Chapter Text
TAEHYUNG
"Merde!"
I suck in a frustrated breath, pulling my good hand away from the gas stove, and I rush to the sink, flipping on the tap. A mini waterfall streams over my singed skin. Tears threaten to prick behind my eyes from the sharp pain, but I force it down, clenching my teeth as the lukewarm liquid soothes the burn.
At my feet, Yeontan, my teacup Pomeranian, looks up at me. Confusion set in his dark brown eyes. I heard the change in my voice, too. Loud and sudden. And I can hear my own breathing in the silence that follows--- rough and shallow.
I'd like to blame the poorly made appliances for my accident, but it was just me getting lost in my own thoughts. Even now, as I watch the nozzle pour water that splits apart across my fingers, I start to drift away, lost somewhere in the far corners of my mind. Somewhere I don't feel the pain. Somewhere no one feels pain.
Shaking my head, I turn off the faucet, sighing as I glance around my grandma's one-bedroom apartment. Behind the paper thin walls, I can hear her breathing. There's a new sound every time she inhales, a faint stuttering in her lungs. She tries to sleep, but her raspy coughs wake her and make her more restless.
Last year, I would have called this a common cold, because my grandma rarely gets sick and because coming in contact with someone didn't automatically put them in quarantine.
Now, in 2020, I'm unwilling to keep up with the latest news of COVID-19. I'm unwilling to even think about it.
She doesn't have a fever that extreme. There's nothing to worry about.
I can't even convince myself.
"Tae-Tae," I hear a faint call.
A tightness in my own chest threatens to cut off my lungs, and I swipe invisible dust off my baggy jeans before taking a small pitcher of water. I make my way to my grandma's room, stopping at the foot of her bed.
The curtains to the sliding glass door are drawn back, revealing the midday sun. Grandma stirs in bed, blinking in the sunlight. She frowns at me and sits up, then rubs a hand down her face. "Why did I hear you cursing just now?"
I listen to her voice carefully, analyzing her tone, but there's no sign of any difficulty breathing. Maybe I imagined it. "I burned my hand." I move to the nightstand and take the empty glass cup. "I wanted to make you dinner." I pour a cup and carry it to her, but her attention directs to my right hand.
Her expression turns serious as she reaches out to hold my hands. "Are you okay? Did you hurt the bad one?"
The words are said with concern, but they stab me like a knife. The bad one is my right hand, permanently crumbled and only useful once in a blue moon. While it's not convenient, I still have this loose limb attached to me; and getting it surgically removed isn't an option. I'd rather spend the money on medicine for grandma.
The people in Rue Pigalle don't make it any better, either. We're Koreans even though my grandma moved to France sixteen years ago, but because of our slanted eyes, we're guilty by association of the newest pandemic that happened to be brought by an Asian. Grandma's the town outcast, having little friends of her own, and I'm... differently built. With everything going wrong as it stands, shunning us is only fair.
But the city draws me back in. More specifically, it's art.
I can't even count how many times I've dreamed of exploring the Louvre Museum and disappearing into the labyrinth of halls. The videos posted to YouTube only show so much, and the quality is only so good. And in my most ideal fantasies, I'd picture my own art hung on an art gallery's wall.
Of course, that's like putting a child's drawing on the refrigerator next to the Mona Lisa.
I lock away my wishes and draw back. "I'll pick up something from work. It'll be cold, but we can warm it up in the oven. Yeontan has already been out, so you don't have to worry about that. He'll be a good watchdog while I'm gone. And if you don't feel good, I left my number and the cafe's number on the nightstand there---"
"Tae-Tae." Her voice is soft, making my heart pinch. Tae-Tae is a nickname my grandma gave me when I was too young to say my full name, so I shortened it myself. And it's stuck after all these years.
I stare into her brown eyes, rounded and paired with long lashes, identical to mine. "Yes?"
"Don't get yourself hurt for me." Her voice is quiet, a bit rough around the edges. "You're already vulnerable. I don't want to see you working your way into the ground on my account."
A sense of failure drips from the knot lodged in my throat and cascades down my insides. I tighten my jaw, not wanting to show my struggle in front of grandma.
It's been an unspoken rule that my job is to be strong for her.
But damn it's hard sometimes. Especially when she sees my disadvantage before anything else.
She's right that I'm vulnerable, but having cerebral palsy doesn't mean I'm broken.
The idea of making dinner suddenly feels like a challenge, so I quietly move to my small bedroom and spot an empty canvas propped up against my mural wall I painted last week. Some of the paint has chipped from when I underestimated it was dry, but patching that up can come later.
For now, I indulge myself and move the canvas to the barstool countertops and spend the next three hours deeply immersed in my collage.
I haven't decided what medium I prefer to work in consistently. Sometimes I paint, and sometimes I craft objects the require insane hours and immense concentration. I'm well aware that this is a horrible way to profit via art---you cannot work on a tiny beaded bracelet for two hundred hours and expect everyone to clamor for it. But I'm addicted to the torturous repetition.
Occasionally, I'll take scraps of fabric left behind and sew up something quick, like a pair of gloves or a hat. I wouldn't consider that my best work---I sew only when I'm running low and need something to combat the fast-approaching seasons, a changing thing that always creeps up on me when I least expect it.
With all of these options and no label for myself, it makes me feel amateurish as an artist. As if I'm a child coloring on the walls; nothing is inside the lines and everything is randomly made. It's also incredibly impossible to start over on a blank space.
Other times I think about how I've poured every remaining cent I had into raw materials and how almost all my free hours consisted of art, and then I wonder what my life would be if I was smart enough to save up on a different hobby. Would I still be able to call myself an artist? Would my life still have meaning?
I ponder these thoughts for a while, letting them drift in and out of my head like guests at an open house. But soon after I've been working long enough, I'm back to a focused mindset. I don't think about my propelling worries that seem to lurk right under my feet, ready to drag me back to reality. I don't think about how I don't have enough shifts lined up to make my next rent payment, or to help pay Grandma's rent.
All those buzzing thoughts melt away like wet cotton candy, and all my other senses are quieted. I don't pay attention to the dry coughs coming from Grandma's room or the irregular stomping of tenants getting home late. I'm no longer bothered by the eeriness of hearing no rush of traffic outside the window.
I listen to music on my headphones while sinking into a state of total calmness and perfect concentration. Nothing can upset me here. I'm my truest self. Alone and free.
That is, I think I'm alone until I feel someone breathing down my neck.
"Let me guess," someone says behind my back, "this is your excuse for being too busy to pick up your phone."
I turn around, slide my headphones off my ears, and find Jimin beaming, eyes sparkling with a secret. Despite the angelic softness to his face, his grin under his yellow COVID-19 mask suggests very devilish thoughts; something a lot of people tend to overlook. "How did you get in without Yeontan seeing you?"
"No, he saw me. He just chose to let me in." Jimin takes two fingers to his covered lips and blows a kiss to my lazy guard dog. "And you should find a better spot for your spare key. But that's beside the point. Get dressed right now."
I check the time on my phone. It's nearly midnight. "Why so late?"
"Because good art shows don't start at the crack of dawn, dumbass," Jimin says as he lightly pushes the canvas out of my reach. When I answer with a frown, he sighs. "Come on. I saw you at work this morning. You need a break."
"And you need a drinking partner?"
"Yes, please! Now hurry up!"
My stomach growls, reminding me that all I've eaten so far was a croissant. If this art show is like the ones Jimin has dragged me to before, then I can count on a decent catering service. Parties and shows subsidize half my grocery budget.
I don't have time to change clothes, or rather, I don't have any change of clothes. But that's fine. At an art event, everyone is dressed eccentrically; you never feel out of place. Still, I dig out a leopard print cardigan, wrinkled and smelling of Yeontan's fur and put on my face mask.
When I pass Grandma's room, I pause just for a moment to see her already fast asleep. My head turns back to Yeontan, who's stretching his tiny legs and trotting past me to leap on Grandma's bed. That makes me feel slightly better.
Together Jimin and I hop on the Metro to the gallery. I'm surprised the health codes are approving this event, seeing as we're still under a quarantined watch, until I spot the combed-through crowd. Under everyone's shoes is a blue dot, indicating their own space. Light music plays in the background and drinks are passed around with gloved hands.
Every blue dot is placed in front of an art piece, so everyone attending will have a moment to view someone's art. It's meant to keep social distancing, but I see it as a courteous act that should have been done long ago for struggling artists like myself---a chance to be seen.
"I also have some news," Jimin says as we approach the entrance. "Do you remember that guy I was telling you about? The quiet one with sexy-brooding vibes?" He chuckles under his mask, and when we get to the security guard scanning tickets, Jimin reaches into his pocket and grabs two VIP guest passes.
"The judges son?" I say as we cross into the open space of artists. "Really, Jimin?"
"He invited me." Jimin whispers proudly, giving my a hidden prod with his elbow. "And I asked him nicely if I could invite my best friend with me since you were going to school to be an artist."
I squint my eyes, trying to make sense of his logic. "No, I'm not."
"He doesn't need to know that," Jimin hisses.
"Know what?" asks a gruff male voice.
Both Jimin and I spin around to find a decently attractive man with porcelain skin, dark black hair that's long enough to reach the top of his shoulders, and a distant stare set in his triangular eyes, like he'd pay to be anywhere but here. He wears a black tuxedo with a matching black face mask that has a printed smile. Ironic.
"Oh, hey!" Jimin chirps. "We just got in. Thanks for inviting us again."
I glance between the smiling shorty and back to the grumpy tired man and hum my approval. It doesn't surprise me in the least to know Jimin's charming personality hooked a man who's piercing eyes would soften at the sight of him.
"What's your name?" the man asks me. "I haven't seen you around before. You're the one studying the arts, yeah?"
Behind him, Jimin flashes me a pleading look, which leaves me no choice. "Yeah. I'm Kim Taehyung."
"Min Yoongi." He holds out his hand, then retracts it.
For a moment, I tense, wondering if he saw my bad hand and had second thoughts until he says, "Sorry, I almost forgot the whole five-feet-apart rule."
Jimin doesn't notice, probably because he's planning on how to spend time with his newfound crush. "You offered me a tour of this place, remember?" Jimin glances up at Yoongi from under his long lashes. "We should hurry before the night's over."
I take that as my cue. "I'll see you guys later. I want to look at some of the art."
I slip away from the pair and take my time on the blue dots, circling around every art piece until something hits me. Something in the form of a life-sized marble statue with a placard reading Golden Maknae.
It's of a young man sitting with his knees drawn to his chest, peeking out of a golden egg. His eyes are wide and full of wonder, yet his head is tilted down, as if he's too timid to explore. His body is carved of marble, but the pupils of his eyes match the stylized golden hue of the egg that forms around his lower half. I stand in awe of this beautiful, raw thing that hits me like an arrow to the chest, filling me with a helpless sense of longing.
I wonder if I'll ever create anything like this.