▽:museum

@wu yifan ;

Despite his former irritation at the manager of the museum, Yixing managed to somewhat brush it off as he carefully watched the movements of the other man. He shifted, where he was standing, adjusting his weight onto his left leg, and crossing him arms over his chest. It wasn't exactly meant to have any meaning, the movement, it was just the briefing of Yixing's laziness to stand straight, regardless of his (amazing) posture. His eyes moved from the other man to the marble floor, hoping that the taller wouldn't make a snarky remark about staring being rude (not that Yixing was staring anyway; or at least he didn't think he was).

The dark haired male let his eyes wander; from the floor to the other paintings that were displayed in the room, just an evanescent glance as he awaited response from the other man whom he was speaking to. The slight movement of the other straightening up was caught in the reddish haired male's peripheral vision, and he couldn't help but bite back an amused grin. As he observed the other artworks though, he noticed they all has something aesthetically similar to one another, yet when he glanced back at his own painting, it was so different. Yixing pushed back the thought that even in his poison he was declared an outcast. Underrated, and outcast. Again, he hated it.

The man's words surprised Yixing, however. He wasn't so familiar with art? Sparing the other another glance, Yixing noted that he probably wasn't even here to look at the paintings. Perhaps, he was one of those people who couldn't bother with trivial things, because he was so busy. But, Yixing shouldn't be making silent assumptions. For someone who claimed to know little about art, he certainly expressed how he felt about it very well. He didn't use very many words, but it surpassed Yixing's expectations of what kind of response he was going to get. "Pictures don't move," Yixing nodded, "But they live in their own way. What you said doesn't sound weird at all, because that's probably close to what all artists hope for." Yixing paused, "An image that shows life through implied movement, and the tiniest details." He gestured to another painting, a random one, "But sometimes, one's aesthetics are too much for them to handle, and it turns into a mess. Maybe not to a normal viewer, but to another artist, the flaws are infinite." Yixing cratched the back of his neck and looked at the stranger, their eyes locking for a moment before Yixing flashed a light, somewhat sheepish smile, the indentts of his dimple barely showing, "But I'm not saying mine is perfect, I'm not that conceited."

@zhang yixing --

Kris heard the footsteps a moment too late before a voice overtook the quiet sounds, the blond turning his head ever so slightly to the side to eye the new arrival warily. He could detect an accent in the quiet timbre of his voice, for Kris had that very accent once a long time ago. In a single glance Kris could assess that the latter was not Korean, but rather, shared the same ethnicity. Kris grew wary, wondering if it was a casual reporter for some Chinese tabloid waiting to get dirt on the blond. It wouldn't be the first time.

He straightened up, lifting his chiseled chin high as his shoulder blades flexed backward, his chest poking out. His father had taught him to stand tall and proud, and Kris, actually quite obedient at the time, did so and carried on with this act well through his childhood and adolescence. His rowdy act of glorifying drinking and with women was really not him, but rather a desperate facade to get his daughter safely away from his parents whom he knew they'd use their 'special' ways to get ride of her. Kris wasn't necessarily afraid of his parents, in fact, he still possessed a deep-rooted love for the two who had raised him into the proper man he was today, but reputation was higher than love, it seemed.

"I know not much of art..." He confessed quietly, shifting his feet so they were aligned together, straightening out the creases in his dark jeans as well as the column of buttons descending down his white button down shirt, designer brand sun glasses hanging from the v of his shirt. "But there's something completely different about this picture compared to the others." He noted, looking at the still image once more. "The picture itself doesn't move, but it feels like it's /living/, breathing, you know?" He asked, looking at the other man before ceasing his speaking. The stranger was quite good-looking, a pleasant change from the overweight slobs that gave up trying to chase his black Mercedes for a candid picture. Kris had probably just sounded like a crazy man who was hallucinating. 'Way to go.' He thought wryly to himself before giving a small, wan smile. "My apologies if that sounded strange." He said in an attempt to cover up his humiliation.

@wu yifan ;

Zhang Yixing, as someone who balanced two careers, was never really someone who was easy to talk to. People found him too quiet, when he wasn't dancing his life out of the lithe corpse he called his body. Yet, people criticized him for being way too absorbed into what he did, while he d extravagant shades of simple colors onto a blank canvas to make it as expressive and enticing as an artist could. But, not everything was actually easy to be recognized as great, amazing, or even nice; Yixing needed something else to stabilize his economic income because of his underrated status. He was a professional dancer during the majority of his time, because that took so much of his energy, yet his main profession was the artistic expression onto paintings. The reddish-brown haired male strived on his creativity; whether from bristle to canvas, or from the slavery of his body to movements that an audience viewed as dancing (and yes, it was dancing, just to someone who danced so much, it sometimes felt like a chore; but in contradiction, you couldn't get bored of your passion). But there were things that you couldn't achieve no matter how hard one tried, and it would be tormenting, because no one else really understood that feeling. A freelance dreamer; that described Zhang Yixing better than someone who had been with him all his life could ever do. He was rather mysterious, and he guarded himself well. And he expressed those unattainable goals through drawing them out on a board of white weaved material.

Yixing scoffed as he walked down the hallways of the museum, recalling what the manager had told him. Apparently talent was rare, and he had it, but his latest piece was just not good enough. He swore that manager didn't know , or have an appreciation for art, but was just in it for the money people paid to see the artwork. It was rashly judgmental for the dark haired male to make such an assumption, but if anyone actually heard it they would call him envious of the people who had their work displayed. His he was envious, he was more irritated that a manager who couldn't tell a tawny shade from a sun kissed orange was the one who called the final sort for if a piece of art was to be put on display. He hated it.

Yixing pushed his hair back, and sighed to himself. He should just get over it, he told himself, yet it didn't stop him from feeling so pissed off that he would rip those wispy strands of hair on the manager's head off, and then slice him to thin pieces, making the final touch of running the pieces through a paper shredder; maybe he would paint a gruesome image with the man's blood as well. Yixing laughed softly to himself, earning a couple stares from the very few people who were around the area; everyone seemed to be there for the sculpture revelation anyways. Yixing wasn't psychotic, he just really didn't like that manager, but this was the only museum in the city, and he had to stay for his entertainment label's purpose.

Soft footsteps sounding through the open space of the painting display area, disrupting the silence, Yixing noticed someone else was there. He decided against interrupting their moment of staring at the paintings, and was caught in slight surprise when said stranger halted his movements in front of his own work. He moved closer, yet quietly analyzing the tall man's actions. He was well dressed (not that Yixing wasn't), and when he hung his head dejectedly, Yixing spoke up, his presence completely unannounced beforehand, "People can't seem to bring themselves to appreciate decent art nowadays," he remarked, "Most modern art is , and is anything but captivating." He turned slightly, "Is there something upsetting about this piece that makes you shift in such displeasure?" Never once did he voice the claim that the work was his; and neither did he hint at it in any way. Yet there was that softened glance of pride as he looked at the piece he finally got displayed in the museum.

@zhang yixing Kris, despite his mother's forte being 'artistic', but in a different fashion (literally), had never really gotten to really look at paintings, photography, sculptures and the like during his younger years while in China. He never had the time, whether it be etiquette classes, supervised study during home school that ran for ten hours every day of the week, or some sort of sport that made him far too exhausted to leave the mansion. But he decided to come out to the museum tonight, hearing that his friend was unveiling some sort of momentous statue of some kind, but somewhere along the way Kris had lost his way and ended up in the paintings area of the museum, marveling at how gentle yet pressured of color was that was the base of such breath-taking images. He was sure he hadn't seen such shades and hues of such basic colors before, wondering just how in the world artists were able to create constant shades throughout weaving such masterpieces.

He paused before a rather outstanding piece that piqued his interest, the tall man standing and staring in awe at the marvelous landscape. Pictures were still, but although nothing physically moved, Kris could see the rolling breezes that gently caressed the grass blades, making them whisper into the night of the pleasantly mild midnight. The moon, full and so detailed that he was sure there were craters in the bright orb, was captivating in itself as stars peppered the black silk of the sky.

Perhaps it was because he wasn't a museum-goer and not necessarily an artsy person (because people made fun of his drawings and once his daughter cried when she saw his sketch of a koala) and just about every canvas struck him with awe, but he could tell that this particular frame was something entirely underrated because he was drawn to it and couldn't make his feet move despite hearing claps from the next room, Kris realizing his friend's work had been exposed and he had missed it. This was just a simple painting, but why was it so captivating? It seemed so lifelike, yet was tinged with a hint of surrealism.

Kris came to the realization that he wanted this. Not this piece in particular, perhaps, but this art, this talent, oh, how beautiful this person could portray his perfect baby, he longed to see it happen. Though he didn't bother looking at the name tag or the hasty description on the piece because the artist was most likely dead and from what Kris has heard, modern art was compared to the historical pieces of the past. He sighed, hanging his head dejectedly, oblivious to the quiet shuffle footsteps not far from him.

@jin meixin Chanyeol chuckled and kept himself calm as he watched her release a couple anger-tinged words. Shaking his head, Chanyeol stepped in front of her this time and bent down so that he was level with her height. "A little burnt, are we?" He teased, giving the girl a half-smirk, but nonetheless, one he was giving with a little bit of mockery. "I suggest you get a bottle of water to cool that 'smoking angry' part of you all the down," he retorted, adding quotation marks around "smoking angry" with his fingers. He stood up straight and crossed his arms, looking around at the crowd in the museum. Hopefully nobody really had noticed them.

@park chanyeol Mei Xin's eyes widened with his assault, making her reflexively swat his hand away from her hair. A girl's hair shouldn't be touched JUST by anyone, especially those who make her scalp prickle. "At least not for you." She hissed back at his insult. That was a ing first that someone told her that. It was her job to be 'spicy', as what his term is. She was a model and an owner of a lingerie boutique for heaven's sake! "I'm not spicy, but smoking angry to be exact." Her eyes flickered in hatred. She wasn't really the type to easily lose her temper. I mean, it was just a push earlier, wasn't it? But this guy, he is something. Like he just naturally annoy her with his arrogant aura.

@jin meixin Chanyeol listened to her snappy remark and lifted his eyebrow again at her words. "Class-A bastard?" He repeated, tossing the sliver of paper aside in the nearest trash bin. The game could wait if someone had finally ticked him off. "That's a first. Usually, I'm paid to be the winning and last man laughing," he retorted, taking a few slow and confident steps towards her. Eyeing her up and down, he walked around her in a circle before scoffing and standing behind her. "You're not so spicy yourself," he hissed, lifting a lock of her hair and dropping it gingerly from his fingertips.

"As if you meant it." Mei Xin muttered in gritted teeth, scoffing slightly later on with crossed arms. Boredom was enough to make her temorer slowly go down, but this guy acting arrogant was enough to drop it lower than ever. How dare he raise a brow at her, a sign that he was the one who looked more irritated at the situation at her. She eyed at gim from head to toe in scrutiny. "Oh, nothing really. I just wanted to let you know that you are a class-A bastard." She tossed her hair to the side, quite a y manner. "That is, if no one yet has told that to you."

@jin meixin Of course, it was just his luck. "Hey! Watch where you're going!" He heard the shrill words of a woman and rolled his eyes as his day just seemed to get worse and worse. Growling, he his heel gingerly to get a good look at her face. "I apologized, didn't I, miss?" He growled, lifting an eyebrow as he spoke, rooted the spot. He would be late for a paid win, and that meant less money to land in his prized bank account. "Now is there anything else you want me to say?" He spoke, a hint of sarcasm and unfriendliness evident in his voice.

Good thing there were people everywhere or else she could have stumbled down or fall or whatever that will make her slump on the cold tiled floor. She glanced who it was and thanks to his mumbling, she was able to recognize a bit of the guy's features. "Hey! Watch where you're going!" She said, trying her best not to shout but still making sure he heard her enough.

@jin meixin A museum of all places? That's where his wandering feet and the address given to him on a sliver of paper had led him to? Was it even possible to really be able to play a game in this public place? Sighing and ruffling his hair, he slipped past a crowd of people and began making his way to the back room of the first basement floor as he had been instructed. Quite to his surprise, the place was rather crowded on the lobby floor. Grumbling, he weaved in and out of people, but did not pass through smoothly. His shoulder brushed against the shoulder of another individual, a complete stranger. "Sorry". He merely grumbled and moved on towards the elevator that seemed so far out of reach. Chanyeol, for the first time in ages, didn't feel the need to sincerely apologize for a mistake on his part.

Mei Xin didn't know exactly why she was looking at the paintings in the art gallery section of the museum. Why was she here at some home of heritage building in the first place? Nevertheless, she still took her time to at least try to appreciate these kinds of stuff, and hoped someone there might recognize her and perceive her being someone with high intelligence, at least that's what she thinks about people visiting here. After a couple of minutes, she let out a soft yawn, totally getting bored at the place. Is there something else she can do at the museum that involves fun?