Chapter Text
The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and you—beside—
The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As sponges—Buckets—do—
The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—
Emily Dickinson, c. 1862
It was 6 in the morning, and one of his paintings was being sold for 2 million yuan. His phone was ringing. Shen Yuan groggily picked it up from his nightstand and rechecked the time. It was 6 am. 6:17, to be exact, and his phone was still ringing. He should probably pick it up. Looking at the caller ID, Shen Yuan noted that it was his dealer and sighed.
His painting was being sold for 2 million yuan, but it was 6 in the morning.
“Yes, hello.” Shen Yuan said exasperatedly, “I got your message the first three times. I know my painting is being sold, but can we discuss this at a more reasonable time?”
His dealer spluttered, “Shen Yuan—The painting, ‘Dusk in Shanghai’—2 million—”
“Yes, yes. It’s being sold for 2 million yuan. I know that. Thank you for informing me,” Shen Yuan said sarcastically.
“Not yuan,” his dealer whimpered.
“What?”
“Not yuan,” repeated his dealer faintly, “Dollars. Your painting just sold for 2 million dollars.”
Shen Yuan did some quick calculations in his head. That was around 12 million yuan.
“Hmmm,” he hummed thoughtfully.
“Is that all you can say?!” Yelled his dealer. She seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown. Shen Yuan sighed.
“Come on, Angela, take deep breaths with me,” Shen Yuan instructed, “In four counts… and out four counts…”
An old hand at placating his nervous agent, Shen Yuan allowed his mind to drift as he thought about the money he would soon get.
Obviously, he wouldn’t be getting all of it. Some of it would go to Angela Choi, his agent and art dealer, some of it would go to the gallery his painting had been hosted in, and a lot of it would go to tax, but most of it (and he did some quick calculations in his head) would go to him—around 8 million yuan, most likely.
As the third son of a rich family, Shen Yuan really didn’t want for anything. He was sickly as a child, and frail still as an adult, but his health was as good as it was going to get and all of his medications were but a drop in the lake of his parents’ fortune. They even let him live rent-free in their high-end, high-rise condo building.
Shen Yuan didn’t need the 8 million.
“Are you okay now?” He asked Angela, noting the lack of hyperventilating on the other end of the line.
“Yes,” Angela sniffled.
“Well, you know the drill. Half of that will be going to—”
“The children’s hospital and the foundation for cancer research, yes,” Angela said, a little bit more in control of herself now.
Despite himself, Shen Yuan smiled, “Thank you, Angela.” He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. 6:24. Shen Yuan felt a deep dissatisfaction in his soul. He sighed again. Deeply. It was too fucking early for this. “If that’s all?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then goodbye, Angela. Let’s talk at a more reasonable hour.”
Shen Yuan hung up, turned over in his bed, and went back to sleep.
He woke up several hours later at around 10 AM. Shen Yuan checked his phone—there were messages from his family, congratulating him on his sold painting, several from Angela Choi, and a message from the buyer. He tapped that message open and read the English text with practiced ease.
Your painting is exquisite. It was worth every single penny.
Shen Yuan smiled to himself and dismissed his buyer’s message as pure flattery. Some people just didn’t know what to do with their money, he supposed. He sent a polite reply back, thanking the buyer for his patronage (he noted that this would be the buyer’s 3rd painting from him), got up out of bed with a groan, and started his day.
At around 11 AM, after Shen Yuan had eaten his breakfast, bathed, and replied to Angela’s and his family’s messages, Shen Yuan went to his art studio and started on his paints. He was currently working on a study of chiaroscuro—his latest painting, the one that just got sold, was the first in a line of 6 that he’s had planned. Shen Yuan patiently started mixing his paints, getting different shades of white and black lined up in a row on his palette, and then looked at his draft with a critical eye. The large, rough drawing of a pair of phoenix eyes stared back at him. It was his. With a tilt of his head and a small hum of dissatisfaction, Shen Yuan got up and took one of the decorative mirrors in his living room and positioned it next to his easel. With a quick glance, he would be able to compare his painting to the real thing. It would just be for reference, however. Shen Yuan detested the hyper-realism style, preferring to paint with a touch of romanticism, even transcendentalism, and knew that his eyes would look nicer on canvas than what the mirror showed. Still, he didn’t want to stray too far from reality. With a decisive nod of his head, Shen Yuan began his process and lost himself to his work.
He was roused when he heard his phone ringing in the background an indeterminable time later. With a small groan, Shen Yuan stretched and felt the crick in his neck do a little crack of protest. He winced and put his palette down, looking at his painting critically.
It was halfway finished. But this one, he decided, he would not sell. It was turning out to be too personal. And no one, he thought, would want a pair of eyes belonging to a stranger staring at them from inside a canvas. His mother, though, would probably like this piece. She had a tendency to showcase all of his personal paintings inside her house to any visitor and brag about her son.
Shen Yuan scoffed internally. What was there to be proud about of a reclusive shut-in? He was probably only saved from scorn in light of him being an artist. Apparently, it makes him eccentric, not weird. And eccentricity was a trait all “great” artists shared.
Shen Yuan put his paints down, carefully placing them away from sunlight and the draft from the air condition, and made his way to his phone.
It was still ringing, and it was Angela. Shen Yuan sighed.
“Yes, hello?”
”What took you so long to answer? I’ve been calling you since 3 PM!” Angela hissed.
Shen Yuan spared a quick glance at the time, it was 9:14 PM. Huh. He looked outside the windows and noted that nighttime had fallen. Since when did he turn on the lights in his studio? He should have noticed the change in the lighting and adjusted… but indeed, the lights in his studio were on. He didn’t even remember doing that. Huh.
“I’m sorry. I was working,” Shen Yuan replied serenely, “It’s supposed to be the second piece in the series.”
“Oh,” Angela said, sounding placated, “You were working on the second piece. Wait—” and here she started sounding alarmed again, “You’re not thinking of making this private again, are you?!”
Shen Yuan shrugged before realizing she couldn’t see him, “It’s a pair of eyes. My eyes, incidentally. I realized that it would be too personal to sell—”
Angela made a strangled-sounding noise that had Shen Yuan raising his brows. He gave her a moment to compose herself. When she did, she sounded desperate, “Shen Yuan. Do you know how much a self-portrait of you will sell on the market? You’ve had no interviews. No photographs taken—”
Shen Yuan was frowning, she was just reiterating his point. A self-portrait she called it. It was too personal.
“You realize you just made my point, right? A self-portrait is too personal.”
“But think of the money! And you’ve already announced 6 pieces for this line!” Angela wailed.
“So? It’s not unusual for me to withhold one or three paintings from a line,” Shen Yuan argued.
“Yes, which is also part of the reason why you’re so popular, something about exclusivity and mystique,” Angela mumbled, “But think of the waves this will cause, Shen Yuan!”
Shen Yuan really didn’t want to. He was already popular enough as it was, for some reason. His paintings sold for millions of yuan. Dusk in Shanghai, his latest painting, had sold for 12 million yuan. And he was only 22. He wasn’t even at the peak of his abilities, he could feel it. There was no need to rush.
And, even if he no longer painted a single painting for the rest of his life, he was covered by his parents’ money. Shen Yuan was set. He painted because he liked doing it. It was something to do. He was even thinking of going into pottery, to branch out. Something about the messy work enthralled him back in art school. He was thinking of going back into it.
Angela was still talking shop in the background, but Shen Yuan could feel himself getting hungry. He had not eaten anything in the past 8 hours.
“—and you missed your patrons, by the way. They wanted to have dinner with you in one of those fancy restaurants, and I kept calling you because they wanted to meet. It’s the least you could do, Shen Yuan—”
“Oh, did they? Pity,” Shen Yuan said absently, “I’ll have to contact them and send them my apologies, with the offer of a private viewing for my latest work. You’ll have to tell them beforehand that it’s not for sale, though.”
Angela seemed content with his words because she was calmer when she replied, “I’m sure they’ll love that. They’ll be in Shanghai for another week. When do you think your painting will be finished?”
“Hmmm. Maybe tomorrow,” Shen Yuan hedged, “I need to finish it before the paint dries. But after that, it will need time to dry, though, so… maybe tell them we can schedule a viewing in three days.”
“Three days. Great,” Angela said faintly.
“What?” Shen Yuan said, concerned by his agent’s wobbly voice.
“Nothing. It just amazes me how quickly you finish a piece, and it’s masterwork quality every single time,” Angela said.
Shen Yuan was thankful that he was just speaking to her through the phone. His thin face wouldn’t be able to handle it. He was blushing, he was sure.
“If that’s all, Angela,” he coughed, “I still haven’t eaten dinner…”
“Oh! Of course. I’ll tell your patrons for you.”
“I’ll send them a text as well,” Shen Yuan said then hung up.
When he did, Shen Yuan saw the 61 missed calls from Angela and twitched. He reminded himself that he actually tolerated working with her and slowly let go of the irrational urge to change dealers. Then he saw one missed call from his mother, one from his er ge and da ge, and one from his meimei.
He called his mother first while he looked at the catalog he had for takeout.
They talked for a while. His mother had heard about his painting being sold and had gushed about that. Then he told her about his current project and she gushed about that, too. Shen Yuan smiled to himself. His mother was so easily pleased. He suspected that, even if he had given her nothing but a bond paper with elementary-grade drawings, she’d still be content. Then he remembered that his elementary drawings had been preserved behind framed glass and he winced. When visitors came to the house, she always started her tour of his artwork with his earliest ones. It was embarrassing. But it was his mother, so Shen Yuan bore the humiliation.
Then he called his da ge. He, too, congratulated him on his sold painting, updated him a bit on the state of his stocks in their family’s conglomerate (they were doing well), and hung up.
His er ge coddled him and cooed at his success, then reminded him about his health before hanging up.
He saved his meimei for last. Shen Yuan was close to his siblings, but out of all of them, he was closest to his meimei. She was still in senior high school and was a talented pianist, but her real passion lay in bashing trashy web novels. He shared this passion with her and was excited to hear what was up with the latest chapter of Proud Immortal Demon’s Way.
“San ge!” Meimei screamed at him, “Congratulations on your painting!”
Shen Yuan smiled and thanked her.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” his meimei huffed, “Have you read the latest chapter? Can you believe—”
Shen Yuan laughed, “Before you start with your favorite pastime—no I haven’t read it yet, I was in the studio all day. I haven’t even eaten dinner yet but I will, soon. Give me some time to read it first and eat dinner, and then I’ll call you back, okay?”
“Sure!” chirped his meimei, “You can take your time! I won’t be sleeping until I’ve read the replies to my dissertation on why this chapter sucks. As usual, you can proofread it for me before you post it.”
Amused, Shen Yuan gave his assent and ordered dinner for himself. Then he took a bath to wash the paint from his hands.
When dinner arrived, Shen Yuan took it to his study and placed the food next to his computer. He took periodic bites while the thing booted up. When it was up and running, Shen Yuan opened his email and ignored all the work-related ones for now while he opened his sister’s email. It had an attachment.
It was 32 pages of a single-spaced word document. Shen Yuan raised his brows. This chapter must have sucked more than usual. His meimei usually limited her critique to 6-12 pages.
Intrigued, Shen Yuan opened the browser and typed in the website for Proud Immortal Demon’s Way where the latest chapter was highlighted. Before he started reading, Shen Yuan read the author’s note and was surprised to read that this would be the last chapter in the novel. With raised eyebrows, Shen Yuan recalled that absolutely nothing had been resolved. The previous chapter had even seemed like filler sex scenes. Was one chapter really enough to close all the overarching plot points in the story?
With a frown, Shen Yuan read the chapter.
And it was.
Complete.
Garbage.
Shen Yuan scrolled to the bottom of the page. When he reached it, he pressed refresh. The text remained the same. Enraged, Shen Yuan read his sister’s critique and agreed with every single one, editing along the way, even writing his own. Then he published it under their shared handle, Peerless Cucumber (a dick joke right back at Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky) and fumed.
Shen Yuan angrily bit into his food and chewed with a vengeance. Then he called his sister.
“What is this garbage chapter? This is supposed to be how everything ends?!” were his first words to her.
“I know,” she lamented.
They talked trash about the chapter for a solid two hours, then Shen Yuan told her he had published her critique, added a few of his own, and left it for the trolls of the internet and, hopefully, the author.
“Yeah, I saw it,” his meimei said gleefully, “The trolls have already replied. Nothing substantial. Every insult below the belt, aimed at our poor Peerless Cucumber and nothing defending the work. They’re just fanboys for the sake of being fanboys right now,” meimei said in disgust, “Who taught these plebeians literature? I would seriously like to take a stab at their professors for teaching these neanderthals nothing but poor taste,” she scathed.
Shen Yuan scrolled down at the replies to their thesis with disdain.
“I really can’t believe the story just ended like that. If I had nothing else to do, I would have said it was a waste of four years. But I had fun bashing his work from day one with you, san ge.” his meimei said, turning shy at the end.
Shen Yuan smiled, “Then it was a great four years. Let’s look for the next work to hate tomorrow. It’ll be good for our wretched souls,” he said.
His meimei cackled.
They said their goodbyes after some more shared commiseration, and Shen Yuan finished his meal.
He brushed his teeth, took his medications, noted that he was not feeling all too well, texted his doctor and art dealer that he might be coming down with something, and went to sleep.
In hindsight, he probably should not have eaten the shrimp. But they smelled okay, even if they tasted a bit funny.
It was the paints. His sense of smell was always a little off after he’d been painting for several hours.
He woke up on a cold, hard, stone floor, in a dingy little cellar, the entrance blocked by a large wooden door, padlocked, and a boy calling for a “little nine”.