not what you think

x: n-1

"Hang this frame on the le- no right!", a profound voiced male squalls at the almost tripping worker from the acuteness of his voice.

"Namjoon hyung, it's okay. Don't get too worked up, as long as the painting gets hanged," Taehyung voices, cognizant of the other male being enervated due to pondering over the potential artisans furnishing the place. The place where Taehyung stowed all his vocation and passion in. He takes in a good view of a near edifice, a bantam smile gliding its way to his lips.

His very own gallery, after years of rumination over the fantasy his younger mind would mold every solar day since his elfin hand was handed a paintbrush and a canvas.

The time where his grabby hands would outreach for the brush his sister held while forging her own ingenuity, leading to the decrepitude of the fine arts she had toiled over, in soundlessness.

To augment into late childhood when he was enlightened of his candid enticement towards the canisters replenished in liquid tinctures and a wooden wand, save for having a bristle on its summit.

Although the brush wasn't blotted with wizardry, it felt nothing less than so in his hands. It has given him the essence of a spellbinding outlook. Where nothing felt inane.

Where everything felt peerless. Only him, the hues and the brush.

He misses his partner, who nourished him with the nook and cranny of such specialty, yet knows she would be proud of him, if she was at his hand.

"Taehyung? Earth to Taehyung," Namjoon flails his hands at the nose of his visual.

Taehyung spaces into reality, fluttering his lids briskly, a pleat appearing on his double lid in apprehension. Standing in the heart of the building, whisked away in musings of appreciably far reminisce.

"Sorry hyung, I spaced out," the younger one says.

"That's okay, I was just asking where do you want to put that painting," Namjoon voices out, motioning to the left, where the picture lay aslant below his work based on Impressionism, the one which took an expedition to Monet's Sunrise, an art of his choice.

Taehyung's visuals, on the double, morphs into one of abashed, with a trace of melancholia.

The picture of a lady, enacting pirouettes to a melody in dance, albeit cognizant to its artist. The tip of the toes upholding her body, clad in a cerulean classical tutu. The incandescence emanating from her rear through a window, prodding the almost sheer lavender curtains, sunbeams aslant on her petite feet. The tan skin and plum tresses unfurled, disentangled in grace.

Taehyung reflects on why he still has the painting.

Probably because it's a reticent memoir, the irony that is her who followed right after he drew it. Such semblance she holds with the one inked by him.

He's still clutching onto the residuum, the evocations of his time with her. His mind and heart muddled up amidst two contrary presumptions of the femme fatale. One where she's surmised as his angel from the sky, and one where she's the source of his insensate state.

"I'll keep it at home," Taehyung murmurs, "Or probably just burn it after I'm done hanging these up," tipping his chin at the eleven other paintings, workers huddling around to cite their allotted ones.

"Are you sure? I remember you being really happy with this drawing. Besides, among the lot of sceneries you have drawn, this one will really stand out since you don't draw portraits often," Namjoon propounds.

Taehyung broods for less than a minute to give an answer, "I'll keep it," he voices out, "I'll hang it but not until I open the second floor with more paintings of mine."