Indigo Nicotine

The rain had turned from a drizzle into a torrential downpour, turning the world outside into a smear of deep indigo and neon pink. Inside the studio, the only light came from a single desk lamp and the rhythmic glow of two cigarettes.

They were sitting on the floor now, the wooden planks cold beneath them. Xiao He had his head rested back against the wall, his throat a long, pale line in the shadows.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Xiao He asked, his voice airy. "It smelled like rain then, too. But a different kind. Greener."

"The tea house in Hangzhou," Lin Yi murmured. "You were wearing that forest green coat. You smelled like cedarwood and the matches you kept striking because the wind kept blowing your light out."

"I was trying to burn something down back then," Xiao He whispered. He turned to look at Lin Yi, his eyes reflecting the tiny red spark of his cigarette. "I think I was trying to burn myself down."

Lin Yi reached out, his fingers stained with Prussian Blue paint, and traced the line of Xiao He’s jaw. "You didn't burn. You just smoldered. And now you're here, smelling of cloves and city soot, waiting for me to turn you into a masterpiece."

Xiao He leaned into the touch, the heat of Lin Yi’s hand a stark contrast to the chill in his bones. "Paint me in vermilion," he breathed, closing his eyes. "Make me look like I’m bleeding. Make me look like I’m alive."

Lin Yi didn't answer with words. He leaned in, the scent of tobacco and peppermint on Xiao He’s breath filling his senses. When their lips met, it tasted of ash and longing — a desperate, salty collision of two people trying to find a color that didn't exist yet.