The critique session dragged on under a relentless downpour, professors droning about "negative space" and "emotional resonance" while thunder grumbled outside like it had critiques of its own. Nong-Pim's stormy seascape was pinned up, waves crashing in vivid blues and furious whites, but he fidgeted in his seat, stealing glances at the door. The rain had trapped everyone indoors, and now the shared hallway was a river.
A shadow fell over his row—P'Mew, sculpture tarp slung over one shoulder like a cape, dripping but unfazed. "Room for one more?" he asked the prof, voice cutting through the murmurs. Permission granted, he slid into the empty seat next to Nong-Pim, their knees brushing under the table. Heat bloomed in Nong-Pim's chest.
As others presented, P'Mew leaned in, studying Nong-Pim's canvas on the wall. His breath was warm against Nong-Pim's ear. "Your paintings... they're alive. Like the rain's trapped in there, fighting to get out. Not just pretty—raw."
Nong-Pim's brush-calloused fingers twisted in his lap, a shy smile tugging his lips. He'd overheard Sculpture kids mocking Painting as "smear-and-pray," but this? Genuine. He glanced at P'Mew's hands—scarred knuckles, clay under his nails—and whispered back, "Yours make things breathe. I saw that torso you did last fest; it felt like it could sigh. How do you do that?"
P'Mew's eyes softened, a rare vulnerability flickering. "Years of screwing up. And... feeling it, I guess." Their shoulders touched now, accidental but lingering. The prof called Nong-Pim up; he stumbled through feedback, hyper-aware of P'Mew watching.
Hours blurred—critique ended, but they stayed, rain sheeting the windows like a private veil. They talked art: P'Mew's obsession with negative space in stone, Nong-Pim's love for capturing fleeting light. Laughter slipped in—P'Mew mimicking a stuffy prof, Nong-Pim confessing his paint-splatter disasters. Time stretched, cozy in the dim light.
Finally, Phi-Tor's voice boomed from the hall: "Mew! Installation's flooding—duty calls!" P'Mew stood reluctantly, ruffling Nong-Pim's damp hair with a gruff, "Good talk, Nong. Don't drown out there."
"Wouldn't dream of it, P'Mew." Nong-Pim watched him go, the door clicking shut. Rain pattered on, but inside, something warmer bloomed—a slow ember, waiting for the next storm to fan it.