MUSE | Taeyong

Part 12: Rooftop Dinner

   "Congratulations on your piece, Taeyong. I'm honored to have been part of the creative process," you smile shyly at him behind your wine glass.

The pair of you were sharing a nice dinner on the expansive balcony of his apartment in celebration of his grand success. The New York skyline was set against a haze of sunlight and dusk, a truly beautiful sight to consume along with the seafood noodles Taeyong had whipped up. It seemed that along with being a marvelous painter, he was a marvelous cook as well. Another facet in the gem that was Lee Taeyong.

"I couldn't have done it without you, of course. You're my muse now," he chuckles as he wipes his mouth with a napkin.

You exhale heavily and stare into the contents of your wine glass. You sloshed the red liquid around, and it stained the sides of the cup momentarily before disappearing. You remember what your father had told you; if the wine stains the side of the glass, you know that it is a good vintage. Of course, Lee Taeyong would have the best.

"What's the matter, y/n? Does something not agree with you? I can always make something else if you'd like—"

"No, no, it's quite alright. It's fantastic actually. It's just some thoughts that are buzzing around in my head," you wave off.

"Would you mind sharing?" Taeyong prods.

You smile bittersweetly at him.

"I'm actually quite jealous of you, you know."

You push out from your seat, the soft satin of your evening dress brushing against your thighs like the caress of a lover when you walked towards the railing.

"What?"

"Jealous, Taeyong. Jealous. Like the green-eyed monster," you reply, resting your elbows against the railing and staring at the skyline.

"Explain."

You hear the clink of a glass being set down upon a table and him getting up.

"You were able to take the risk to pursue your dreams. I... was too cowardly."

"What are your dreams, y/n?" Taeyong whispers into the breeze.

"Sculpting," you laugh bitterly.

"My father— he was a doctor, you know — absolutely abhorred the idea of the fine arts. A very left-minded man, if you will. When he saw paintings or sculptures, he always scoffed at them. "How are these worth 1 million?" he said, "I wouldn't pay a cent for these works of kindergarten art!". As you can imagine, it didn't endear him to the owners of the local art gallery. However I... I was his complete opposite. When I first got my hands on Play-doh... god. I wasn't able to be separated from it! My mother told me I always cried when the can was taken away from me. Then I discovered clay and stone and so many other things to make my imagination become reality."

"Of course, Dad knew of my hobby, but never considered it more than what he thought it was; merely a hobby. He expected me to put down my chisels in favor of books and math problems. I never wanted to." You look down at your hands momentarily, which were tapping a random beat against the railing.

"When it came time to decide a career, I mustered up my courage and told him I wanted to be an artist. He took one look at me and laughed. "Stop joking, sweetheart. A career like engineering or IT would suit you better." I... was devastated. But, surprisingly, he brought up the idea of being an architect. I agreed immediately, knowing it would bring me to Parson's, the school I dreamed of attending ever since I knew what college was."

You laughed again, bitterly, the sound being absorbed in the night air. "It's torture here, really; I don't know why I continue to tantalize myself with what I have wanted since I was 5, but am never really able to have. Call me sadistic, I guess."

You can feel his heavy gaze on your back as you stare stoically off into the distance. He steps closer and closer until you can smell his musky cologne and aftershave. His hands wrap around your waist and bury his head in your hair.

He didn't say anything.

You appreciated that.