Work Text:
"And in my dreams, you arrived, my muse, playing ancient hymns to heal my soul, while I, your devoted servant, remained watching you with admiration, wondering whether you were human or merely a creation of my exhausted mind."
The lines faded across the paper, the brush tracing the same strokes over and over, the same cheekbones, reconstructing the same unknown face. Zhou Zishu stepped back slightly to admire the beauty captured in his painting. The rosy lips of his muse curved into an enigmatic smile, and the small, sharp eyes stared out from behind the adorned purple fan.
“I spoke with the gallery manager. He reminded me about the exhibition and how important your presence is tomorrow,” Ye Baiyi said as he entered the atelier.
Zhou Zishu did not respond; he merely grimaced. Something was still missing from the portrait—a nuance that eluded him. The brush skimmed over the lines of the body to make them more melodious, more natural.
Ye Baiyi sighed and stepped closer, inspecting the unfinished painting. It depicted a young man with long dark hair, looking at the viewer with a teasing, self-satisfied expression, seated in a round window, fanning himself with an ornate fan.
“It’s terrifying how detailed it is… he almost looks like a real person,” Ye Baiyi commented, glancing past the painting at the empty room. There was no model, no round window, no fan.
The painter shrugged slightly, resting the brush on the long dark hair, letting it fall harmoniously along the curves of the body.
Ye Baiyi shook his head slightly, knowing it was useless to speak to his friend while he painted. Zhou Zishu seemed immersed in a dream, with the protagonist of that dream being the unknown figure born from his imagination.
Bored, he glanced at the other completed paintings. They all depicted the same muse, the same man. Sometimes his hair was as dark as ebony, other times as white as snow, but always him. The paintings captured him in various moments—laughing, drinking, or simply walking in garments from another era.
“Finished,” Zhou Zishu said, setting down the brush.
“The gallery manager emphasized how important it is for you to attend the exhibition,” Ye Baiyi reminded him.
The painter nodded, stretching painfully. “I already said I’ll be there.”
“Good. Have you eaten yet?” Ye Baiyi asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” Zhou Zishu replied, putting his brushes away.
“Luckily, your dear senior brought you something to eat,” Ye Baiyi said, heading toward the small garden connecting the atelier to the house. “Where’s your idiot of a son?”
Zhou Zishu followed, asserting, “He should be back any moment, and he’s not an idiot.”
“You know I care about the little monster you adopted, but let’s be honest… he’s not exactly brilliant,” Ye Baiyi replied, entering the kitchen, where several takeout boxes were scattered.
“He’s still growing,” the painter defended him, even if he himself didn’t fully believe it.
---
Chengling burst into the kitchen, panting. His wide eyes fell on his father’s body as he muttered incoherently: “He… he’s alive… there’s…”
Zhou Zishu tilted his head, confused. “He’s breathing,” he ordered calmly.
“I saw him!” the flushed boy squeaked.
“Who?” Ye Baiyi asked, trying to decode the words.
“He was there… he was…” Chengling attempted to explain, still nervous, before squeaking in frustration and finally asserting, “Dad’s muse.”
Zhou Zishu froze, puzzled. Did his son mean the man from his portraits? Impossible. His muse was his creation; he wasn’t a real person.
“You mean the man your father paints?” Ye Baiyi asked to clarify.
“Exactly,” Chengling confirmed with conviction.
“Impossible… he doesn’t exist,” the painter stammered, springing to his feet, irritated. He was certain that the man existed only in his mind.
“It was him,” his son insisted firmly.
“That’s not possible,” the father repeated through clenched teeth, his gaze stern.
“Perhaps he just resembled him,” Ye Baiyi suggested, trying to mediate.
Chengling was about to argue again but was silenced by a gesture from Zhou Zishu. Annoyed, he left the kitchen and headed toward his room. His steps stopped in front of his first painting, displayed at the doorway of his house—it depicted his muse. The man smiled magnetically at the viewer, dark eyes filled with bitter amusement, the closed fan delicately held between his slender fingers.
---
The brush had always been an extension of Zhou Zishu’s fingers. For as long as he could remember, drawing had been as natural as breathing—a spontaneous motion seemingly encoded into his DNA. His family had always encouraged this talent, allowing him to cultivate it. Thanks to his skill, Zhou Zishu earned a scholarship to the Academy of Fine Arts, turning his dream into reality.
During his first year at the Academy, a professor brought a young model and encouraged students to paint her. For Zhou Zishu, it was impossible. No matter how hard he tried, his fingers refused to follow the lines of her cheekbones. Frustrated, he tore the sheet from his sketchbook and left the class under the astonished gaze of his peers.
He had been labeled a prodigy from the start. His paintings were already being exhibited even in his first year. Most classmates admired him openly and envied him in secret. Yet Zhou Zishu embodied the romantic ideal of the solitary, quiet painter, always carrying his sketchbook.
In truth, he did not consider himself a true painter. How could one call themselves a painter if they could not capture a person’s face? The body was not the problem—he could reproduce symmetry—but the face always stopped him. He had even asked his younger stepbrother to model for him, but even that was useless.
That afternoon, he stared at the blank canvas until his father, Qin Huaizhang, arrived, concerned.
“What’s the matter?” Qin asked calmly.
“I can’t do it,” Zhou Zishu replied, frustrated. “I don’t think I am the great painter you expect me to be.”
Qin seemed confused. “Why do you say that?”
“I can’t draw a face. No matter how hard I try, I feel I cannot,” Zhou Zishu admitted bitterly.
“Why not?” Qin asked genuinely.
“I don’t know,” the boy admitted, emotionally drained.
“I’ve seen you draw an entire field of poppies swaying in the wind with such natural ease that I suspected you were the reincarnation of some old master painter. So where’s the difference?” Qin tried to understand.
Zhou Zishu grimaced. “Nature is simple. I don’t know how to explain it… but I feel it, I feel it in my skin. If I close my eyes, I can almost touch its wonders with my fingers. And when I paint it, I imprint on the paper my admiration, my adoration for its colors and textures.”
“Maybe you need someone you know as your model,” his father suggested, trying to offer a solution.
Zhou Zishu shook his head, dejected. “I’ve already tried, it doesn’t work.”
Qin gently patted his back. “Well, if no model satisfies you, why not create one of your own?” he continued, pleased with the idea. “A muse whose every curve and feature you can decide… and she will be yours alone.”
Taking this advice to heart, Zhou Zishu closed his eyes that evening and created his muse. That was the first time he painted her, the first painting that now anyone who dared visit his home admired. From then on, his muse became the center of his work, present in every piece—a wonderful creature born from his imagination, and only his. For this reason, Chengling could not have seen her; that man existed only in Zhou Zishu’s mind. That night, the painter barely slept; his muse took on strange shapes, expanding and coming alive, pulsing.
---
Gu Xiang was tugging him toward the gallery. Wen huffed lightly. “I don’t understand why you insisted so much on coming. You’re not exactly the exhibition type.”
“I’m not,” she said confidently. “But you have to see his paintings.”
“I have to?” Wen asked, puzzled.
“Absolutely,” the girl replied. “You’ll see.”
He didn’t misunderstand her—he loved art—but he would have preferred to rest. The jet lag from the endless direct flight from America to China was killing him. He had accompanied his younger sister to meet her boyfriend’s parents—overly protective perhaps, but with good reason. Leaving her alone in a strange country was out of the question.
Although technically it was their ancestral homeland, he had no memories of it. At seven, his parents had immigrated to America, never returning. They had no relatives to tie them there. Three years ago, Gu Xiang had met Cao Weining, a clumsy Chinese-American student, and fallen in love. Hence the situation: the arrogant brat had invited Gu Xiang to meet his parents. Wen suspected why the meeting was arranged, reading it from the boy’s nervous demeanor. He wanted to marry his precious little sister and feared he could do nothing to prevent it.
During their first breakfast with the mysterious parents, something unusual happened. While eating, Cao’s mother murmured, squinting at Wen: “You have a familiar face.” Cao’s father nodded, and the eager, flustered Cao added, “I thought the same thing when I first met him.” Wen smiled, confused. “I don’t recall ever meeting you before, sorry.” The older woman seemed satisfied, though her doubtful eyes never left poor Wen’s face.
After the strange breakfast, his sister was whisked away by her boyfriend’s mother to go shopping, leaving Wen to rest. The peace didn’t last long. Half an hour later, Gu Xiang returned, flustered, and threw herself on him, tracing his face’s contours with her hands, murmuring: “You’re exactly the same,” before dragging him to the gallery hosting the exhibition.
The line to enter was long, and Wen was certain they could not get in without an invitation. “I’m afraid it’s an exclusive exhibition,” he warned. “And we don’t have tickets.”
Gu Xiang shook her head confidently. “I’m sure they’ll let us in,” she asserted.
After a few minutes in line, feeling strangely observed by everyone around, a man in a hurry exited a fairly expensive car, brushing past him while muttering, “Zhou Zishu will kill me.” He then stopped, pale, and looked at Wen waiting calmly.
Ye Baiyi approached, perplexed. “You… oh my god… it can’t be…”
“How?” Wen squinted suspiciously.
The man ignored him, signaling a nearby bouncer to raise the barrier. “He must enter,” Ye Baiyi said firmly, staring at him.
Wen rolled his eyes, exasperated by the strange behavior, but Gu Xiang nudged him, urging him to follow the man inside.
The exhibition seemed normal, no different from any other… until he laid eyes on one of the paintings. It depicted him playing a white flute, wearing strange attire. He didn’t recall ever wearing such clothing or posing for such a painting.
Uncertain, he wandered through the gallery, finding paintings that depicted him in various ways. And yet, it was impossible. “That’s me,” he said to his sister.
“Not exactly,” their guide corrected.
“How?” Wen stammered.
“The person in the painting is a product of the painter’s imagination,” Ye Baiyi explained, scarcely believing it himself.
“Don’t talk nonsense! That painting is identical to my brother!” Gu Xiang said, frustrated. Ye Baiyi wanted to defend himself but feared he could not. The resemblance was too striking.
---
Zhou Zishu sipped yet another glass of champagne, bored. He despised these events. Even though he knew how important exhibitions were for a painter, and how necessary his presence was, he still could not tolerate people attempting to catch his attention with cheap tricks.
Sighing, he watched his son eat something, probably accompanying him only for the buffet.
“There’s uncle,” the boy said, pointing at someone among the crowd, his mouth still full.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Zhou Zishu scolded lightly, adding with a sharp tone, “Finally, he’s late.”
Shaking his head, the painter approached the figure of his friend, who was accompanied by a very young girl—his new partner? He didn’t remember hearing about her.
“Ye Baiyi…” the words stopped on his tongue as he glimpsed the third person with them.
It was him—his muse—staring at him with those dark, confused eyes.
“He’s the painter, Zhou Zishu,” Ye Baiyi tried to introduce, breaking the silence.
Wen finally shook off his daze caused by the other and extended his hand, but before he could say anything, the painter gripped it, murmuring, “Lao Wen.”
A wave of familiarity coursed through Wen, making him hope to maintain that contact as long as possible. Zhou Zishu felt the same—a bliss akin to a child before a box of long-denied cookies. His saliva ceased as those dark eyes scrutinized him, making him both embarrassed of his thoughts and his paintings.
“How do you know his name?” Gu Xiang asked, noticing her brother hadn’t spoken.
“How?” Zhou Zishu asked, confused, still unable to look away from his muse. His fingers were thinner than he imagined, so beautiful and delicate. Reverently, he traced his thumb over the prominent knuckles.
Gu Xiang intervened, separating their hands and placing herself between them. “Pervert, did you hear what I said?”
The painter only then realized the situation, tensing. “I don’t know… I just…”
“Gu Xiang, stop scolding, A’xu,” Wen said, coming to his aid and pushing the surprised girl back.
“Do you know him?” she asked.
Wen came back into the painter’s direct line of sight, and unable to look away, Zhou Zishu resumed his silent contemplation.
“A’xu?” Ye Baiyi repeated, concerned. He knew his friend well enough to know how little he liked nicknames.
“I… I…” Wen tried to explain, unsure if it was a good idea to give a nickname to a stranger.
“Relax, it’s fine,” Zhou Zishu said, hiding a small smile. “I should apologize. I’ve used you as a muse without asking. Honestly, I didn’t even think you existed.”
Gu Xiang continued to glare at him, but the painter paid little attention. All his focus remained on his now-human muse.
“Don’t worry. It won’t happen again,” he added.
Ye Baiyi made a strangled noise at these words, wishing he could grab his dear friend by the neck. Most of Zhou Zishu’s fame as a painter was tied to his famous muse; he could not abandon her.
“Seems reasonable,” Gu Xiang finally relaxed, but her peace was shaken by her brother’s words:
“You don’t have to stop. If you want, you can still paint me.”
Ye Baiyi’s head snapped toward the stranger, surprised. Was he dreaming? That Wen was giving him permission to use his image? This was a stroke of luck. He would have wanted to cheer.
“I cannot,” the painter said firmly, making Ye Baiyi roll his eyes.
Gu Xiang nodded but could do nothing as Wen continued, “You have my permission.”
Zhou Zishu shook his head, trying to resist temptation. “Now that I know you’re real, I cannot paint you the same way.”
“Do you want me to model for you?” Wen proposed, terrified that someone else might fill the canvases the painter had created—funny, considering he hadn’t even known he was in those paintings a few hours ago.
Gu Xiang stared in shock. “How?”
Ye Baiyi interjected, “Relax. Zhou Zishu doesn’t paint with live models.”
And it was true… until now, because the painter said: “Yes.”
“What did you just say?” Gu Xiang stammered, irritated.
“I misspoke, apparently,” Ye Baiyi said doubtfully.
“Wen,” the sister tried to call him, annoyed.
“All the paintings here have me as a muse?” Wen asked, moving closer to Zhou Zishu, ignoring his sister.
“Yes,” the painter confirmed, leaning nervously. “If you want, I can show you.”
“I’ll get the live commentary from the painter, then?” Wen teased. His dark eyes took on the arrogant amusement Zhou Zishu had often painted in his portraits. Yet seeing it firsthand intoxicated him.
“Of course,” Zhou Zishu replied, offering his arm to escort him through the gallery.
“WEN!” Gu Xiang shouted, frustrated, but Ye Baiyi laughed, “I’m afraid they forgot we’re here,” and this time, he was entirely correct.
---
Years later…
Zhou Zishu watched the other man sitting calmly, sipping his coffee. His hair, now milky-white, fell over his shoulders carelessly. The painter grabbed a lock and tucked it behind his ear.
“A’xu, you should drink your coffee before it gets cold,” Wen scolded.
“I want to paint you,” Zhou Zishu replied directly.
“You always say that,” Wen teased.
“Because I always want to,” the painter asserted confidently.
His muse laughed lightly—a sound so melodic and simple that Zhou Zishu longed more than ever to have pencil and paper, to capture the moment and freeze it for eternity.
“Alright, my beloved painter, since you’re so desperate, I’ll let you paint me after coffee,” Wen declared authoritatively.
Zhou Zishu agreed. “It’s not desperation, it’s reverence,” he corrected. “I want to share your beauty with those who view my paintings. I want them to know how ethereal my muse is.”
“So, I’d be your muse, then?” Wen asked teasingly.
The painter nodded, unembarrassed. “Yes, only mine.”
“Sounds good… but something’s missing, isn’t it?” Wen said, a puzzled expression on his face.
“What?” Zhou Zishu asked, confused.
“You know, usually after declarations like that, there’s a kiss… or am I wrong?” Wen leaned forward, eyes gleaming, confident he had already won.
And so it happened. Zhou Zishu’s fingers sank into Wen’s hair before leaning in to kiss him. His tongue entered slowly, exploring with hunger. His muse tasted delicious.