Chapter 72 Spend Time Together
It was as busy as a war when school started.
Si Yankai plunged into some competition and stayed in the library every day until closing time.
Tang Ximian was also urged by his tutor to create new works, and the studio became his second home.
That evening, Si Yankai finally finished the group discussion and walked to the Art Building as he was used to it, smelling like the library and a faint aroma of coffee.
The corridor was silent. The studio door was ajar, letting in a warm yellow light. He gently pushed it open.
Tang Ximian was the only one inside.
He sat on a high stool with his back to the door, staring blankly at a large easel covered with a dark gray cloth in the corner, turning a charcoal pencil in his hand intermittently, and a few paper balls were thrown at his feet.
The smell of paint in the air seemed stronger than usual.
Hearing the door open, he turned around a little late, with a look of "empty" fatigue and irritability on his face, and his eyes were wandering.
Si Yankai didn't say a word, just walked over and put the paper bag in his hand on the table next to him. The sweet aroma of hot cocoa and freshly baked bread wafted out of the bag.
He glanced at the messy studio and his eyes fell on a relatively clean small table next to it, where several large picture albums were spread out.
He walked over, placed his laptop and a book as thick as a brick next to the album, pulled out a chair and sat down, his movements efficient and decisive.
"You draw yours," he said, turning on his computer. The light from the screen reflected off his jawline. His voice was low and steady. "I'll do something here."
There was no unnecessary chatter, no "what's wrong with you?" He simply sat there, like a pinnacle anchoring the sea, firmly planted in the chaotic world of Tangxi Mian.
The only sound in the studio was the gentle tapping of Si Yankai's fingers on the keyboard, again and again, like a steady heartbeat.
Tang Ximian looked at the figure bent over the desk, and the familiar silhouette in the library appeared before his eyes again. The restless irritation in his heart was gradually smoothed away by the monotonous knocking sound.
He took a deep breath, and the air seemed to be mixed with the sweet aroma of cocoa.
He picked up his charcoal pencil again and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. The tip of his pen touched the paper, making a rustling sound, much smoother this time. Si Yankai's outline gradually emerged on the paper: his head slightly lowered, his brows knitted in concentration. The lines of his hand gently enveloped the figure immersed in the dim light of the screen.
After a long while, Si Yankai raised his head from the pile of numbers, rubbed his sore neck, and habitually looked up to look for someone.
Tang Ximian had unknowingly stood in front of the large easel that had been covered with a cloth, palette in hand, eyes fixed on the canvas, as if making a final confirmation, or as if mustering up courage.
Si Yankai's gaze passed over the edge of his laptop screen and fell on a large easel covered in a dark gray dust sheet. Tang Ximian stood before it, his back tense, his hands gripping the edge of the palette, his knuckles slightly white. Besides the scent of turpentine and paint, there seemed to be a subtle hint of tension in the air.
It was an hour later when Si Yankai closed his computer.
Si Yankai reached out and pressed his slightly sore neck, then stood up. The chair legs made a slight creaking sound in the quiet studio.
Tang Ximian's shoulders trembled slightly, but he did not turn around.
"Done?"
Si Yankai spoke very softly, as if afraid of disturbing something.
He walked to Tang Ximian's side, but his eyes fell on the other's profile which was stained with ochre.
"Hmm... sort of." Tang Ximian responded vaguely, his voice a little dry. "I just drew it randomly, it's not dry yet."
"Take a look?" Si Yankai's tone was natural, with a hint of curiosity, but more of patience. He didn't directly lift the cloth, but just stood quietly by and waited.
Tang Ximian took a deep breath, as if he had made some kind of decision. He put down the palette, pinched the rough edge of the dust sheet with his fingers, hesitated for a moment, and then pulled it down suddenly!
The dark grey cloth slid down and piled at the foot of the easel.
On the canvas, large expanses of warm colors instantly caught Si Yankai's eyes.
It wasn't a realistic portrait, more a capture of light, shadow, and emotion. The background was a fluid, almost abstract interweaving of warm orange and deep blue, like the transition between dusk and night. And the central focus of the painting was himself.
The "he" in the painting is sitting in the familiar window seat in the library, with the shadows of campus trees blurred into blocks of color outside the window.
He lowered his head slightly, with a pair of thin-framed glasses on his nose (Tang Ximian always said that he looked particularly "pretentious" with them, but the painting handled it just right), his brows were slightly furrowed, his lips pursed, an expression of extreme concentration that Si Yankai himself was not aware of.
The light shone from the side and above, casting a clear shadow on his well-defined profile and illuminating the fingers holding the pen, so much so that one could even see the slight arc of the knuckles.
The paint on the canvas is piled very thickly, and the brushstrokes are bold and powerful, with the kind of reckless energy that is unique to Tang Ximian, but it also accurately captures the calmness, concentration, and even... a hint of imperceptible tenderness.
The whole picture is like a silent hymn, full of vitality.
Si Yankai stood in front of the painting for several seconds without saying a word.
The expression on his face seemed frozen, his usual calmness and composure disappeared, leaving only pure, shocked shock.
He even subconsciously raised his hand and gently adjusted the frame of his glasses, as if to confirm whether the person in the painting was himself.
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