Part 1 of Paint: Paint me
They're so similar, he could be looking in a mirror. But they're not the same. The other's cheeks are a little sharper, his waist a little skinnier, his skin a little paler. His eyes glisten golden with a shine that is far brighter than Ye Qiu's own.
He paints fervidly. In watercolor. In oil paint. In ink. Side profiles, close ups, full bodies. The paintings surround him. A lock of black hair tacked to the wall, slender fingers leaning against the windows, a serene face taped to the ceiling.
He can't explain it. Who is this person? Why does he look so similar to himself? Even though he only appears in his dreams, only in bits and pieces, why can he picture him so vividly? All he knows is that he is compelled to paint that person. To paint, and paint, and keep painting.
"Ye Qiu! You have a gallery in three days! Pick up your freaking phone for god's sake!"
His agent Su Muqiu bursts through the doors of his studio apartment, but Ye Qiu does not answer, still too absorbed in trying to capture the curvature of his nose, the way it slopes down and rounds off before leading into a pair of rosebud lips.
"My god." Su Muqiu walks in a slow circle around the apartment, silently marveling at the portraits Ye Qiu has painted. There are dozens, maybe even hundreds, in varying sizes and compositions, propped up on his furniture, or taped to the walls, or piled into stacks on the floor. He finally comes up to where Ye Qiu is standing at his easel painting a larger than life face. He goes to step in closer to the painting, when he is stopped from moving forward by an outstretched arm. He looks to Ye Qiu questioningly. The painter nods downward and Muqiu's gaze follows the movement. Had he stepped further, he would have stepped on another portrait. The agent bends down to pick it up.
"Ye Qiu, this is amazing. You have to put these self-portraits in your gallery in three days."
"No."
"No?! But these are some of your best works! When did you even start making all of these?"
"No, they're not self-portraits. And just this week."
"This week? Dayum." Muqiu whistles his appreciation. He holds up the portrait in his hands to the light. "So if they're not self-portraits, then are they self-reflections?"
"No." he says resolutely. "They- they're..." he trails off, unsure of what to say.
Muqiu sighs. "Well, don't stress too much about it. But please, let's put some of these in your gallery! I can see it. This large one as the centerpiece, then stretching out, we'll put the smaller ones on either side working the way down from the head..." Muqiu takes out a black leather notebook and starts scribbling in it and muttering to himself.
Muqiu drags him out to have lunch, as he hasn't had a proper meal in days, but even as he sits waiting for his food, the other pervades his every thought. Ye Qiu leaves the restaurant with seven different napkin doodles of him.
Paint me
He hears the other's whispers in his dreams.
Paint me
He dreams of falling into the pools of gold that are his eyes.
Paint me
He reaches out to touch the other's cheek.
Ye Qiu wakes up with his arm still outstretched. He blinks, once, slowly, and pulls his hand back to place it on his own cheek.
Paint me
He still feels the other's phantom breaths in his ears.
So he paints.
#####
Ye Qiu is an artist. He's not a receptionist. So why does he have to stand there greeting people at the doorway of his own gallery? His fingers itch for the familiar wooden grain of his paintbrush, but he promised Muqiu that he would be here for the opening ceremony.
He feels a rush of wind from behind his back and catches a glimpse of a neckline that he knows from the corner of his eye. He turns around and scans the attendees milling around in the reception area drinking flutes of sparkling champagne and eating little cheeses on toothpicks. He doesn't know what he was hoping for. The other appears only in his dreams.
Another couple comes through the door, and Ye Qiu has to return his attention to greeting his guests. But his thoughts remain on the other.
When it's time for the ceremony, he and Muqiu lead the crowd into the main gallery hall. He lets out a reverent breath as he sees his works from the past week all laid out on the wall of the gallery.
The largest portrait is in the center, and sprawling outwards, the slope of his shoulders, the angle of his shoulder blade, the bare expanse of his stomach, the line of his long legs, his delicate toes. Put all together like this, there was almost an ethereal quality to the display. Su Muqiu really had an eye for this. If he didn't paint it himself, he would say it was almost like... a shrine.
Su Muqiu ushered him to the front of the room and handed him a microphone. The guests stop to applaud him.
"I present to you the star of tonight, painter extraordinaire, Ye Qiu. Will you tell us a little about this new series of yours, Ye Qiu?"
His mouth goes dry trying to think of something to say. Of course Muqiu had prepped him earlier with the questions, but he doesn't want to lie or stretch the truth or whatever Muqiu had suggested. Yes, these paintings have meaning to him, but he still isn't quite sure what it is yet.
"These...," he starts slowly, stalling for time, "are not self-portraits, nor are they self-reflections or the like."
The audience murmurs, wondering what it could possibly mean for Ye Qiu to so clearly paint himself, or at least a representation of the self without having it be a self portrait.
"This is... He is..."
"Ye Xiu."
The name comes unbidden to his lips. It feels like it's almost someone else speaking for him. He says it again. "Ye...Xiu..."
His fingers twitch. He wants to go home and paint. Paint and paint and paint and paint. He finally has a name to the other. YeXiuYeXiuYeXiuYeXiu.
He turns to Muqiu, and hands him back the microphone in his hand. "I need to go home," he says calmly. And that's all the warning Su Muqiu gets before he bolts from the gallery.
#####
"Ye Xiu."
"That's me."
He can finally see the other clearly in his dream. He takes a step forward. Ye Xiu takes a step back.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Ye Xiu."
He makes a face and the other laughs. It sounds so similar to his own, and yet it feels more melodic, more full.
"Paint me." He says it with a smile, as if Ye Qiu has not spent the whole week painting him without food or rest.
"Paint me."
#####
He paints more portraits.
Ye Xiu fades in and out of his vision like a ghost. He tries his best to capture each appearance on canvas before he fades again. Ye Xiu swinging his legs sitting on top of his kitchen counter. Ye Xiu peering through his closet, examining his one suit and his old paint splattered tees. Ye Xiu lying lazily on his bed. Ye Xiu sprawled out upside down on his couch, all the while mouthing paint me.
He dreams of Ye Xiu.
"Won't you tell me who you are?"
"You already know."
"I don't."
The other shrugs. "A part of you does."
He steps in closer and reaches out his hand. He wants to run his hands along his body, to feel the lines that he has painted and painted and painted. Ye Xiu pulls away like usual.
"Won't you let me touch you?"
"Not yet."
"What can I do to touch you?"
The other, with that face so similar to his, gives him a lopsided smile. "Paint me."
#####
He gets a call from his mother.
"Ye Qiu, you should come home. Your father and I need to talk to you about something."
"Is someone dead or dying?"
"No, but it's about..."
"It can wait."
He hangs up and goes back to his easel, back to Ye Xiu. The other is perched on a stool posing for him. Without moving his body, he raises an eyebrow.
"Our mother."
Ye Xiu's lips curl up. "So you've figured it out then, have you?"
"Mm. That's what feels right."
Ye Xiu's been appearing for longer and longer now. His skin seems pinker, less translucent, less ready to fade away at any moment. Ye Qiu brings his watercolor brush to the paper and applies a light wash over the skin. As he waits for the layer to dry, he plans the additional layers of color for the shades of his skin tone, his dark hair, his simple clothing. Ye Xiu watches him with rapture as he mixes the pigments and tests out color swatches, a curious glint in his eyes.
He brushes lightly along the likeness of Ye Xiu's slender fingers, and he hears the other gasp in delighted wonder. "Oh."
Ye Qiu looks up and sees vivid color bloom from Ye Xiu's hand like the watercolor pigment spreading across his painting.
Ye Xiu's golden eyes shine. "Paint me more."
#####
Finally, finally he is allowed to touch, to worship. He runs his hands down his sides, through his hair, tracing his fingers along every curve that he knows so well. Angles so similar to his own and yet, not the same.
"Ye Xiu," he whispers in awe. "Ye Xiu."
The other caresses him with his soft skinned hands. "Ye Qiu. Paint me. Paint me red with your passion. Paint me black and blue with bruises. Give me your everything."
"Yes," he replies fervently. "Everything."
#####
Ye Qiu wakes up spent and exhausted, as if he were the one who was so thoroughly explored the previous night. He lays in bed, tucked under the covers, unable to move even a muscle.
Ye Xiu is there at his easel, painting.
"That's my painting," he manages to croak out.
The other ignores him. "It's my painting now." Ye Xiu adds a dark slash of black across the canvas and Ye Qiu feels himself getting weaker, as if his spirit is floating away.
"Stop. Please." He wants to reach out, to touch, to stop Ye Xiu.
"You know," the other says plainly, "it was always supposed to be me that was destined for greatness." He adds another dark splotch of paint.
"Ye Xiu." He can feel how his limbs are tingling, how they become lighter with each brush stroke.
"But you were the one who stole it from me. You suffocated me, the weaker twin, in our mother's womb."
"Ye Xiu."
"I was supposed to be the eldest. The glory-blessed. You stole it from me before I was even born."
"Ye Xiu!"
"So I guess, in the end, I'm just taking back what was rightfully mine."
The other adds the last dark stroke over the painting and Ye Qiu feels himself start to disappear.
"Good-bye, Ye Qiu." Ye Xiu's pools of gold bore into his own.
Paint me, he cries silently in understanding. Paint me.
#####
"Ye QIU! Are you alive in here?! Why do you never answer your freaking phone?!"
Su Muqiu bursts into the apartment, expecting to find the artist in another of his non-stop painting sessions.
"Ye...Qiu?"
The quiet in the studio apartment makes the whole experience seem surreal. All the not-self-portraits of the so-called Ye Xiu have been cleared away, gone somewhere, and the artist is nowhere to be seen in his usual painting space.
He finally finds Ye Qiu in the bedroom area, on his computer with the lights off.
"Oh, Su Muqiu." The artist looks up, the bright light of the screen illuminating his facial features an eerie blue. "Tell me... what do you think about computer games?"