A fateful encounter

The students took their seats in the auditorium and waited tensely for the teacher to appear. The door opened abruptly, and a man entered who immediately caught everyone's eye.

His long snow-white hair was ribboned, his eyes and eyebrows were dark, and his expression was aloof and cold.

He looked around the class and in his unexpectedly melodious voice said: "Proceed to the drawing on a free theme."

From the whispers behind him, Ling knew it wasn't the Teacher, but his assistant.

While everyone was little by little deciding on a subject, a man who looked like an elf stood in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back and didn't move.

Ling caught himself thinking that he had never had such an extraordinary model before and began to sketch quickly. Just in case the man changed his pose or walked away, he snapped a couple of sneaky pictures.

But apparently, no one else dared such an experiment. The other students drew what they were good at, wanting to show their best side.

Ling, on the other hand, had one eye for the elf and was absorbed in his work.

He was particularly good at conveying the cold expression on the man's face and the sparkle in his black eyes. However, for the sake of the atmosphere, Ling changed his clothes.

He put dark mountain peaks and a gloomy sky in the background and presented his model as a Taoist, dressed in a traditional black hanfu with gold patterns.

The robes fluttered in the wind, and the man looked down from the top of the world with disdain and defiance. It seemed as if he was about to summon lightning and destroy everything around him.

As he became engrossed in the creative process, Ling experienced an extraordinary mental uplift. The brush fluttered in his hands like a butterfly, easily leaving traces on the canvas. He stared at the work and swore he would take the portrait for himself!

Because of his immersion in the process, he did not notice that another man was silently gliding through the classroom. He had blond hair and amber, golden eyes, a chiseled figure with a slim waist, and noble movements.

Long, straight fingers were made for art, but right now they were resting affectionately on Ling's shoulders.

The Teacher's assistant suddenly woke up and stared at Ling too. And the one who came up behind him whispered in the young man's ear: "I want this painting and I want you to paint some more of these."

Ling turned his head in surprise at the voice, and the man hugged him lazily from behind and rested his head on his shoulder.

With one look he let the assistant know to come over. The men began to whisper without paying any attention to the young man.

"That outfit suits you very well, Cal, do you know what it is?" The one with the handsome fingers asked.

"You'd better ask the painter," said Cal uncertainly.

"That's right, kitty, what's that pretty dress?" he traced his soft finger along Ling's cheek.

"Traditional Chinese Hanfu," said Ling faintly.

It was as if he had been caught in a strong electric field. There was clearly love in the chemistry between these two, and the young man was drawn into this maelstrom.

He felt the hands of the one behind him move to his waist and close around his stomach. His abs trembled, and he stopped breathing. The elf came to the rescue.

He changed from a cold expression to a softer one, and spoke in a warning tone:

"You'd better let that mouse out before his heart stops. You can continue playing later."

The man immediately hid his claws; or rather removed his hands from Ling's body, and Ling felt hot breath at his right ear:

"What's your name, mouse?"

His eyes were spinning in circles of color, for crying out loud.

"Bai..." he said his assumed name as if he were hypnotized.

"Good boy, don't run away after class, we need to talk."

The Teacher and it was he, finally broke away from Ling and stepped forward to the front of the class.

Everyone was whispering and occasionally casting glances at Ling, some with envy, some with curiosity. The student himself sat somehow very tense.

At one point, as these shameless men molested him, he suddenly felt the very excitement that helped Tai Bin make his decision.

This infuriated Ling, considering the situation. At this time, the Teacher leaned over to his assistant and whispered something in his ear, after which the elf cast a short but sharp as a dagger look at Ling.

He made him feel insecure and anxious to get away, especially since he was not allowed to leave.

"So, hello," Ling heard the gentle voice of his Teacher. "It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is kept strictly confidential and I sign my works with the pseudonym "Evig". Does anyone know the meaning of that word?"

Several people shouted "eternal" and the man nodded contentedly.

"Most of the time I write mythological stories, which sell quite well."

The audience murmured: "You are very modest," "Evig's paintings are beautiful," "your paintings are very expensive," etc.

The man listened and nodded, but then raised his hands, calling for silence.

"This is all true and I am here to help you find your own style that will be easy to monetize. Call me Teacher, that's what all my students do."

The audience murmured again in joyful excitement. Ling, too, was excited, but by no means happy. While everyone surrounded the Teacher and sought to ask their questions, the young man grabbed his precious painting and ran out of the auditorium.

Placing the canvas on the seat beside him, he quickly left the Academy. At least he needed to cool down quickly; if the Teacher saw him like this, things would get even more awkward.

Back at the cabin, he carefully moved the painting and placed it on the shelf, never stopping to admire it. After catching his breath, he took another close look at his work and felt something tingle in his heart.

He felt the urge to paint other similar pictures, or perhaps to illustrate a book. Ideas poured in like gold bars, one after another.

Ling even dared to try his hand at a graphics tablet. Seems the academy was planning a similar course.

"Gotta make some more money," he thought, throwing his clothes on the floor. His uncomfortable state went away on its own, and he went to shower to freshen up before dinner.

But he didn't feel like eating. Instead, he grabbed a coffee and went for a wander along the beach. Sitting alone, he felt hope and joy for the first time since his arrival.

At last, his happiness did not depend on a particular person, but only on himself. Ling saw his path light up in a sharp flash of light.

"What a strange couple," Ling pondered of the Teacher and his assistant, "are they lovers?"

Most likely, yes, but today, thanks to their appearance, Ling suddenly realized where to go next. He sipped some coffee and focused on the starry sky.

The couple had awakened long-slumbering desires in him. It is not for nothing that sexual energy is believed to be very strong and closely linked to creativity.

For a moment Ling remembered and experienced again Teacher's touch and his hot breath.

His heart gave a thumping sound inside, throbbing out of its steady rhythm. Ling rubbed his chest and coughed. He wished it hadn't been the Teacher's hands, but Cal's.

The next morning he was summoned to see the headTeacher of the Academy. Sitting in the waiting room, Ling didn't know what to expect. Maybe the Teacher had said he wanted his painting. But... Could the Academy take away his work? The door opened and Ling saw a friendly round face.

"Darling, such news! You're very lucky," the headTeacher poured out.

"Excuse me, what are you talking about?" Ling did not understand.

"Ah, Bai, this is the first time in our history that the Teacher wants to give someone private lessons. You must have impressed him! Tell me, how did you do it?!"

Ling was slowly coming to his senses. He understood what the principal was talking about and no, he was against private lessons from the word "at all", but how could he refuse?

He thanked the principal with mixed feelings and left the office. The day went on as usual and his first private lesson began at four.

Ling took his seat in the auditorium and was a little nervous.

The Teacher entered the room, followed by Cal as his shadow slipped in. Both wore white loose shirts and pants that made them look like monks.

Before they could say hello to Ling, the Teacher turned abruptly to Cal and pulled him to him, and kissed him passionately. The blood rushed to Lyn's head.

Taking out his sketchbook, he sketched out this frank scene with a simple pencil and tried to sketch out all the details. At the same time, Ling realized that drawing them helped him shut himself off from what was happening by hiding behind the canvas.

Meanwhile, the kissing had turned into a furious onslaught. Cal pressed Teacher against the wall and put his thigh between his legs.

"How aesthetically pleasing," thought Ling and made another sketch. Finishing his quick sketch, he heard footsteps. Once again his arms were around him.

"Did you have time to sketch?" His Teacher came up suddenly and he seemed to know exactly what Ling was doing.

All he had to do was nod.

"Finish your work before tomorrow and use your imagination to change the setting as you did earlier."

The Teacher swiped at the edge of Ling's scarlet ear and then bit down on it rather painfully.

"I'll check your work tomorrow," he whispered.

Ling sat without moving for another half hour. He had just finished the most eccentric and shortest class of his life.

Hurriedly packing his things, he rushed home. Without dinner, he set to work. The first to emerge was a drawing of them kissing.

Depicting the men hovering in the sky amidst golden and lilac clouds, he gave the subject lightness and spirituality. It was as if a kiss lifted them into the sky.

The second drawing was dark. He depicted them in a gloomy cave. The Teacher clutched a candle in his hand, its glow catching the grim demon that had attacked him out of the darkness.

The men's ambivalent posture spoke of, barely contained desire. As if virtue were battling sin, their white and black robes set the accents of the story.

Ling painted without stopping and didn't finish until ten in the morning. He barely wiped his brushes and hands as he collapsed right on the recliner in front and fell into a dead sleep. Let the world wait.