The painter tries not to blush in embarrassment when the other jumps up in shock, whipping his head around with wide, frightened eyes, pupils dilated, hands reaching instinctively for the thick cloth of the curtain to curl around his rather small frame. Chanyeol’s so busy bowing, hat clasped in hand, apologising profusely to the huddled figure that he doesn’t notice the way the curtain is quickly tossed aside when he speaks his own name, doesn’t notice the other taking quick steps towards him until he feels cold, soft, trembling fingers brushing lightly against his left cheek. He trails off, stuttering as he feels a peculiar tingle under his skin where the other’s fingers previously were, unaccustomed to that kind of touch, or any physical contact at all, and as he raises his own brown eyes to meet raven black ones, he finds the other staring back intensely with an expression he can only describe as absolute fascination.