CHAPTER 2: UNWANTED COLLABORATION

Chapter 2: Unwanted Collaboration

Arthit stormed out of the common room, the echoes of Kongpob's irritatingly confident voice ringing in his ears. "Ivory tower," he scoffed to himself, kicking at a stray pebble on the pavement. The audacity! He, who spent countless sleepless nights perfecting every line, every curve, every shadow in his designs, to be accused of being out of touch. It was preposterous. He quickened his pace, needing to put as much distance as possible between himself and the infuriating Marketing major.

He sought refuge in the quiet solitude of the Architecture faculty’s model workshop, a place usually filled with the scent of sawdust and the hum of miniature saws. Today, however, it was empty. He threw his bag onto a workbench and pulled out his sketchpad, determined to lose himself in his work. He needed to prove Kongpob wrong, not just to Kongpob, but to himself. His designs weren't just "dusty old paintings"; they were living representations of culture, history, and innovation.

He began to sketch furiously, trying to channel his anger into precision. He focused on the intricate details of a traditional Thai roofline, the elegant sweep of its gables. But every time he tried to visualize the finished space, Kongpob’s smug face intruded, flashing that infuriating smirk.

"Damn him," Arthit muttered, erasing a line with unnecessary force.

Just as he was about to rip out the offending page, the workshop door creaked open. Arthit didn't even look up, assuming it was one of his classmates. "I'm busy," he grumbled, not bothering to soften his tone.

"Busy sulking, P'Arthit?" a familiar, unwelcome voice responded.

Arthit's head snapped up. There, leaning against the doorframe with an annoyingly casual posture, was Kongpob. He held a thick stack of papers in one hand, and a slightly bewildered expression on his face.

"What do you want?" Arthit demanded, his voice sharp. "Don't you have a flash mob to organize?"

Kongpob pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly into the workshop, his eyes sweeping over the various architectural models and drawings scattered around. "Believe it or not, P'Arthit, I have other responsibilities too. Like, for instance, coordinating with the other faculties." He held up the papers. "These are the preliminary marketing strategies for each faculty's exhibition. And," he paused, fixing Arthit with a look that was less challenging and more… resigned, "I've been assigned as the liaison for the Architecture faculty."

Arthit stared at him, dumbfounded. "You? Our liaison?" He burst out laughing, a short, bitter sound. "They must be joking. You wouldn't know genuine art if it hit you in the face."

"And you wouldn't know how to sell it if your life depended on it," Kongpob retorted without missing a beat, though his smirk was noticeably absent now. "Look, I didn't ask for this. I'd rather be planning a beach party than discussing historical preservation techniques with someone who clearly thinks I'm a barbarian." He shrugged, a slight weariness in his eyes that Arthit hadn't noticed before. "But orders are orders. Our Dean thinks that a fresh perspective from Marketing could help bridge the gap between our 'traditional' faculty and the 'modern' audience."

Arthit felt a cold dread creep up his spine. This was a nightmare. He was stuck with Kongpob. For weeks. Potentially months.

"So," Kongpob continued, oblivious or perhaps deliberately ignoring Arthit's internal turmoil, "I need to understand your faculty's vision for the festival. Your main exhibition pieces, the themes, the target demographic…" He gestured around the workshop. "And, from what I can tell, you seem to be leading the main design efforts for this faculty."

Arthit crossed his arms, his jaw clenched. "And what if I refuse to cooperate?"

Kongpob sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Then I go to your Dean and explain that the head architect of the main exhibit is deliberately sabotaging the faculty's collaboration efforts. Which, I'm sure, would look great on your academic record." He gave Arthit a pointed look. "Besides, P'Arthit, whether you like it or not, our faculties are intertwined for this festival. We both want it to be a success, don't we? Or do you want your meticulously crafted designs to be admired by an empty hall?"

That last question hit a nerve. Arthit envisioned his beautiful, painstaking work being presented to a handful of polite, but ultimately unenthusiastic, attendees. Kongpob, for all his infuriating ideas, did have a point about reaching an audience.

Arthit exhaled slowly, the anger still simmering but now mixed with a heavy dose of reluctant practicality. He couldn't risk his faculty's success, or his own reputation, just because he couldn't stand Kongpob.

"Fine," Arthit said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "But don't expect me to like it."

Kongpob offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I wouldn't dream of it, P'Arthit. Now, tell me about your 'dusty old paintings.' Preferably, starting with something I can actually understand."

Arthit resisted the urge to throw his sketchpad at Kongpob's head. This was going to be a very, very long festival.

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