You're a Masterpiece (BOOK 1)

Chapter 3

AN: hello, broskis!! don't be a ghost reader <3

Art found comfort in cooking side by side with Mom. They liked seeing the stress leave Mom's face. These were the times she let her spine relax from her wire-pulled posture and when she finally took the time to scrub the paint off her hands.

Also, they sang together as they cooked to whatever slow 70s rock song. But tonight, as Art watched Mom add seasoning to the Sinigang, the song that played on the speakers was 3 Nights by Dominic Fike. Art belted out the lyrics as Mom bobbed her head, occasionally asking Art to prepare ingredients or wash a plate she wanted to reuse.

It was a soothing ritual between them. They cooked together every night before Mama came home from work.

And, well, it was perfect.

Every night Mama would come home at around 6:30 pm smelling like the pool, shoes left at the door, and duffel bag thrown on the floor of the living room. At that moment Art would be setting the table, placing the plates, and readying the rice. Mama would ruffle their hair roughly, kiss their forehead, and follow it with a harsh pinch to their cheeks. Then, she'd let her hair down from its rigid bun, give Art the shush signal, and sneak up behind Mom while she was cooking something over the stove to give her a big, warm back hug.

Mom would laugh, act surprised, and scold Mama for not taking a shower first. But she always melted into Mama, always leaned into Mama's broader frame like they were pairs of a whole (Art dimly thought that they would have reached through time and space to find each other.)

Mama would whine, tell her to shut up, and both would burst into laughter as Mom tried to dodge Mama's playful kisses.

Art would call them out for being gross every night. But they all knew Art didn't think that in the slightest. To be honest, Art found their moms gentle and beautiful—no matter how many times they bickered.

Tonight, it was just like that. Mama still didn't shower, still smelling like the pool, and still cold from the car's air-conditioner. She sat down at the head of the table, kissed Mom when she passed, and Art reminded them they were fucking gross. Mama stuck her tongue out. Art held up the middle finger. (And they were scolded for it. Fucking ageist, unfair motherfuckers. They could say putangina and fuck but Art couldn't hold up the middle finger? Jesus.)

They didn't do before meal prayers in this household. They weren't exactly Catholic anymore, but Mom and Mama were both baptized. (Art wasn't baptized. Mom said it was their decision.) (To be honest, Art only talked to God in moments of deep struggle or great gratitude.)

"I have something to announce," they announced as they put rice onto their plate.

"What?" Mama snorted, taking a sip from her water. "Have you found friends?"

"I have, actually," Art answered before taking a sip of water. "His name is Chase."

"Chase? White?"

"... No? What the fuck?"

"Oy," Mom snapped, pointing her fork in Mama's face. "Let Art have friends."

Mama laughed. She pushed her hair away from her eyes, greying but she kept dying it brown, even when Art insisted that the brown didn't match her dark skin tone. "Uy, biro lang, Art." (("Uy, I'm just joking, Art."))

Art rolled their eyes. "Mabait naman siya." (("He's nice to me"))

"Straight?"

Mom groaned. She swallowed before talking, this time setting down the utensils to point at Mama with her menacingly long, manicured hand instead. "So what if he's straight?"