blank canvas
Title: Blank CanvasPairing: Sehun/Lu Han
Rating: PG-13
Length: 5k
Summary: Lu Han is a solitary artist experiencing the woes of first love.
A/N: contains character death.
Lu Han's first love comes just as the sakuras start blooming and dawn tints the sky golden. Perhaps there is some truth behind spring's association with love, even if the decorations from Valentine's Day have already been taken down and girls have already handed chocolate to boys with flushed cheeks and shy smiles. On a morning in which the wind smells of flowers and the road is clear, wiped off of people who begin their days at eight and not six, Lu Han pedals his bicycle uphill until he reaches the school gates, where he stops to catch his breath. To his left is the tree with the pink leaves and to his right is a solitary figure running laps around the track, his footsteps muffled by the deafening drums beating against Lu Han's chest.
His first thought is that it is Thursday, a very unusual day for feelings to begin taking shape. A weekend would be more likely, he ponders, but then again he wouldn't know. His head is always clouded by daydreams and his eyes are forever focused on his sketchbook, his tongue slightly outstretched as his imagination materializes onto paper. Drawing allows him to express his emotions in ways words can't, and so he sits by the track wielding a pencil and squinting his eyes against the sun, trying to capture the boy who runs. There is grace in his movements and an overwhelming but fragile sense of freedom that Lu Han shamelessly wallows in, pencil forgotten for a moment and lungs devoid of air as love strikes him and takes him down in one easy blow.
He has his fingers clutching the front of his shirt, nails scratching at the place where his heart is in a desperate attempt to get rid of this feeling. He knows what it is because he recognizes the symptoms from reading too many romance novels and from the countless times he tried in vain to capture it in a drawing, but it's still intrusive and strange and Lu Han doesn't enjoy the way his chest seems to be swelling with each step the runner takes towards him.
Seconds later he finds himself looking up to the boy's towering silhouette. He can't see his face but the sun creates a halo around his head and Lu Han can swear he hears gospel music playing somewhere in the back of his mind.
“I don't like it when people watch me practice, so please leave.”
Astonished, Lu Han gathers his belongings and hops back on his bike, making his way to the school building. He opens his sketchbook again in the safety of the art classroom, frantically outlining whatever mannerisms he managed to notice in this brief first encounter. He draws until his joints ache, until his desk is covered in litter from pencil sharpeners and his fingers are caked in lead dust. He draws until the swelling in his heart has gone down a little, but not much, and tilts his head to study the finished product. The runner boy is faceless but he is beautiful. His voice is a tumult of sharp edges and tenors and his moving body a collection of shadows and light.
As the first bell rings, Lu Han reckons Thursday may just be the perfect day of the week to fall in love, after all.
Lu Han feels his fingertips throb with the prospect of a masterpiece. After the eruption of emotions and internal confetti-throwing that comes with becoming smitten, he wants, needs to confine all he feels in a canvas, to lure the feeling into brushstrokes and pencil lines so that each person who looks at it can relive the endearment and warmth of first love.
He isn't one to talk much, but on his way to homeroom he mutters ideas to himself and jots them down on a mental notepad. As soon as he takes his seat he begins to scribble on his arms, new layers of fresh ink topping the fading ones underneath, illegible handwriting mixed with the occasional doodle. Lu Han doesn't raise his eyes when the teacher enters the room and he doesn't even blink twice when he introduces a new student, but at the sound of runner boy's voice his head shoots up.
“I'm Sehun. I hope to get along with all of you, so please take care of me.”
The teacher says something and points to the empty seat in front of Lu Han, but he isn't listening anymore. His attention now lies on the curve of Sehun's lips when they purse tight, on the almost unnoticeable crook of his nose, on his small eyes that almost disappear under a tangle of chestnut locks. Sehun walks with confidence, holding his shoulders high as if he knows that someone in the room is scrutinizing his every move with an artistic eye. The first three buttons of his uniform are undone so that smooth pale skin shows, and his adam's apple protrudes and moves slightly when he swallows and clears his throat.
When Lu Han comes back to his senses, Sehun is standing close.
“Can you move your stuff?” he asks for what seems to be the third time, as indicated by the furrow between his eyebrows.
Lu Han yanks his bag from Sehun's seat and turns his face towards the window beside him, a blush creeping up his neck. One of his classmates whispers something to her neighbour, who giggles. From where he sits, Lu Han catches a glimpse of the teacher sighing and rubbing his temples before taking attendance. He has an itch to take out the drawing he worked on earlier and finally add a face to the faceless runner, but he hasn't conquered all of the details of his subject's features yet. He wonders if someday he will be able to know and understand every nook and cranny of Sehun's body so that he can encapsulate his essence in two-dimensional fashion.
The next hour is spent staring intently at the back of Sehun's head. Lu Han gets dizzy watching the sunlight play on his hair, turning the brown into shades of burgundy and copper. At one point Sehun looks out the window and Lu Han counts the freckles scattered like stars across his cheeks. He then shifts his gaze to the boy's full lower lip, stretching his hand to touch it but halting midway before revealing his affection to a class of thirty.
The hours after that are spent trying to curb his feelings and soothe his heart. By lunchtime Sehun has made friends and moves to sit and eat with a group of four other guys. Lu Han is left in his corner, chewing on liquorice candy and putting the final touches on his art assignment. He feels overly conscious and the tips of his ears have acquired a permanent reddish tinge, but he's thankful for this opportunity. He's near the one he likes and he can study his subject as much as he wishes to from the fifth seat on the last row by the window, protected by the curtains that so often slap his face when the wind blows. For Lu Han, that is enough. He doesn't need to make his infatuation known - all he needs is to make art.
Eleven days pass before they hold a real conversation. Two hours before the beginning of class, Lu Han makes his way to the sakura tree opposite to the track where Sehun runs like he did the morning of their first and fateful encounter. He puts his bag on the ground and climbs the tree, settling on a tall branch teeming with flowers. He picks one and places it on his left palm, holding it against the sunlight.
“What are you doing?”
Lu Han’s fingers close around the delicate bloom and he crushes it in surprise when he looks down and sees Sehun shielding his eyes against the sun, skin glistening with sweat and sneakers still caked in mud from yesterday's rain.
“Aren't you going to say anything? I don't think I've ever heard your voice before.”
“I'm picking flowers,” Lu Han says quietly. “To study them.”
Sehun tilts his head. “You're weird. Seriously, though, get down from there. It's dangerous and the school nurse hasn't arrived yet, so if you fall you're going to be in trouble.”
“I'm not done.” Lu Han doesn't particularly appreciate being called weird. Feeling daring due to his increased height, he adds, “You can join me if you want.”
He blinks twice and Sehun is there, making himself comfortable on the branch across Lu Han's. They sit face to face, a drastic change from the usual seating arrangement, and Lu Han takes advantage of the situation to stare shamelessly at his features. His drawing from a week and four days ago remains unfinished.
“What now?” Sehun asks.
Lu Han stretches and picks another flower, fumbling with it as he tries to show Sehun the creases on the petals and the subtle differences in shades of pink, his shyness gone. He's in his element now, describing the different ways in which to capture the fragility of nature and speaking in technical terms that Sehun probably doesn't grasp. He tells him that to understand an object completely one must touch it and take it apart and put it back together again; one must dismantle and assemble, pry open and inspect the insides until each speck of surface has been analyzed and smelled and tasted and conquered. Only then will a person have enough knowledge to begin building an accurate portrait.
His enthusiasm is such that he goes off on a rant, moving his arms about and raising his voice with each sentence. Sehun listened and continues to listen, his own arms crossed.
“Who knew,” he says when Lu Han stops talking. His tone is amused. “You're a talker.”
“I don't... I don't get to talk about art very often. Sorry.”
“Well, I'm not an expert like you but I can listen. I know how hard it is to be passionate about something and have no one to talk about it with.”
“Why don't you join the track team?” Lu Han says, a hint of hesitance accompanying his voice.
Sehun shrugs. “It's complicated. Plus, I'd rather run by myself.”
The silence that drags on is awkward, with Lu Han stealing glances at Sehun and him letting his legs dangle back and forth midair, seemingly unaware of the other's scrutiny. It feels as if an eternity has gone by when Sehun climbs down and begins heading back to the track.
“Hey,” he says, turning back and looking up at Lu Han, still perched on the sakura branch. “I don't like it when people watch me practice but I don't mind it when you do, so it's cool if you want to, you know, watch.”
Lu Han's chest tightens and he doesn't know how to react to such a sudden rush of glee, so he watches Sehun run until his eyes are dry and the lower half of his body has gone numb. He watches until his sketchbook has been forgotten fifteen feet below, and then he watches some more.
Watching Sehun becomes routine, an action that integrates itself into Lu Han's life smoothly. For once Lu Han takes interest in something other than art, and although the pages of his notebooks continue to fill with doodles most of them are sketches of Sehun's profile. There's beauty in the melancholy that pools in his eyes and almost spills out as he stares out the window at nothing in particular. Perhaps Lu Han hadn't noticed just how lonely he was until Sehun came along.
The two hours before homeroom are their secret. They don't talk much during the rest of the day, but when the sun is still low in the sky and the squeaks from Lu Han's bicycle can be heard from around the corner Sehun heads to the sakura tree. Lu Han waves and sits beside him, sometimes hugging his backpack, others taking off his shoes and burying his toes in the grass. He feels at peace during these moments, with their breaths in sync and his feet wet from dew.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Sehun asks one morning.
“No. Do you?”
“Nah.” Sehun doesn't elaborate. “You know, when I met you I thought you were creepy. No offense, it's just that you don't say much and you don't really talk to anyone in class.”
“It's hard for me to find the... right words."
“Yeah, I know that now. You're a pretty gloomy guy but you look good when you smile, so you should do it more often.”
Lu Han blushes. “Why did you move to Gyeongju?”
“It's a nice place. I'm from Seoul, but my dad is from here. He thought I'd like to see some green, for a change.”
“There's a stream by my house,” Lu Han says. “I go there to draw sometimes.”
“Was that an invitation?”
“Maybe.”
“You're interesting.” He chuckles. “A little odd, but interesting.” After he has gotten up and is ready to go back to the track, he tells Lu Han, “Let's go home together. I want to see that stream of yours.”
He leaves and Lu Han is left there, his heart thumping loudly against his ribcage, a smile playing on his lips.
Lu Han's house is big, with marble floors and crystal chandeliers. Sehun is surprised and gawks at everything from the white piano in the den to the sports car in the garage. He wonders why Lu Han rides that old bike if his parents can obviously afford something better or “even a chauffeur,” as he puts it.
“Mm, are you hungry?” Lu Han asks.
“Can I see your bedroom?” Sehun asks back.
Lu Han cracks his knuckles awkwardly but agrees. His room is painted white. There's a desk with a computer against one wall and a double bed against the other, and a wardrobe stands tall with its massive doors and dark mahogany exterior. He puts his hands in his pockets and waits for a reaction.
“Are you serious? This is your room? It's so plain.”
Sehun is always straightforward. Lu Han contemplates showing him the other room, the one that reeks of paint and lavender air freshener, his sanctuary filled with memories and jazz records. He has never showed anyone his art, except the ones he half-heartedly did for school, but he has caught Sehun eyeing his sketchbook countless times. He’s pondering if he has the time to hide his lovesick drawings when he feels a hand touching his face.
“Lu Han?” Sehun asks, frowning. “Are you okay?”
His fingers trace a fiery path on Lu Han’s cheek, who, on a whim, chooses to reveal his other room, not caring about the many personal pieces peppering the walls. The way Sehun said his name plays over and over again in his mind, the manner in which the syllables rolled off his tongue and pierced him through the chest bringing the familiar swelling back.
Lu Han takes Sehun up a round staircase tucked away at the end of the hallway. The attic is stuffy - the windows have been broken for years and refuse to budge. The floorboards creak and an old record player sits on a stool, a pile of vinyl beside it. There are canvases stacked on a corner and paper everywhere; the place is an explosion of colours and textures and scents. The rainbow smears turn the room into a muddled palette and Sehun struggles to take it all in.
“My parents aren’t around much,” Lu Han says. He scratches the back of his head, half-embarrassed and half-proud of his work. “So I spend a lot of time up here by myself.”
“I can see that,” Sehun replies. “You’re really talented.”
“Not really. Most of these are old projects, and some aren’t even finished. It’s nothing special.”
“Are you kidding me?” he says, exasperated. “This is amazing! I mean, look at this one. It feels like I’m looking at a photo, but it’s a painting. It’s unbelievable, to be honest. Are you sure Michelangelo or Picasso or one of those famous dead guys aren’t hiding behind those drawings?”
With his mouth slightly agape, Sehun walks to the drawings he was pointing at, picking them up from the floor.
“Thank you,” Lu Han says, unable to keep the delight from his voice. “You’re the first person that I show-” He stops when he sees the piece Sehun holds.
It’s one of the many sketches Lu Han has made of him, one he doesn’t remember ever working on and that features Sehun’s smile and puts emphasis on the freckles across the bridge of his nose. He snatches it from his hands and crumples it, the joy he had felt seconds ago replaced with shame.
Sehun bolts. Lu Han cries.
Some time later the door to the attic swings open and a tear-faced Lu Han stares at a panting Sehun, who collapses beside him and wipes Lu Han’s cheeks with his thumb.
“You,” he says slowly, as if searching for the right words. “You make me feel weird. You draw pictures of me and you talk about things I don’t understand and you live in a different world and I feel so damn weird when I’m around you. It’s frustrating because I-I want to touch you all the time but I’m scared you’ll run away and never lecture me on stupid things like shades of fuchsia or some shit like that ever again.” Sehun closes his eyes and grunts, the sound low and guttural at the back of his throat. “I want to kiss you.”
Before Lu Han can make sense of the whirlwind sucking the air from his lungs or even begin to consider that maybe his affection is reciprocated, Sehun pulls him closer and kisses him. His lips are cracked and rough against Lu Han’s, but none of them minds. They remain still for what seems like an eternity, and then Sehun sits back.
“I like you, Lu Han.”
Lu Han thinks he can see stars as he replies that yes, he likes Sehun too.
Sehun’s smile fades with the beginning of summer. Coated in a layer of sweat and basking in the stubborn heat, Lu Han tugs at the brown locks of the boy lying beside him. He closes his eyes and attempts to memorize Sehun’s features with his fingertips, giggling when his mouth is caught in a smooch.
“You’re cute,” Sehun says mid-kiss.
Lu Han smiles. He often doesn’t know what to say in response to such random outbursts of infatuation, but this time he proclaims, shyness stripped away by the heat from Sehun’s mouth against his own, “You make me happy.”
Sehun pauses, then holds Lu Han against his chest. “Dammit. You really are too cute.”
“Won’t you run today?”
“No. Not today.”
Later that afternoon Sehun drops his books in class. It’s the third time this week. Lu Han has been counting, just as he’s been taking note of the way in which Sehun limps with his right leg. It’s a small movement that most wouldn’t notice, but because he has been watching he knows. At lunchtime Sehun’s rice balls are left untouched, and the milk he drinks comes out of his nose. His friends laugh but Lu Han frowns, nails digging into his palms. When questioned about it, Sehun insists that he’s fine. He’s fine.
Except he isn’t. A few days later he falls on the track, and Lu Han abandons his sketchbook to rush to Sehun’s side. He tries to help him up but is pushed away.
“Leave me alone,” Sehun snaps. “Leave me the fuck alone, will ya?”
“No,” he says. “I won’t. You’re not all right. You can try to deny it but I know you’re not all right.”
Sehun looks annoyed but lets himself be taken to the shade of the sakura tree. He leans against the trunk, his breath shallow. “I’m fine,” he says again.
“Stop it, Sehun. I thought-I mean, don’t we trust each other with everything?”
“I’m just tired, that’s all. You don’t have to worry, okay?”
“Stop it!” Lu Han yells, his fists aiming at Sehun’s arms. “Why are you keeping this a secret from me? Why won’t you tell me? Don’t you like me, don’t you-don’t you want me to help you, why-”
“I’m dying.”
Lu Han halts. “What?”
“I’m sick,” Sehun says, hands covering his face. “I’m sick and I’m dying, okay? Are you satisfied now?”
“Is this a joke?” Lu Han whispers and a nervous laughter follows. “You won’t die, you can’t die, Sehun, you can’t-”
“It’s called myasthenia gravis. It makes my muscles weak until I can’t function and then I die. It’s gotten worse lately, so I don’t know. If I’m lucky I’ll have a few more years, but my doctor told me not to keep my hopes up. The meds aren’t working. Now, don’t make that face. You said you wanted the truth, right? There, I’m giving you the truth. I’m dying and there’s nothing you or I or all the money in the world can do about it.”
Lu Han’s eyes water. Sehun embraces him, fingers caressing Lu Han’s earlobes.
“Don’t cry,” he says. “If anything, I should be the one crying right now.”
“How,” Lu Han starts, a sob escaping his lips. “How long have you known?”
“For a while.”
Sehun’s shirt is soaked in Lu Han’s tears, salty and sticky. He regrets having asked about it - it would have been better to keep living each day in ignorance. His heart goes silent, beating so quietly he wonders if it has stopped working properly. If he dies, he won’t have to watch Sehun succumb to this disease whose name he can’t even pronounce. If he dies, he won’t feel any pain. But, if he dies, he won’t feel Sehun’s kiss anymore, or count his eyelashes, or draw pictures of his silhouette against the sun.
“Fight it,” he says. “You can fight it. Don’t give up on yourself, not while I still haven’t.”
“Yeah,” Sehun says, voice muffled against Lu Han’s hair. “Yeah.”
Summer break comes and goes, but the disease remains. It’s in Sehun’s left eyelid, which droops and hides the cocoa-coloured iris Lu Han likes to stare at. It’s in the way he takes a dozen steps and is already gasping for air. It’s in the juice dripping from his nostrils, the difficulty in swallowing most foods, the constant wheezing and inability to hold a pen or grip and turn doorknobs. It’s in the way he gazes at the track in the mornings he meets Lu Han, a palpable longing that breaks Lu Han’s heart and the biggest reminder of Sehun’s eventual fate.
Sehun doesn’t go back to school. His trips to the hospital have become too frequent, so instead he hides in Lu Han’s attic and waits for him to come home. They spend afternoons listening to music, painting, talking. Sometimes they don’t talk at all, simply lie on the floor in each other’s arms, mouth against neck and fingers travelling south.
It’s at night that Lu Han feels reality weighing down on him, a blanket of shattered dreams against vulnerable skin. He looks at the ceiling for hours, trying to find the cracks on the wood, suddenly aware of the white immensity of his bedroom. He almost wishes he hadn’t fallen in love in the first place when he remembers Sehun’s touches and whispers, lips cracking against his body, nails clawing at his back. No. In the darkness, Lu Han holds onto the thought that they will get through.
“Let me paint you.”
Sehun glances at him and then turns his attention back to sorting through the jazz records in Lu Han’s attic. “Okay.”
Minutes later they retreat to Lu Han’s room, the blinds shut. Sehun sits on the bed, bringing Lu Han to his lap, planting hickeys on his collarbones. Lu Han vaguely recalls asking if Sehun’s condition wouldn’t get worse by exerting himself, but he soon forgets when his surroundings become a blur and he gets lost on the hills of Sehun’s chest, exploring the roads winding around his thighs and taking him to a place where his lust can be satiated, pleasure flooding his veins and rendering him unconscious until he finally climaxes with a gasp, with a boom, with a bang.
They lie in a tangle of arms and legs.
Sehun’s droopy eyelid flutters. “Think you can paint me now?”
Lu Han starts with a blank canvas, tubes of multi-coloured paint squeezed onto a palette, brows joining together in a frown. He dips the paintbrush on the red blotch, and then the purple, green, blue, black. He stands on his tiptoes, eager, stripping himself and his emotions naked for the sake of art.
He cuts school and keeps Sehun away during the moments in which he works on his masterpiece. Lu Han enjoys the peacefulness, which is occasionally broken by a loud note in his jazz tunes. He enjoys the soft light brightening the room and he enjoys the oppressing heat forming rings of sweat around his armpits. He enjoys his solitude, although he enjoys Sehun’s company more.
It takes Lu Han one week to finish, and even then he isn’t entirely pleased with the final product. He constantly escapes Sehun’s embrace to sneak to the attic, adding a detail here and there. He knows Sehun won’t follow him because walking up the stairs requires too much effort and his energy is saved for their nightly activities, so Lu Han relishes in his two favourite things - one on a canvas, the other on his bed.
Sehun has begun sleeping over, body heat keeping Lu Han company. One morning when Lu Han wakes first, he kisses the tip of Sehun’s nose and says, “I never took you to the stream. When you get better, we’ll go there.” It’s a wild, unsteady hope, but one that he clings to, afraid he might go insane otherwise.
Sehun stirs, awakened by Lu Han’s caresses. He feels better in the mornings. It’s as if the symptoms vanish after a period of rest, only to reappear by noon. He likes to talk to Lu Han then, motionless under the sheets, his wheezes strong.
“I was angry before I met you,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to be sick. It wasn’t fair.”
“It still isn’t fair,” Lu Han mutters against his pillow. As much as he tries to leave the real world during these moments, Sehun keeps pulling him back.
“Yeah, well. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I might as well just accept it. Running used to be the only thing that made me feel better, but I think-no, I know that you helped me, Lu Han. With your rants and sloppy kisses and awkwardness, and the simple way in which you see life. You said I make you happy, but you make me happy too.”
What is he supposed to reply, Lu Han wonders, when his heart feels so heavy and his hands yearn for him? When he knows, deep down, that the clock keeps on ticking no matter what?
“I’m not scared of dying anymore. Yeah, it’s cheesy and I don’t think people actually say this outside of romantic comedy movies, but I’ll always be by your side. I mean, I think I’ll keep watching you from wherever I am. Maybe I’ll become a star or something. Maybe I’ll live in you.”
He drifts back to sleep and Lu Han entwines their fingers, bringing Sehun’s knuckles to his lips. There’s a lump in his throat and it refuses to go away, but for the first time in a long time Lu Han thinks that, whatever the outcome, things may just be okay after all.
The next day Sehun dies. He leaves in the early afternoon and six hours later Lu Han’s phone rings, Sehun’s mom’s voice trembling on the line. She says he deserved to know firsthand since he had been such a good friend to her son. She says the muscles that allowed him to breathe became paralyzed and he choked to death. She says the funeral will be held soon and that Lu Han should come say his goodbyes.
Lu Han hangs up, back sliding against the wall. In the dark, in his attic with the smell of fresh paint and the remembrance of Sehun’s body holding his, Lu Han doesn’t know enough words to convey his desperation. He thinks that he would need to draw a picture in order to describe what he feels, the wretched pain pulsating along with his heartbeats and emanating throughout his veins and now he’s shaking, whimpering, sobbing. It consumes his insides until he’s retching bitter bile on the floor, until his fingers are sticky with vomit and his hair slick with sweat.
Lu Han’s mind buzzes with questions and memories as he stumbles across the room reaching for his tools, the blade in his hands catching the light coming from the broken window. When he cuts deep enough he might be able to paint his feelings with his blood. What is there to live for now that his Sehun in gone? He was robbed of his heart and of his mind. If only Sehun had been stronger. If only Lu Han had been stronger. If only he had never gone to school that spring morning, never had laid his eyes on the running figure on the track, never had allowed himself to fall so deeply and ardently in love.
The blade against his wrist, Lu Han realizes with some degree of astonishment that he doesn’t regret a thing.
Lu Han doesn’t attend Sehun’s funeral. Instead he lies in the attic, rocking back and forth amidst canvases and buckets of paint. His masterpiece sits still, an image captured in calculated strokes and colour combinations. Lu Han traces the surface of the canvas but he can’t feel Sehun’s warmth. All the painting brings back is resentment over the time he neglected his lover so he could work on a piece that carries only a feverish struggle to achieve perfection.
Lu Han trips over his stool, falling on his pile of vinyl records. His hands crumple around a piece of paper and he holds it up, eyes squinting to focus. It’s the first drawing he did of Sehun, the one he worked on in the art classroom. It was rushed, the lines crooked and the technique lacking, but when Lu Han looks at it tears gather at the corners of his eyes and he understands that this is love.
This is love. Not his grand masterpiece but this, a simple and hasty work, feelings so evident he is hit with the same wonder that tackled him that spring morning. Love is in the flawed details, in the excitement of something new followed by the comfort of familiarity, in the euphoria of first love and the itch of making it infinite on paper. Love is there, in front of him.
Lu Han drops the blade and reaches for a pencil. He works on the runner boy’s face, filling the blanks with Sehun’s slightly fuller lower lip, the almost imperceptible crook of his nose, the freckles and eyebrows and ears. He draws Sehun as he met him and as he wishes to remember him: lively, brave. Free.
And then he begins to move on.