many here that are much better."
The man gave a light laugh. "And so many here that's much worse." He pointed toward a crowded area of the gallery. "That's just a smudge. A literal brown smudge. Might even be poo."
Sun Weiming's laugh started slow, then became hearty.
The man chuckled and pressed on. "Maybe that's why there's so many people over there. Trying to figure out if it's art or if there's a brain in the head of the painter."
"Okay, okay." Sun Weiming reigned in the laughter to reply. "That's a bad example. But see..." He tilted his chin toward a different corner. "That one looks like random colors thrown on each other, but if you look at it from a certain angle, you see it's actually a stunning face. Brilliant understanding of color theory!"
The man nodded in agreement. "Okay. That's cool. But you know what? That's all it is. Cool art."
Sun Weiming arched a brow, lips curving. "You don't like cool art?"
"Everybody likes cool art." The man shrugged slightly, then turned back toward the painting. "But this! This! This is art-art. You know… real art. Every color... every shadow… every blush… every brush stroke is intentional." He took a deep breath. "It has a message. Plain. Obvious. Haunting."
As the man spoke, Sun Weiming became fixated on his Adam's apple—how it bobbed gently with every word. A sudden, absurd urge stirred in him. To press his fingers against it and feel the hum of that voice. Skin to bone. He struggled to tear his eyes away. To listen more intently, but instead, his gaze settled on the man's lips. Its deep-pink shade. The way they pursued and thinned as he spoke. The way they would feel against his. Flustered, he dragged his gaze to the man's eyes. They seemed to pull him in, suspending him in a space where time moved slowly. There was not a single part of this man's face that was safe to look at. His eyes started to wander downward—
"Did you get that?"
Sun Weiming blinked. His throat felt dry. When he spoke, his voice was breathy. "I'm sorry… Yes. You said—"
"I'm sorry. I tend to ramble when I get excited. I must be boring you out of your mind—"
"No, not at all. Please go on. I love hearing you talk."
The man smiled, his eyes falling on Sun Weiming's lips.
Sun Weiming felt his cheeks burn. He tipped the champagne flute into his mouth, throwing back the alcohol in an attempt to steady his nerves.
The man chuckled and turned towards the painting. "It's obviously of a funeral. In a cathedral. Glamorous and overstated." Pointing, he continued. "There's a much smaller painting on the wall of the cathedral which... Look… A painting within a painting? Always… Always a genius idea... but look at it. It's another funeral. Small. Understated. Outdoors. The exact opposite of the main painting. The... The details. No big bouquet of roses. Just one honest red rose. They're so poor they don't even get their own painting. Just… the tiniest frame hanging on the wall of the actual painting itself."
Sun Weiming gave a small, amused laugh. He placed the flute on a tray that a server was passing with. "I don't think the artist is brilliant enough to think of it that way."
Smiling, the man's eyes lingered on Sun Weiming's eyebrows—there was a thin decorative line through the left one. "Oh, I'm sure that's exactly what they were thinking. They're such a genius."
Sun Weiming shook his head. "I really don't think so."
The man shrugged. "You're entitled to your own opinion. But look at the small picture. You can tell everyone is mourning. But in this big picture, just one person is mourning."
Sun Weiming straightened up. "You can tell?"
"Of course. Look at her. I can see straight into her soul. I feel like I know her. With a face so composed, like a tear would fall if she blinks. The clenched jaw. The clasped hands."
Sun Weiming's smile became small, his voice soft again, vulnerable. "I was afraid that wouldn't come through."
"No, it..." The man's smile faltered. "Oh!" He paused for a beat, then followed in a drawl. "You're the artist."
Sun Weiming nodded.
"I'm so embarrassed." The man pressed his palm against the bridge of his nose, then dragged it upward across his brow. "I just mansplained your artwork to you."
"And called me a genius repeatedly. Fangirling over my work."
"I'm so embarrassed."
"Don't be. It was nice to see my work through someone else's eyes." Sun Weiming glanced at him. "I'm glad it was you."
The man gave a small smirk, settling a piercing gaze on Sun Weiming, as if he could see straight through to Sun Weiming's soul.
Sun Weiming was suddenly aware of his heart beating. Fast. Unrhythmically. Painfully. He wanted to put his hands through his chest and rub on it. Soothe it.
When he spoke again, the man's voice was sultry. "Not only are you brilliant, you're also very easy on the eyes."
Sun Weiming's breath caught. The words hit him like a physical blow, sweet and unexpected. He felt his knees weaken, and he had to concentrate on not swaying toward the man. "Are you… Flirting with me?"
The man held Sun Weiming's gaze for a moment, then broke eye contact. "Maybe." He looked at the bottom right of the painting and read: "The artist, Wei Ming."
Sun Weiming's gaze dropped to the floor.
"'The artist, Wei Ming.' I've never heard of you before."
"This is my first work." Sun Weiming avoided his eyes.
"Oh! It's very nice. You'll be very successful someday." The man pulled out his phone and spoke as he scanned a QR code next to the work. "I'd love the honor of being your first buyer."
The compliment sent electricity through Sun Weiming's entire body. "Thank you."
The man sucked in a breath, his chest rising visibly. "Walk with me. I need a smoke."
Sun Weiming's legs didn't have control over themselves. They just… followed him.
"May I ask what inspired that piece?"
"I… um. Typically paint on the street for small cash. People's cats, dogs, all of that cutesy stuff."
"Really? The subject of that painting is so dark, I wouldn't have guessed." The man pushed open the restroom door and glanced around the empty space. He walked to the larger stall at the end and held the door open with a slight smile that made Sun Weiming's stomach flip.
Sun Weiming followed him in. The stall was cramped with both of them inside, and he found himself pressed against the side wall as the man lit his cigarette.
"Yes. One day, Ms. Shen approached me. She told me she saw potential in me and asked me to paint a piece for this exhibition. And that's... the dream, you know. I just never really thought of it before. I just took every day as it came. But as soon as she said it, I knew that was the dream."
The man chuckled and dragged on his cigarette.
Sun Weiming's eyes fixed on those lips wrapped around the cigarette, and his mind went blank. He imagined them wrapped around him instead, and heat shot through him so fast he nearly gasped.
"Go on."
"I... I..." Sun Weiming's thoughts were scattered. The man's presence was overwhelming—he could feel the heat radiating from his body, could hear the soft exhale of his breath. Could scent the vanilla of his cologne mixing with the smell of the cigarette smoke to produce something... intoxicating and intimate. "Anyways, I... Where was I?"
A flirty smile played on the man's lips. Like he knew exactly what effect he was having on him, and Sun Weiming's stomach dropped. That smile was dangerous, full of promise and heat. "You realized your dream."
"Yeah... I…" Sun Weiming diverted his gaze to a scribble on the stall door. "I didn't know what to paint. And it dawned on me that it was so strange that this was all I wanted, and I didn't even know it. So I started imagining myself being successful at this. And I thought of other people who would do anything to be rich and successful. In the end, they're rich but left with a terrible loneliness."
The man leaned against the wall and took another drag. "Ironic."
"Well, I remembered a funeral I attended when I was a kid. Wealthy man. Second generation wealth."
"Oh!" The man tapped the cigarette ash on the floor.
"Everybody there weren't there for the funeral. Most of them had to be there cause they were employees. The press just wanted to be the best at reporting. Then some people... for the gossip. The family members who wanted to know if they were in the will. Only his daughter truly mourned him."
"Depressing."
"And I imagined a poor person's funeral in comparison. No one's forced to come. There's no large crowd. Everyone there is actually mourning, and it just… made sense. But I had already painted the funeral, so I painted the smaller one as a picture in the main picture."
The man laughed. "I'm an idiot."
"No, you're not. I'm just not as smart as you."
"But you do have balls, that's for sure." The man's eyes narrowed. "Painting that in this event, where all the blue bloods can see it. Aren't you afraid you'll offend someone?"
"No."
The man's gaze burned into him, intense and wanting.
Sun Weiming felt stripped bare under that look, every secret desire exposed.
The cigarette smoke curled between them. The man's voice came out raspy. "You're something else."
A silence settled over them. Somehow, it seemed to amplify the intimacy of the small space—the soft sound of breathing, the rustle of fabric, the inhaling and exhaling of smoke.
"Are you familiar with the musician called Li Tao?"
"No. Not really."
The man cocked his head. "Is it no or not really?"
"I mean... He's a big deal. It's pretty impossible not to be familiar with his name."
"But?"
Sun Weiming frowned slightly. Spoke reluctantly. "I just don't like his sound."
The man chuckled.
"Yeah... I've heard he's supposed to be a good songwriter or something."
The man snickered.
"You're a fan?"
The man gave a half smile that made Sun Weiming's knees weak, then pushed himself from the wall with fluid grace. He pulled out a Montblanc pen and reached for Sun Weiming's hand. The first touch of skin on skin sent lightning through Sun Weiming's entire body.
Sun Weiming's world narrowed to the points where their skin touched. His pulse thundered so hard he was sure the man could feel it through his palm. The stranger's fingers were warm and sure, and Sun Weiming never wanted him to let go. Every nerve ending in his hand came alive, sending sparks up his arm and straight to his chest.
The man wrote slowly, deliberately, each stroke of the pen a caress against Sun Weiming's palm. Sun Weiming's breathing grew shallow as he watched the man's face, so close now he could count his eyelashes. When the man spoke, his voice was soft and intimate, meant for Sun Weiming's ears alone. "You'll like this song." The pen disappeared, but the man's hand remained, fingers interlaced with Sun Weiming's like they'd found home.
Sun Weiming's breath caught as he met the man's gaze. The air between them crackled with unspoken desire. He felt himself gravitating toward the stranger, drawn by an invisible force that made his skin tingle and his heart race.
The man moved closer too, his eyes dark with want. The space between them sparked with electricity, every breath shared, every heartbeat synchronized.
Sun Weiming could feel the heat radiating from the stranger's body. He moaned softly as his lips parted in anticipation. He had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted this kiss. Only an inch now. Ring. The man's phone rang, breaking the spell between them. The man dropped his hand, and Sun Weiming immediately missed the warmth.
Sun Weiming's eyes dropped automatically to the screen, and the name "Baobei" hit him like a physical blow. Ice flooded his veins, replacing the heat that had been building between them. His chest constricted painfully, and he had to fight not to step back.
The man's brows hurried towards each other as he quickly turned off the screen.
Sun Weiming forced a smile, though it felt brittle on his lips. His chest ached. "I should return to the event."
The man nodded.
Sun Weiming walked away on unsteady legs, his palm still burning where the pen had touched. A painful reminder of what had almost happened.
The man remained in the stall, his hands shaking slightly as he called back the number. "Li Tao speaking."