The day after, Julian woke late.
The sun had already painted its gold across their shared walls by the time he wandered into the kitchen, hair tousled, sleep still in his eyes. He reached for the nearest mug—ceramic blue, chipped on the handle—and poured himself coffee without thinking. The steam curled gently, like a sigh.
A voice, cool and clipped, cut through the quiet.
"That's mine. Don't use it again."
Thomas. Sharp as ever.
Julian glanced over his shoulder, mug halfway to his lips.
"Fine, fine. Let me finish it first, okay? Okay."
Thomas didn't respond. Just turned away, already at his desk, retreating behind his silence like a familiar curtain. It was as if the boy from yesterday—the one who'd laughed while dabbing paint on Julian's cheek—had vanished.
Julian finished his coffee in silence, rinsed the mug carefully, like it was a truce offering. Then he collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the blank space above him.
Too plain, he thought.
He rummaged through the drawer by his bed—picking out small framed art prints, fake ivy vines, pins and push tacks. Humming under his breath, he began redecorating, climbing on his mattress to reach the upper wall, his body moving with lazy, determined rhythm. The soft taps of nails punctuated the still air.
Thomas turned. He was watching again, eyes flickering away from his laptop screen.
Julian stepped back from his work, tilting his head.
"Perfect," he whispered, admiring the makeshift gallery blooming on his wall.
Without turning, Thomas muttered, "Are you planning to turn your side into an art museum?"
Julian rolled his eyes and smirked.
"Are you watching me, Mr. Coldy?" He didn't bother to face him.
Thomas offered no reply, just turned stiffly back to his laptop, the glow of the screen washing his features in soft blue.
Julian caught sight of the canvas they painted yesterday—leaning against the wall, casual but glowing. Thomas's brushwork clear, restrained, but full of something aching. He decided it deserved the wall too.
He grabbed a nail and a hammer.
The first bang made Thomas flinch.
"What was that?" His voice cracked louder than usual, startled.
"A hammer. Don't mind me. We're both minding our business, remember?" Julian turned his head briefly, distracted.
"You're going to hit your hand, idiot."
And he did.
"Ow!"
The hammer dropped with a thud. Julian clutched his thumb, blowing on it.
Thomas pursed his lips—just slightly. Julian noticed.
"Are you smiling, Mr. Coldy?"
"My lips are just dry," Thomas deadpanned.
"Oh, really?" Julian teased.
"Go back to your work. Stop making noise."
Julian scoffed. "How do you hammer without making noise? What kind of logic is that?"
"Crazy," Thomas muttered.
Julian finally managed to hang the painting. Then he disappeared into the bathroom. When he emerged, steam trailing behind him, he checked his phone, fingers dancing across the screen. A message to Rain.
Want coffee? Get me out of here.
Minutes later, he slipped out, wallet in hand. Thomas watched the door close, his eyes lingering too long on the space Julian had just occupied.
At the café, Rain arrived first, tapping his foot against the leg of the café chair.
"Argh, mind switching rooms?" Julian said as he arrived, dropping into the seat opposite him.
"Me? With him? No thanks," Rain replied with theatrical horror. "How could I survive with someone stricter than my mother?"
"Try surviving with him. He's allergic to noise, mess, and joy."
Rain took a sip of coffee, chuckling. "I lucked out. My roommate's just as chaotic as me."
Julian scoffed. "Yesterday we painted together, though."
Rain choked.
"You did what?"
Julian shrugged. "Internet was down. He had nothing else to do. I asked him to paint with me. He didn't say no. I even think he laughed at one point. Maybe. It was weird. He got paint on my face. We were... close."
He held his fingers an inch apart.
Rain stared at him.
"And then he kissed you?" he teased.
Julian kicked him under the table.
"I am straight. Straight as a damn ruler. I'm not falling for him."
Rain smirked. "Famous last words. You might choke on them."
"Stop pretending you're some kind of fortune teller."
"If I were, I'd say... you two are going to fall in love."
Julian groaned. "I invited you out for coffee, not to hear nonsense."
"I just want to observe. I'll see your dynamic and get the whole future plot."
Julian slapped his arm.
Back at their dorm, outside the door, Julian pushed Rain forward.
"You knock."
"Ow! Use your key!"
"I forgot it."
"You knock, then."
They were mid-bicker when the door opened.
"You're so noisy," Thomas said, blank-faced. "It's easy to knock." Then he turned and walked back to his desk.
Rain blinked.
"Was that the draft of winter?"
He stepped inside like he belonged, waving at Thomas.
"Hello, Julian's roomie. I'm Rain. His very normal friend. Nice meeting you and you nice meeting me. Huh? I don't get what I'm saying. Whatever."
Thomas didn't respond. Not even a nod.
Julian groaned. "Please shut up and sit down."
Thomas sighed inwardly. Now there are two. How am I supposed to study?
Rain's eyes sparkled when he saw the wall.
"Are these your paintings?" he whispered.
Julian looked away. "Yeah. Keep your voice down."
Rain leaned in. "Is this the one you did with him?"
Julian didn't answer.
Thomas, still facing his screen, reached for his earbuds and put them in—music filling his ears as the voices turned to murmurs behind him.
"He's really like a statue," Rain whispered, staring. "Maybe if we splash boiling water, he'll thaw."
"You first. I'm not helping if he murders you."
Rain grinned and picked up a sketchbook near Julian's bed. A pencil stuck out between pages, marking something.
He opened it.
A sketch. A man. Familiar. The curve of the shoulder, the angle of the neck, hair falling just so.
He looked up. Looked at Thomas.
"Uh-huh. You're drawing him."
"I'm not."
Rain raised an eyebrow. "That's definitely his back. Don't lie to me."
Julian sighed.
"Fine. I was bored."
Rain smiled—infuriating, knowing.
"You're bored and in denial."
"No, not even that. Just need something to draw. Anything. Can't play music out loud here. Can't even hum. Phone's on silent.
So I draw. Scroll. Scroll. Draw. Paint. Silence is the only sound in this damn room."
Julian pressed the pencil harder than needed, then loosened his grip again.
Rain tilted his head.
"But why him?" he asked again, not letting it go.
Julian groaned, fingers tangled in his hair like they were trying to untangle thoughts instead.
"Why do you keep asking? I was bored, okay? Drawing him doesn't mean anything. It's just… a shape. A form. A subject. That's all."
Rain didn't answer. His eyes wandered upward, back to the two paintings Julian had hung earlier—their painting, side by side on the wall. Still drying. Still echoing yesterday.
"Hmm," he murmured, hands behind his back like an art critic in a quiet museum.
"He paints perfectly. Doesn't even look like he's trying. What a painfully talented man."
A pause. A small, crooked grin.
"I wonder how his brain works. Mine's like a radio caught in static half the time."
His gaze flicked again—from the painting, to Thomas, hunched in silence at his desk, to Julian.
Then, with a sly curve to his voice,
"Your stare feels so warm... careful now, or he'll melt."