Chapter 19. Sea Breeze Part 1

September marked the start of a new semester, and Lu Zhengming returned to the Academy of Fine Arts.

Apart from Yin Yan and Liu Leshan, no one in the oil painting department knew about his brief resignation. It was not exactly a glorious affair, and when facing Liu Leshan, Lu Zhengming’s tone carried a hint of restraint. He obediently resumed his post at the studio, never bringing up the idea of transferring to the Experimental Arts Department again.

He had not wanted to come back. It was only after Yin Yan’s persuasion that his resolve began to waver. When it came to international academic exchanges, the academy offered far more in both scale and scholarly value than any independent art institution. Lu Zhengming understood this well, yet his reasons for returning were not quite so simple.

Since that chaotic night, Yin Yan had not reached out to him once. Even when Lu Zhengming sought him out, the other man responded with polite warmth, nothing more. That was how they had always interacted, yet Lu Zhengming found it unbearable now.

He felt Yin Yan should be closer to him, more intimate, because they had done something beyond mere companionship. They had made love in the truest sense of the word. Something should have changed.

But what, exactly? He could not say. It was he who had proposed “something more than friendship but not quite love.” Their friendship remained intact, and their physical relationship had already taken place, yet a restless hunger gnawed at him, an unease he could not put into words.

So he painted.

Layer upon layer of red glass formed a new abyss before him. He stared at the thick, opaque panels and felt an urge to throw himself in.

I should go back first. He thought.

This entire ordeal had given him a new understanding of his own emotional immaturity. He ignored the true cause behind it all, choosing instead to mock himself in private.

When Yin Yan was not around, Lu Zhengming was an entirely different person. He carried himself with a steady composure that rivaled Yin Yan’s own. If not, the Contemporary Art Studio would not have entrusted him with so much responsibility time and again.

Previously, he had planned to apply for fewer teaching hours, but the department was already short-staffed. The former deputy director had transferred to the Experimental Arts Department, and several lecturers had left as well. With the faculty stretched thin, even the department head had to personally take charge of the graduating class. Under these circumstances, Lu Zhengming had no room to negotiate. He accepted the assignments given to him, taking on most of the third-year specialized courses.

For the first four weeks, the course focused on indoor sketching. After the National Day holiday, there would be two weeks of outdoor fieldwork before returning to the studio for oil painting classes. Until New Year’s, Lu Zhengming had to personally oversee the lessons.

He was used to the creative assignments in the graduate class. Third-year students, however, were still in the foundational stage, and their sketching courses required a level of rigor no less than that of any other studio. It was an adjustment he was not entirely comfortable with.

More than that, he was not used to dealing with third-year students.

The graduates had a clear sense of direction. Even those who had no concrete life plans at least had formed artistic concepts of their own. But these third-years were different. They were like sparrows trapped in a net, restless and lost, flapping aimlessly in every direction. What they needed was someone to guide them onto the right path, which was far more difficult than simply supervising their creative work.

Sitting in the classroom, watching them work on their assignments, Lu Zhengming felt something heavy settle onto his shoulders, something he had never borne before.

Before he could figure out what it was, his attention was drawn away by the department’s lesson plans.

For disciplines focused on form, such as oil painting, traditional Chinese painting, printmaking, and sculpture, there were two fieldwork seasons each year, one in spring and one in autumn. With the exception of first-years, all other students had to travel for these sessions, either packing up for plein-air painting or setting out lightly for art research trips.

In previous years, when he taught the graduate class, he mostly handled research courses. These excursions were meant to help students gather material for their graduation projects. They visited museums and art galleries with sketchbooks and cameras in hand, almost like tourists.

He rarely had the opportunity to lead actual fieldwork sessions. The last time had been years ago, when he first stayed on as faculty, taking students to a rural village to paint terraced fields for a few days. Beyond that, he had no other experience.

Lower-year fieldwork trips were usually shorter and closer to home. The higher the grade, the farther they traveled. This time, the studio director, Chao Hui, gave him two options: the northwest, to paint deserts and historical ruins, or the eastern coast, to capture seascapes and colonial architecture.

Lu Zhengming was drawn to the northwest. Since this was his first time leading a fieldwork class, he wanted to go somewhere farther. If possible, he even wanted to drive there himself. His off-road vehicle had never truly gone off-road, having only ever been on the highway.

He didn’t show it, though. After all, this was his first time leading a long-distance fieldwork trip, and without a teaching assistant, he couldn’t afford to be careless. Instead, he said, “I’d like to check the other studios’ itineraries. If we can travel together, it’ll be easier to manage.”

Chao Hui then got him the department’s full fieldwork schedule. As soon as Lu Zhengming looked through it, he spotted Yin Yan’s name. He would be taking his graduate students to the same coastal city. It wasn’t what Lu Zhengming had originally wanted, but it overlapped with the second option Chao Hui had given him. He immediately agreed to go with Yin Yan.

Fourth Studio and First Studio quickly coordinated their plans, booking tickets together and contacting the fieldwork base in Qingdao. Everything was set, and they would depart after the long holiday. Though he hadn’t ended up going to the northwest, Lu Zhengming was still in high spirits.

That night, he had a few more drinks before hailing a cab to Yin Yan’s place, as if he needed the alcohol to muster the courage to show up.

If he got himself drunk enough, surely Yin Yan would let him stay the night out of sheer human decency, right?

Thick-skinned, he knocked on the door, relieved he wasn’t completely wasted. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to get what he wanted.

“You’re drinking again?”

Yin Yan didn’t seem pleased. To Lu Zhengming, his tone sounded almost like a wife nagging her husband. He found nothing odd about the thought. On the contrary, there was something inexplicably enticing about it. He cupped Yin Yan’s face and kissed him.

Yin Yan pushed him away with his elbow, the force behind it enough to bring him back to reality.

“Aren’t you afraid I might have someone over?” Yin Yan’s voice was cold.

Lu Zhengming froze. Instinctively, he scanned the room, but seeing no third person, he turned back just in time to catch the smile tugging at Yin Yan’s lips. That itch in his heart could no longer be held back. He pinned him against the wall, pressing against him in a fevered tangle.

“Stop messing around.” Yin Yan propped him off with his elbow, dodging him with helpless amusement.

Lu Zhengming found his teasing resistance unbearably alluring. He wanted to take him right here, right now. Nuzzling into his neck, he was about to leave a mark when he suddenly caught a familiar scent. That was when he noticed the white primer smudged on Yin Yan’s hand.

He had just scanned the room earlier, yet he hadn’t even noticed the floor covered with stretched canvases.

“You were working?” He awkwardly let go of Yin Yan.

“Mm.” Yin Yan gave a faint response and went back to preparing his canvases.

For convenience, most people only brought a few frames and pre-cut canvas sheets on fieldwork trips, stretching a fresh sheet after each painting, then removing and rolling them up for transport once dried. But Yin Yan never used pre-made canvas. He insisted on stretching each one himself, preparing the primed surface beforehand, and bringing all the frames along. Lu Zhengming did a quick count. There were twenty of them on the floor. Accounting for drying time, Yin Yan had to finish at least two a day. Even his students weren’t this diligent.

On the electric cooker, rabbit-skin glue was simmering. Mixed with gesso, lithopone, and other materials, it formed the primer he was applying to the canvases. Solid wood frames, pure linen canvas, hand-prepared primer, every step was done manually. Each coat of primer needed a few days to fully dry before the next layer could be applied, sealing the tiny pores in the linen. Yin Yan handled it all himself.

He wouldn’t let Lu Zhengming help, so the latter simply leaned against the doorframe, watching without realizing he was getting lost in it.

Yin Yan was steady as he worked, walking between the frames in loose-fitting pants, not getting a single drop of primer on himself. Crouched on the floor, he meticulously spread the primer with a wide brush, the surface of each canvas coming out smooth and even. When he couldn’t reach a spot, he would kneel down, one hand bracing against the floor while the other stretched forward to paint. His shirt wasn’t particularly long, and when he leaned over, it would occasionally ride up, revealing a sliver of his waist.

Lu Zhengming felt that itch in his chest stir again. Instead of standing around daydreaming, he figured he might as well get things ready for what was coming next. With that in mind, he took over the bathroom and scrubbed himself thoroughly.

By the time he came out, Yin Yan had already finished up and was lying on the sofa in the living room, eyes closed, exhaustion written all over his face.

Lu Zhengming stood there watching him quietly for a while. Whatever thoughts had been brewing in his head slowly faded.

He turned back into the bathroom, grabbed a warm towel, and walked over, crouching beside Yin Yan to carefully wipe his hands.

Yin Yan watched him in silence. When Lu Zhengming finished wiping his hands, he wordlessly got up and went to take a shower.

He was in there for a long time. So long that Lu Zhengming, flipping through an art book by the bedside, was nearly dozing off.

By the time Yin Yan appeared, he was still damp, carrying the warmth of the steam with him. He leaned in, closing the book, then reclined against the headboard, gazing at Lu Zhengming with a faint, amused smile.

“Do you want to?”

Lu Zhengming, still half-asleep, looked up at him. The backlight outlined a soft golden edge along Yin Yan’s shoulder, and a single drop of water lingered on his collarbone, not yet wiped away.

Something about the sight felt warm. Clean.

He didn’t want to ruin it.

He pulled Yin Yan close by the neck, kissed away the droplet, then buried his face in the crook of his shoulder. His fluffy hair brushed against Yin Yan’s neck and ear as he murmured,

“I just want to sleep with you.”

Yin Yan let out a quiet chuckle. “You don’t want to do anything else?”

Lu Zhengming tugged him down onto the bed without answering.

He had a vague sense of what this meant, but he didn’t want to say it. Saying it out loud would be admitting it completely.

Right now, he didn’t want sex. He just wanted to hold Yin Yan and drift into sleep.

Just for now, he wanted to escape reality.