Thomas went back to his desk and sat down, the weight of habit guiding his movements. He opened his laptop, fingers already hovering over the keyboard, ready to lose himself in some distraction, maybe a journal article or a forum thread. But the moment he tried to load a page, the screen blinked.
No Internet Connection.
He stared for a second, unblinking, then muttered, "What the hell," and shut the laptop with more force than necessary.
"You might break your laptop, Mr. Coldy," Julian teased from his bed, stretching like a lazy cat. He tilted his head. "What happened?"
"There's no internet."
Julian sat up immediately, eyes gleaming. "Finally! No studying, no overachieving, no silence! I can play music, make noise, breathe again. Tragic day for you, though, Mr. Coldy."
Thomas leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Oh yeah? Funny. Acting all victorious now, like you didn't freak out earlier over a spider that feels looked bigger than you."
Julian froze. His mouth parted slightly, and he blinked twice before exclaiming, "Oh my god! That's the longest sentence you've said since I moved in. I should've recorded that!"
Thomas only sighed, as if regretting the energy spent.
"Finally, finally, finally!" Julian sang, throwing his arms in the air. "He talks!"
"It's not an achievement," Thomas muttered, standing and grabbing his phone. "Calm down."
"But at least I can make noises now without you scowling at me like I'm disrupting world peace," Julian shot back with a grin.
Thomas didn't answer. He simply walked over to his bed and lay down, scrolling aimlessly.
Meanwhile, Julian ducked beside his bed, rummaging for something. "How about we just paint?" he asked, voice muffled.
Thomas paused. That question-it hit something quiet inside him. He hadn't been invited to paint in a long time. Not since...
He shook the thought away.
"Nope," he replied flatly.
Julian emerged from under the bed, holding a worn canvas, a set of paintbrushes, and a box of acrylic tubes. "Suit yourself," he said, tossing the supplies on his bed.
Then, with a dramatic sigh, he walked over to Thomas's bed and stopped beside him. Thomas didn't look up.
Julian leaned in, voice lighter now. "Come on. Try something new. Or are you scared?"
Thomas glanced up, unamused. "Scared?"
Julian grinned. "Hit a nerve?"
Without warning, he grabbed Thomas's arm and tugged.
Thomas hesitated for half a second. Then, oddly compliant, he set his phone aside and let Julian drag him.
"Fine," he muttered. "Just this once."
He didn't know why he was doing this. Maybe it was just to shut Julian up. Or maybe... maybe he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. Maybe Julian-loud, irritating, persistent Julian-was the only thing holding the ghosts at bay.
They sat cross-legged on the floor, the canvas placed between them. Paintbrushes lay scattered around, colors glinting in the light of their desk lamp.
"Don't be a killjoy," Julian said, already opening a tube of paint. "Come on. Pick something. Anything."
Thomas watched him, considering just sitting back and observing. But then his eyes dropped to the brushes beside him. With a sigh, he reached for one, squeezing a deep blue onto a palette.
He stared at the canvas, hesitating.
Julian didn't say anything.
Thomas bit his bottom lip, fingers tightening around the brush, and finally, he painted. Just a simple stroke. Hesitant. Then another. It felt... unfamiliar. Like shaking hands with someone he used to know.
The room fell into silence. Julian glanced over occasionally, curious if Thomas was just doodling or smearing paint like a kindergartener. But to his surprise, Thomas looked focused. His hand moved carefully. Intentionally. There was something calm about it-something delicate in the way he held the brush.
Julian's gaze lingered. Thomas's expression had softened. His brow wasn't furrowed for once. Hair fell messily over his glasses as he leaned forward. He looked... different.
Thomas noticed the staring.
Without breaking his rhythm, he reached over and dabbed a small streak of blue across Julian's nose.
Julian gasped and recoiled. "Hey!"
"Stop staring," Thomas said quietly, returning to his painting.
"If I wake up with a pimple on my nose, I swear I'm suing you," Julian muttered, rubbing the paint off with the back of his hand.
Thomas ignored him and set his palette down with a firm thud.
"You done?" Julian asked, leaning forward to inspect. "Did you mess it up?"
"Underestimating me?"
Julian rolled his eyes, nose still tinted blue. He shifted to get a better look, but in doing so, his elbow bumped into a bottle of green paint. It tipped, splattering across the wooden floor.
"Crap," Julian whispered, scrambling to fix it.
Thomas reached for a napkin and tossed it to him. "What a walking disaster."
Julian grinned, wiping the mess. "Yeah, but a fun disaster."
Thomas didn't reply, but his lips twitched—just barely.
Julian turned back to his palette, then dipped a finger into the red paint and flicked it toward Thomas's arm, leaving a tiny dot on his hoodie.
Thomas stared at it. Slowly looked up. "Seriously?"
"Consider it... artistic expression."
Thomas picked up his own brush and, with zero hesitation, swiped a thin streak of green across Julian's cheek.
Julian gasped. "You did not-!"
"Fair's fair," Thomas replied coolly.
What followed was chaos.
Julian lunged forward with a brush. Thomas ducked, flicking paint in retaliation. They dodged, smeared, laughed-yes, Thomas laughed, just under his breath. There was paint on their hands, on the floor, in Julian's hair, and streaked across Thomas's jaw.
Eventually, Julian slipped on a rag, arms flailing, and instinctively grabbed onto Thomas's hoodie for balance.
Their faces were suddenly close—too close.
Chest to chest. Breath mingling. Julian's hands fisted in the soft fabric of Thomas's hoodie. Thomas's hands had come up instinctively, one gripping Julian's arm, the other steadying his back.
Neither of them moved.
Seconds stretched.
Thomas's voice was quieter this time. "Careful. You'll wrinkle it."
Julian didn't let go right away. His eyes searched Thomas's face, suddenly still. Then, a soft smile tugged at his lips as he slowly stepped back.
"Guess I owe you a new hoodie," he said.
Thomas looked down at the mess, at the canvas now stained with chaotic color and somehow, it didn't bother him.
For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel the weight of the past pressing on his chest. Just a faint, surprising warmth.
Thomas pushed Julian's face with his palm, hand still covered in paint.
"I swear if pimples grow all over my face, I'll burn your books."
Thomas let out a rare, quiet laugh under his breath. It barely escaped his lips but was unmistakably real.
"Wipe it," Julian demanded, pointing at his cheek.
Thomas just raised an eyebrow. "Use your shirt."
"I'm wearing white!" Julian whined, dramatically twisting his shirt to inspect the already stained hem. "It's ruined. Like my face."
"That's what you get for celebrating because there's no internet."
"I was born this way," Julian said proudly, then leaned in closer, squinting at Thomas. "Seriously though, you owe me a wipe."
Thomas hesitated for a beat too long, then picked up a semi-clean rag and reached forward. He stopped just before Julian's face.
Julian didn't move.
Thomas brought the cloth to Julian's cheek, brushing it gently. His movements were slow, precise as if he was afraid of hurting something fragile.
Julian stilled under the touch. His breath hitched, barely audible.
Thomas's fingers brushed his skin, not just through the fabric, but when he pushed a strand of paint-tinted hair away from Julian's forehead.
"There," he murmured.
Julian blinked up at him. "You missed a spot."
Thomas looked down again, this time holding his gaze longer. Their faces were close again. The kind of close that asks a question without saying a word.
"I didn't," Thomas said softly, but didn't move away.
Julian gave a slow grin. "You hesitated."
Thomas's jaw twitched, and he finally looked away, returning to the canvas. "No, I was deciding if it was worth wiping paint off a face that's already a mess."
"Ohh," Julian gasped, hand to chest. "That was almost a compliment, then boom. Thomas Coldy strikes again."
Thomas smirked without looking at him. "You make it too easy."
They both fell silent again, their laughter settling into a comfortable hush. The light from the desk lamp cast a warm glow across the paint stained floor. Brushes lay scattered like the aftermath of a battle.
Julian picked up one and started painting lazily on a corner of the canvas.
After a moment, he said, quieter this time, "You're good at it."
Thomas glanced at him. "What?"
"The painting. You're... calm when you do it. Focused. Like it's not just random strokes."
Thomas looked at his half of the canvas. Swirls of blue, sharp lines, deliberate shapes. He hadn't realized he'd slipped back into the way he used to paint before everything became heavy.
"I used to," he said simply. "A long time ago."
Julian watched him, quiet.
"What made you stop?" he asked.
Thomas didn't answer. His brush tapped against the palette slowly. Then he shrugged. "Life."
Julian didn't push. He just nodded, dipping his brush in red. "Well... if life's going to keep messing up the internet, we should paint more often."
Thomas looked at him then. At the way Julian filled silence without suffocating it. At the flecks of yellow streaked across his cheekbone, the way his shirt clung with accidental brushstrokes and wild color. Alive, loud, chaotic.
Thomas found he didn't mind the color.
"Maybe," he said quietly.
Julian smiled like it was a promise.
They painted in silence again. This time, not because they had nothing to say-because nothing needed to be said.
Just the scratch of brushes. The warmth of lamplight. Two boys on the floor, painting a mess that felt a little like healing.