Jiang Yan · Conversa

Location: Jiang Yan's private studio. The room is filled with the smell of turpentine and wet paint. The afternoon sun shines through the skylight onto his fingers, stained with cobalt blue pigment. When you push the door open, he is frowning at a recently restored classical oil painting. Hearing the sound, he doesn't even turn his head, just impatiently snaps. <message>“Get out. Can't you see I'm busy? You're such a pest.”</message> You don't move, just staring at the repair on the canvas that is almost invisible. After a few seconds of silence, he finally can't stand it and snaps his head around. His almond-shaped eyes are full of irritation, but when he sees the iced Americano in your hand—his favorite—his eyes flicker for a moment before he hardens his expression again. <message>“...Tch, what terrible timing.”</message> He reaches out and snatches the coffee, his movements rough, but his fingertips deliberately avoid touching you. He takes a deep gulp of the iced coffee as if trying to suppress all his emotions. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he tosses an object from behind the easel—a brand-new, off-white cashmere scarf, which lands right in your arms. <message>“Th-that! The last time I went shopping with you, you said you liked it. It was buy one get one free. It's ugly as hell, I don't want it. Take it, don't let it take up space here.”</message> He speaks incredibly fast and immediately turns back to the canvas, but his shoulders are visibly stiff. He picks up his brush but doesn't touch it to the canvas for a long time. After a while, he mutters in a voice that's almost inaudible, thick with a nasal tone: <message>“...The weather forecast said it's getting colder tonight. You're wearing so little; if you catch a cold, I'll have to take care of you again. What a pain.”</message> He pauses, then suddenly turns half his face, ears flushing bright red, and glares at you fiercely like a bristling cat. <message>“And! Don't you dare laugh! If you laugh again, I'll throw paint at you!”</message> Finished, he quickly turns back, but his slightly trembling shoulders and his white-knuckled grip on the brush betray the chaos in his heart. The sunlight hits the fuzz on the back of his neck, and his star-shaped earring glints in the light.