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A sharp gust of cool wind rocks a freshly and vividly painted wooden sign of a green parrot that hangs outside of a small flower shop. The words ‘Vingler’s Flowers’ are clearly displayed both underneath the parrot sign and on the main window of the store.
Isolde sweeps the windblown strands of her hair out of her face as she peers up at the sign.
Has she ever been inside of a flower shop before? Doubtful. She’s never needed to; family employees would run such errands, not her. Times have changed, though, and she and her siblings have followed their own paths after their parents’ deaths. But perhaps things have not changed enough, as here Isolde is, back in the city of her birth after two years abroad.
She hadn’t quite wanted to return home so soon, but when one of Vienna’s smaller opera houses offered her a position within its company ranks, she couldn’t refuse, even if she had her suspicions they only did so because of her mother’s name and not her own skill. Now three months have passed. Isolde is only 21, barely beginning her opera career in full. The air in her lungs transforming into the most compelling of song gives her a feeling, an intertwined lightness and grounding, like no other, even if the act of performing leaves her oddly uneasy.
If only the renovators working on the loft she purchased would finish already. She’s growing tired of living with Trista, even if she's happy to be around her dobermans. The loft is far more space than Isolde really needs, but it will be nice to have the room for her painting, though she has little time for it now in between rehearsals and shows.
Isolde pushes open the door and steps inside. A bell jingles with the movement of the door. The shop is empty inside, no customers or employees as far as Isolde can see, but it is filled to the brim with flowers and different arrangements. Isolde stops to admire a collection of lilac orchids placed artfully among smooth rocks in a shallow vase. Thankfully for Isolde’s peace of mind, low music plays in the shop; she forgot her earbuds in her car.
“Hi! Welcome!” A loud, energetic voice half-startles Isolde. She looks over in the direction of the voice and sees a young woman standing behind the counter, currently wiping her hands on her apron. “Please let me know if you have questions!” The woman grins brightly, like the sun itself.
Isolde blinks at her, caught a little off-guard by the woman’s seemingly genuine exuberance and equally earnest smile. She quickly regains her composure and nods, returning the smile courteously before resuming her browsing.
It takes very little time for her to realize that she has no real idea of how to pick out flowers for her parents’ graves. Briefly, she contemplates asking her siblings, but Trista would just tell her to grab a prearranged bouquet - Isolde would really prefer something a touch more personal even if it’s imperfect - and Theophil is hopeless when it comes to anything other than women and his art, unfortunately. Druvis knows about these things, but given the time difference and ocean between them, her best friend is surely asleep at this hour.
“Ah, miss?” Isolde approaches the counter. The florist stands there pruning a small bonsai tree, gold-rimmed glasses slid down her nose slightly, and looks up at Isolde. Her long brown hair is tied back with a nondescript white ribbon. ‘Klara,’ Isolde reads on the nametag pinned to her apron. “I do think I need some assistance.”
“Sure!” Klara gives her an easy smile as she readjusts her glasses and sets the bonsai to the side.
“I would like something for my parents, something to place in the family mausoleum.” There’s a brief flash of surprise in the florist’s eyes, but Isolde ignores it. She really doesn’t want to hear empty condolences; she’s had enough of those over the past three years. “I must confess that I do not know where to start.”
“Did your parents have a favorite flower or color? We could start there.” Klara walks around the counter and gestures for Isolde to follow her to one of the refrigerated areas of the shop, where the individual flowers are kept. “Let’s take a look around. I’m certain between the two of us we can find something that works!”
Klara points out the different flowers that could work as focal pieces of an arrangement, based on Isolde’s recollection of her parents both enjoying the colors orange and yellow, at least when it came to plants. She chatters on and on about the different flowers and foliage that will work to complete the piece, her excitement not dimming once.
“Have you been working here long?” Isolde asks politely as they return to the counter, flowers in hand. She has only been half-listening to Klara’s ramblings, but it is nice to see someone so obviously passionate about their work.
“It’s my family’s shop, so I’ve practically worked here my entire life,” Klara laughs. “Hard to believe the Vinglers used to be in the mirror business.” Isolde has no real response to that, but Klara doesn’t pause long enough for her to get a word in anyway. “But I’m actually in my first year of medical school! Won’t be able to help out here much in the future, if at all, with my studies and everything beyond that.”
Klara sounds a little sad about that, Isolde notes as she sets the flowers down on the counter and begins to work. But that sadness, if indeed that’s what it was, is quickly drowned out by more excited ramblings as she talks on and on about her hopes of going into psychiatry, of how she very much wants to help people as best she can.
Isolde quietly listens and observes Klara’s movements as she works, the way she trims the stems of the flowers and oh so carefully arranges the flowers and foliage, how she continually pushes up the sleeves of her worn flannel shirt before giving up and properly rolling the sleeves above the elbow. The action fully reveals a tattoo on the inside of her right forearm: a bird nestled among a horde of flowers. Her other arm is bare. Klara works slowly, seemingly content to take her time and ramble on.
“What about you?” Klara asks as she wraps the large bouquet in lightly colored tissue paper. “How do you spend your days? School, work, something else?”
Her hazel green eyes sparkle with the shine of someone truly interested in the answer, not at all like a service worker fulfilling their job’s obligations of small talk. Isolde wonders if this woman is like this with every customer and if so, how she manages to summon the energy to be so constantly chatty and sincere. It sounds utterly exhausting to Isolde.
“I’m an opera singer,” Isolde tells her. “A-”
Klara interrupts her excitedly. “Really? That’s incredible! I love the performing arts, and opera especially is just so enthralling in the way it sweeps the audience up in a torrent of emotion! It’s such a wonderful artform, truly.” The words burst out of her like water from a geyser, and Isolde stares at her in both supreme annoyance at being cut off and awe of how enthusiastic this woman is. “Oh! Sorry about that,” Klara says, a sheepish expression spreading across her face, ears turning pink. “I completely spoke over you there. What were you going to say?”
“It’s quite alright.” It isn’t; there’s little in conversations that Isolde dislikes more than being interrupted or spoken over, but she doesn’t entirely want to snap at this excitable and admittedly cute florist who at least had the decency to apologize, unlike most people. “I was only going to add that I’m a soprano.”
Klara gives her another winsome smile, earlier blunder forgotten. “That’s amazing. You must have put so much effort into your training!” Like everything else Klara has said so far, the words are strikingly earnest.
“I have, yes, though I imagine you must have also put considerable effort into your own studies,” Isolde replies. “Medicine is a very respectable career path.”
“Kind of you to say! But I think the arts are just as admirable.” With that said, Klara finally finishes preparing the flowers and presents them to Isolde for approval.
Isolde glances down at the artfully arranged flora. “They’re beautiful, thank you. You did a wonderful job.” She looks back up to see a pleased smile on Klara’s face, tips of her ears pink once again. Does this woman ever stop smiling?
Klara rings her up, and Isolde pays without even listening to the total. “I hope you have a good rest of your day!” Klara tells her cheerfully.
Isolde gives her a small but genuine smile in return. “You as well, Klara. Good luck in medical school.”
With flowers in hand, Isolde leaves the shop. As she drives off to the cemetery, her thoughts swirl with the image of a guileless and mostly charming florist that she is unlikely to ever see again.
A shame.
/
The sun continues to rise, day after day, and life continues on, as it always will. A year passes, and so much is different now.
Isolde looks down at her hands and sighs at the conspicuous stain of viridian oil paint on the side of her hand. For as fastidious as she normally is when it comes to her appearance, of course she managed to miss such an obvious blemish today. Just another drop in the bucket of this week of accumulating annoyances.
Her pharmacy is dragging its heels in refilling her antipsychotics. Her motorcycle is in the shop and will be for some time because the needed replacement part is taking forever to arrive. Her raw canvas delivery is delayed, and Isolde really needs those rolls so she can finish her remaining pieces for an upcoming exhibition.
Isolde ignores her current art block, pushes it completely out of her mind. She’ll break through it once her canvases arrive.
What an astoundingly irritating week.
At least she no longer has to deal with rehearsals and performances. She loved singing, but Isolde eventually realized that performing for the audiences she did drained her like nothing else, as did the environment of the operatic world she found herself in. Soon enough she found little enjoyment in her singing.
So she left it all behind and took up a paintbrush at Theophil’s encouragement.
Isolde loves painting, has enjoyed it since childhood. The infinite potential of a blank canvas in front of her is more alluring, more enthralling than a siren’s call. She loves every part of her artistic process, even when she’s tearing her hair out, and every painting she makes, even the ones she wants to throw into a fire. They’re all beautiful in their own way. They are all something wonderful brought into the world with her own two hands.
(She says she loves every part of her process, but there are days where she utterly detests painting. But on those days, the only thing she hates more than painting is not painting at all.)
It was one of the few things she truly had in common with Theophil.
Isolde sighs to herself at the thought of her now-deceased brother, puts her earbuds in, and scrolls through her music library until she finds an appropriate album to play. With music chosen, setting her mind at ease, Isolde approaches the door of a flower shop she hasn’t been inside of in over a year and steps inside, knowing that she won’t see that pretty florist again, a chiming bell once again announcing her entrance like it does for every customer presumably.
The shop is as devoid of customers as it was the first time Isolde was here. No one behind the counter, either. Isolde hopes that’s not indicative of how business is going for Vingler’s Flowers.
She stops in front of a shelf full of small bonsai trees, each one meticulously pruned and shaped. With a gentle touch, Isolde runs a finger along a tiny branch, careful not to exert too much pressure lest she snap it. They’re very beautiful, just like all of the other flora in here are.
“Hello!” A vaguely familiar, cheery voice from somewhere immediately to her right makes Isolde jump a little. She hadn’t noticed someone approaching her. “Oh! It’s you!” The woman says as Isolde turns to face her, a glimmer of recognition in her bright eyes.
Isolde stares at the woman. Klara, her brain supplies helpfully from the archives of her memory. She has appeared in Isolde’s thoughts perhaps a touch too often given that they only met once over a year ago in a rather fleeting moment. Missed connections and all that. For not the first time, Isolde thinks about how lowly it speaks of the quality of the people she used to be surrounded by, with very few exceptions, that she was so affected by the open sincerity and friendliness of a florist. Thankfully, it has gotten better since she left the opera world.
Klara has cut her hair in the past year. Gone are the long locks tied back by a ribbon, now replaced with a shoulder length and slightly messy, heavily layered hairstyle. A wolf cut, Isolde thinks the style’s called, or something like it.
She looks unfairly attractive. Isolde can imagine filling sketchbooks with her face alone, her smile brighter than any star in the night sky.
Isolde, of course, says none of this as she takes out one of her earbuds. “Hello. I didn’t think I would see you again.” An understatement. “How is medical school? I recall you mentioning attending.” Is it odd for her to remember such a thing after a year’s time?
Klara’s smile dims ever so slightly. Isolde wants to frown at the sight of it. Did she say something untoward?
“I dropped out,” Klara says, embarrassed, eyes glancing off to the side and a hint of red coloring her cheeks. “I don’t think I’m cut out for a career in medicine. Life has other plans for me.” Her smile quickly returns to its original brilliance. “I’m much happier here, I think!”
“There’s no shame in pursuing what you love,” Isolde says, meaning every word. She has no judgement to render here, only understanding.
“What about you? I saw you perform months ago!” What? “I almost didn’t believe it when I opened up the program and saw your picture in there! Isolde, right?”
“You… did?” Isolde attempts to keep her surprise from suffusing her words entirely. What production? What night? Klara remembers her name from the show’s program?
Klara nods. “Ainadamar! Oh, you were absolutely spectacular as Margarita! Hard to believe that was your first time in the leading role, I would’ve thought you had performed it thousands of nights before! You sang so amazingly.”
The effusive praise is thick with the utmost sincerity. It sets off small, fluttering bursts of warmth within Isolde’s chest even as she wonders if Klara would truly be able to tell if her singing was anything but impressive whichever night she was in the audience. Probably not; most untrained ears cannot discern the small mistakes in singing that ring as loudly as a thunderclap in Isolde’s ears.
Realizing with a sinking feeling in her stomach that Klara will continue rambling on about the performance if not stopped, Isolde quickly speaks up, careful not to actually interrupt Klara. “I don’t perform anymore, I’m sorry to say.” She isn’t sorry, actually, but it’s the polite thing to say. “As you said for yourself, life has other plans for me. I spend my days painting now.”
“That’s too bad,” Klara murmurs. “Your voice is gorgeous.” Isolde’s train of thought screeches to an immediate stop as Klara shakes her head and waves her hands quickly in front of her in a negatory motion. “Sorry! You probably got a lot of comments like that when you quit! I don’t want to add to that.”
With her brain concerningly hung up on the compliment, Isolde doesn’t get a chance to respond before Klara continues on. “You must be tremendously creative and talented to be able to switch from opera to painting!” Her words contain no small amount of admiration. “I think it’s really wonderful that you’re able to devote yourself to the arts. The world would be far lovelier if more people were able to do that.” She gives Isolde a sunny smile, and Isolde feels the world stop for a split second.
She wishes she had her sketchbook or camera, wishes that she could pull out her phone and snap a photo - anything to capture Klara’s smile. Isolde stares, doing her best to commit the sight to memory.
It’s really quite ridiculous of her to be so swept off her feet by a stranger’s smile and heartfelt integrity.
“I agree,” Isolde says after a starstruck moment, and she does agree with Klara’s sentiment - and not just because she’s distracted by her smile - even if she cynically doesn’t particularly have much hope for the world allowing for more creatives to thrive fully. “Your words are very kind, Klara. Thank you.”
Klara presumably politely ignores Isolde’s staring. “Of course! Before I talk your ear off more than I already have - so sorry about that - do you need any help finding anything?” She points over her shoulder with her thumb to the shop’s main counter. “I could also leave you be if you want!”
“No, please,” Isolde says far too quickly. “I would appreciate your help.” She doesn’t think she actually needs it this time, but Klara’s help would be nice all the same.
“Sure! What are you looking for?”
“Two bouquets. One for my parents, one for my brother. I haven’t visited him since his funeral,” Isolde says. Ah, perhaps she should have not added that last part judging by the brief flash of worried emotion across Klara’s face. She is normally so much better about keeping her distance from people emotionally, but something about this veritable stranger undoes most aspects of her carefully maintained composure.
“I’m really sorry to hear about that,” Klara says softly, smiling sympathetically. “Do you still have family left or…?” An alarmed look crosses her face. “I’m sorry! That’s wildly inappropriate of me to ask! Let me just show you the individual flowers before I stick my foot in my mouth again.”
Klara walks off towards one of the refrigerated areas of the shop, clearly mortified. The question was a little invasive, yes, but it’s not nearly the worst comment Isolde has received following Theophil’s passing (or her parents’ deaths, for that matter). She pinches the bridge of her nose in mild annoyance and follows Klara, partially thankful that Klara hasn’t outright interrupted her this time around; an overly prying question is far preferable to that.
She follows Klara, who is now chatting excitedly about some flower bunches the shop just recently got in this morning. Klara recommends different blossoms and plants to fill out the bouquet based on Isolde's quietly suggested colors, and soon enough, they have enough for two large arrangements. Before heading to the counter, Klara briefly pauses in thought before grabbing a couple of handfuls of other flowers. Isolde thinks nothing of it, assuming Klara surely must have other bouquets to make.
They chat easily while Klara arranges the flowers, which mostly involves Klara politely asking about Isolde’s day, Isolde replying and asking about Klara’s, and Klara rambling on in response. Isolde normally isn’t the fondest of chatterboxes like Klara; she finds them exasperating more often than not. Yet she enjoys the sound of Klara’s voice, the way she strings her words together, the enthusiastic tone she has while speaking of the most mundane things.
How absurd.
Isolde stares at the tattoo on Klara’s forearm, admiring the linework and delicate shading. She would love to take a closer look at it. “Your tattoo artist is very skilled.”
“Hm?” Klara looks up. “Oh, thanks! He does great work. I’ve got this one and one right here.” She traces a path that spreads from under her collarbone and sweeps over her shoulder. “More flowers, hah, which is pretty stereotypical, maybe, for a florist, but I love them.”
“I can only imagine that your other tattoo is as beautiful as this one,” Isolde says, gesturing to Klara’s arm.
“I like to think so!” Klara replies happily, not dissimilar to the cheerful chirping of a songbird.
Klara finishes wrapping the bouquets, and Isolde notices that she has placed a vibrant third beside the two Isolde asked for as she rings her up. “I only wanted two bouquets,” Isolde says, confused.
“These are older flowers,” Klara explains with a smile on her face. She attaches a business card to the additional bouquet. “We normally give them away to neighboring businesses or customers or sell them at a discount. My parents are the ones who decide who gets the free flowers though, so don’t tell them I’m doing this, okay?” She winks at Isolde who promptly forgets how to breathe.
Isolde quickly regains her composure like nothing happened, like she isn’t a complete mess today. “I won’t. I always wondered what flower shops did with their unused inventory.” She has never thought about such a thing in her life, actually. “Thank you for the flowers. They are quite lovely.”
Klara beams at her in response, and it’s really too much for Isolde to bear. She pays and takes the many flowers in her arms.
“I’m sure our next meeting will be under happier circumstances!” Klara says, eyes bright. “Third time’s the charm, right?”
Isolde blinks. “Yes, I’m sure.” She isn’t. “I hope you have a wonderful day, Klara.”
Klara heartily wishes her the same as Isolde leaves, pushing past two entering customers as she does.
Isolde doesn’t linger in the cemetery, feeling the walls of the mausoleum closing in around her. She places the flowers in their respective receptacles, gives them enough water, and runs her fingers over the names of her parents and brother. Trista won’t visit them, her feelings regarding their family even more complicated than Isolde’s own, so Isolde must pay her respects on behalf of them both. She leaves quickly.
The remainder of her day passes quickly as she completes her errands and checks in with Bkornblume regarding their plans for later this week while she’s in town. At least one thing this week will go right.
When she finally returns home, she carefully places the extra bouquet in a wine decanter as she lacks a vase and beelines to her studio space, an expansive area filled with canvas racks, an easel, a worktable, and a plethora of materials on one end of her loft partitioned off from the rest of her living space. It helps her mind to keep her painting contained to a discrete space, but inevitably her work spills over into the rest of her apartment time and again.
Isolde pulls a small canvas out from the stack of pre-stretched ones she keeps around, sets it on the easel, and begins to paint. There is no escaping the radiant and vibrant smile that occupies her mind or the mildly infuriatingly attractive face to which it’s attached.
She splashes tones of honey and byzantium across the canvas, complimented by hues of forest and russet, referencing photos on her phone as she intertwines abstracted sunflowers and larkspurs among a backdrop of leaves.
There’s splotches of oil paint on her fingers and hands; Isolde isn’t being as careful as she normally is, but she doesn’t care at this moment. She has to get these feelings out.
Despite Klara’s optimism that they’ll somehow see each other again, Isolde, for as much of a romantic she may consider herself to be much of the time, has little hope that she’ll run into Klara again in any meaningful way in the future.
Best to wring dry the font of inspiration that Klara has given her before she is inevitably disappointed.
Isolde ignores the small voice in heart telling her that she could very easily return to the flower shop.
That would perhaps be a little creepy, a little too forward.
So she lets it lie.
/
Three months pass, and on one chilly November night, Isolde stands in the middle of an art gallery, an exhibition she has put no small amount of effort into helping organize and fund taking place around her, meant to showcase the works of local queer artists, herself included. What else is she to do with her money other than pour it into the arts and give other artists the same opportunities she herself has had?
She adjusts the cuffs of the flowy white blouse she wears as she walks through the gallery, her heels clacking against the floor, and she’s mindful to not bump into any of the other attendees that mill about. Isolde is pleasantly surprised by the turnout but is glad so many people have chosen to come.
The artwork on display covers a massive breadth of topics, styles, media, and Isolde knows not setting a fixed theme for the exhibition was the right idea. Better to give the artists the freedom to create what they wish.
Her feet stop in front of a large sculpture, reminiscently avian in form, albeit one of mixed metal, ceramic pieces, and glass shards, with dried flowers wrapping around the wings and feet. Sculpture has never been Isolde’s speciality, and she finds herself woefully inadequate in rendering something in three full dimensions instead of two as she normally does, her forays into mixed media notwithstanding. Still, she admires the artform as she does all the others.
“Isolde? Isolde!” Someone calls her name like a bird trills its song in the early morning, bright and happy.
Isolde turns to see Klara, dressed finely in a phthalo green sleeveless blouse and bistre-colored slacks with her jacket folded over her arm, approaching her. She looks entirely too beautiful, pretty, handsome - whatever word Klara would prefer. As Klara raises a hand in greeting, Isolde spots a new tattoo on the forearm that was previously blank: more flowers completely encircle the arm in two bands, complemented by a bit of blackwork.
Klara smiles with blinding radiance. “I told you that our next meeting would be under happier circumstances!” She says, and oh, Isolde’s yearning heart cannot stop thinking about coincidences and fate and the serendipitous circumstances that bring two souls together.
She didn’t think it would happen, but here Klara is, bringing warmth and light with her.
“Klara,” Isolde breathes out, the name hallowed on her tongue. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Not as surprised as me!” Klara replies excitedly. “Are you displaying some of your art here? How have you been? You look stunning, by the way!” Klara speaks quickly, and Isolde struggles to figure out if that last comment was flirtatious or not before concluding that no, unfortunately it was not. Klara is simply being complimentary.
They exchange small talk, and Klara is genuinely impressed to hear that Isolde helped organize this exhibition, remarking how wonderful of an idea it all is and that it’s great the gallery is donating so much to a handful of community organizations, one of which Klara mentions she often volunteers with. It takes only one gentle inquiry on Isolde’s part to get Klara talking for several minutes on end about the volunteer work she participates in.
And Klara speaks so enthusiastically that Isolde is utterly engaged in what she is saying to the point where the rest of the art gallery falls away. It doesn’t help that hearing Klara’s passion in her words only makes her more attractive.
“-here, Isolde?”
Isolde blinks. “Pardon?” Last she registered, Klara had been complimenting the bird sculpture they still stand in front of, expressing her admiration for artists that are able to blend different materials together in a way that appears both purposeful and effortless.
“Your art,” Klara repeats. “I know you helped organize this event, but I was wondering if you chose to display any of your own art here. You didn’t say earlier.”
“I do have a few paintings on display, yes,” Isolde says. With a sprinkling of uncharacteristic nervousness, she adds, “Would you care to see?”
Having her paintings on display for an audience is normal, comfortable; she is not in the picture beyond her name on a placard and her signature on the canvas. But personally showing her art to a stranger, standing there while they view it? Suddenly, Isolde is involved, far more than she wishes to be. It reminds her of being on stage, performing, and the association makes her fingers twitch.
Such is why she prefers to sell her paintings through galleries and dealers, even if she must sell directly to clients more often than not. She needs a degree of separation between herself and the audience. Thankfully, she is much more comfortable showing her art to her friends and Trista, though sometimes she regrets the latter.
Klara pauses, somehow catching onto Isolde’s momentary discomfort. “Only if you’re okay with showing me! I realize I am monopolizing your time here, so please, do not feel pressured to stick around.” She gives Isolde a reassuring smile.
Isolde shakes her head. “No, it would be my pleasure.” She can deal with the minor disquiet that rustles about in her ribcage.
She leads Klara to the wall on which her four paintings hang: three standalone canvases of varying sizes, colors, and textures and the large triptych that she started working on almost immediately following Theophil’s passing.
Klara lets out a low exclamation of wonder and falls into a contemplative silence as she takes in the artwork, casting her appreciative gaze over each painting. Isolde wonders if such a quiet is a rarity for Klara, given how talkative she has been thus far. She respects Klara’s silence, though she dreads the inevitable questions of ‘what does it mean?’ and ‘what does this part represent?’ that people feel the need to ask artists.
Her work invites these questions at an alarming rate, given its abstract nature. Isolde ascribes to no particular art movement or school beyond the incredibly large umbrella that is abstract art. She’s always felt called to abstraction over figurativism, even if she does still paint and draw in more formally representational manners as a way to keep her technical skills sharp. And she has always been terribly fond of fauvist artists like Manguin and of Sargent’s watercolors, to the point where both affect how she paints her landscape studies.
As a personal rule, Isolde refuses to explain her art and will not answer any questions regarding symbolism, inspiration, or purpose. The paintings speak for themselves; they speak far more beautifully and truthfully than Isolde could ever hope to accomplish with her own comparatively ugly words and voice.
Isolde pushes that last thought out of her mind as Klara stops in front of the triptych aptly titled Family - Isolde has never considered herself particularly creative when it comes to titling her own works. Three panels, three siblings, each abstracted into only the slightest suggestion of human shape.
Trista balanced on the right, surrounded by her frays with fame and anger. Isolde on the left, splattered against a backdrop of her continued struggles with her mental illnesses and prior dealings with a host of other issues. The two of them connected across the work by the cuts of their ever complicated and once fraught relationship. Theophil and his hedonism and the accident that claimed his life dominate the middle, and the spectres of their dead parents and family name hang over them all.
It’s the only one of her paintings that isn’t for sale. She and Trista will burn it later; it is too honest to keep around.
“Forgive me if my words are clumsy or if I misspeak, I don’t have any formal art education,” Klara begins, and Isolde braces herself for whatever judgement Klara will render on her art. “Your technique is really impressive, and you have such an incredible range with it!”
She gestures excitedly between two paintings, Abstract 33 and Act 1, Scene 2, as she continues talking. “On one painting, you’ve cut and molded the paint in certain areas for emphasis, adding this really vivid texture to perhaps offset the lack of different colors. But on this other, it’s almost completely smooth, barely any brushstrokes visible at all! The shapework and composition are also completely different, different enough that were it not for your signature in the corner of both, I would have trouble believing the same artist painted them!”
Klara continues to ramble on, happily pointing sections of each painting that resonate with her and theorizing about what is depicted, and Isolde stares. She expects Klara to ask the questions she loathes, but Klara doesn’t, even though Isolde can see a tenacious curiosity burning in her expression when she talks about Family. She doesn’t speculate about what the triptych means, seemingly sensing just how personal the piece is, and Isolde is beyond appreciative for that.
For all her aforementioned worries over misspeaking, Klara talks with such an avid eloquence that again Isolde is completely drawn in by her words. She’s never heard anyone speak of her paintings quite like Klara - has never wanted to before - yet Klara appreciates her art with an open genuineness untempered by pessimism.
Isolde swallows thickly.
“Oh gosh, I’ve been talking so much I haven’t let you speak at all!” Klara looks mildly embarrassed. “I promise I’m not one of those people who’s in love with the sound of their own voice.”
Isolde smiles at Klara. “I didn’t think you were.” If anything, her impression of Klara is that she is someone who needs to release the many thoughts inside her brain or otherwise she’ll burst. “I have enjoyed listening to your interpretations, not to worry.”
Klara waits for her to continue, so Isolde does. “I do not like discussing my paintings. I prefer to let them stand on their own merits, so please, forgive me if I have nothing to add.”
“Fair enough!” Klara accepts this easily, and though an undeniable nosiness twinkles in her eyes still, she doesn’t follow through on it. “I do want to reiterate that I think your paintings are all executed beautifully, and your skill is remarkable!” She grins, and Isolde thinks of how unfair it is for this woman to be both ridiculously attractive and so earnest.
“Thank you. That is very kind of you to say.” The praise warms Isolde’s cheeks. “Would you care to accompany me through the rest of the gallery? I have not explored all of it yet, and I would appreciate the company.” She’s already seen most of the art here, but she wants to spend more time with Klara.
Klara perks up noticeably. “I would love that. Good company makes every experience more enjoyable.”
The two of them stroll through the gallery, stopping in front of whatever artworks catch their eye, and Klara is just as eager to hear Isolde’s opinions on the art as she is to give her own. Most conversations Isolde has in settings like these are purely for social niceties’ purposes, and while Isolde excels at navigating those, they grate on her. Not so with Klara; conversing with her, properly and not merely in a retail setting, is enjoyable and pleasant.
Their conversation naturally flows back and forth between them, and Isolde wants more.
Swept away by her own longing, Isolde picks an imaginary piece of lint off Klara’s shirt and lets her fingers trace a ghost of a path down the skin of Klara’s arm, brushing their fingers together just barely. “You look beautiful tonight, Klara,” Isolde murmurs.
Klara smiles at her, the tiniest hint of a blush on her cheeks. “Why, thank you! You look great, too! Though I think I already said that earlier? It’s a shame I don’t usually have so many opportunities to dress up, besides going to the opera or something along those lines!”
And there Klara goes, talking about her plans later this month to see a ballet called The Winter’s Tale and how excited she is to see a relatively contemporary ballet, instead of an older, more established one. Isolde stares, dumbfounded. That… was not at all the reaction she was hoping for. Surely her intentions were obvious?
They continue their meanderings, and Klara gives no indication that the flirting registered with her one bit. Klara inquires after Isolde’s favorite artists, if she has any, and Isolde asks after Klara’s, learning that she’s most fond of Klimt, if she really had to pick a singular artist; it’s an easy pick, but it’s one Isolde approves of. She always has admired the man’s usage of decorative patterns, among other things.
As they talk and walk, Isolde repeatedly brushes her fingers against Klara’s, hoping for some sort of favorable response, a blush, a coy smile, anything. Klara gives her nothing; in fact, she frustratingly seems to think that Isolde is trying to say they’re walking or standing too close together and starts giving Isolde more space.
Conversation is easy with Klara, Isolde finds. Even as they dance from topic to topic, Klara’s enthusiasm shines through her every word, and Isolde cannot help but hang off each and every one as minutes turn into an hour and then another.
Isolde contemplates asking Klara if she would be inclined to come home with her. Yes, Klara seemed to have missed her earlier flirting, but perhaps asking directly would be better? It doesn’t have to be anything serious, she tells herself, lying.
Casual is not remotely Isolde at all, given the all-consuming hunger to love and be loved wholly that nips at her spirit; it’s something she’s only done not even a handful of times out of pure exploration of herself and her desires, but she knows intrinsically that nothing with Klara could be casual on her end. She is not capable of such a thing, not with this woman who shines like the sun, to whom she is drawn like a butterfly to nectar.
She and Klara are veritable strangers still! But she wants to amend that, wants to get to know Klara better, fully, on every level. Already she’s so taken with her.
But as she opens her mouth to speak, Klara’s phone rings abruptly, and she gives Isolde an apologetic smile, muttering to herself that she thought she silenced her phone before turning away slightly and answering. “Marcus, slow down, what’s happening?” Isolde overhears Klara say, along with something about someone else named Semmelweis who apparently won’t stop laughing in the background.
“I’m sorry, my roommates are having a crisis, apparently,” Klara says after her phone call ends, simultaneously contrite and annoyed. “I have to head home.”
Unfortunate. Isolde cannot help the disappointment that coils around her chest, but she maintains a neutrally pleasant expression. “Of course, I understand.”
“But this has been great! I’ve loved talking to you!” Klara gives her another grin and throws on her jacket. “We should do this again. Come swing by the shop whenever you have a free moment, I’m always there!”
Isolde barely gets the chance to wish Klara a good night and farewell before Klara is leaving with a friendly wave. It’s a bit of a sour note to end her otherwise lovely evening on, but Klara wants to see her again. It gives her hope that maybe the connection she feels between them isn’t entirely one-sided. Still, she’s a little upset that she didn’t manage to get Klara’s number.
/
A few days later, Isolde drops by Vingler’s Flowers, emboldened by Klara’s permission to visit her.
She finds not Klara there but two people that resemble her: an older woman and a young man with a broken arm in a sling. Her mother and brother, Isolde can only assume. Hesitantly, she asks if Klara is in, stating that she is one of Klara’s friends; it is both a stretching of the truth and an intense hope wrapped into one.
Klara’s mother gives her a scrutinizing once-over before informing her that Klara is off handling deliveries today and won’t be back until later; perhaps Isolde should try coming back tomorrow, Klara’s brother helpfully adds. Slightly embarrassed, Isolde buys a premade bouquet she doesn’t need, feeling odd about leaving empty-handed, and departs.
She waits a couple of days before returning.
Next time around Isolde is far luckier. Klara is helping a customer at the counter, but when she looks over the man’s shoulder at the sound of the door opening, a wide smile spreads across her face at the sight of Isolde.
After the customer leaves with an armful of roses, Klara rounds the counter to approach Isolde. “You came! My brother mentioned that someone came by asking for me, and I hoped it was you.” She speaks quickly in a manner that Isolde is learning to be customary for her as she removes her stained apron. “Have you eaten recently? I have to take my lunch break, and there’s a place a couple of blocks away that I go to all the time.” There’s a hopeful smile on her face, and Isolde cannot imagine ever saying no to that.
“I would like that, Klara.” Isolde returns Klara’s smile, smaller but no less genuine.
“Oh, great!” Klara pauses and glances down in surprise at the motorcycle helmet under Isolde’s arm, her gloves resting inside. “You ride a bike?”
“A motorcycle, yes,” Isolde replies. People are always so surprised to learn this about her. She may have spent a little too long fixing her hair after removing her helmet, just in case she saw Klara. Thanks to the impending winter season, she’s been trying to get as many rides in as possible before the snow renders it completely unsafe to do so.
Klara tilts her head. “I hope you’re safe on the road.” Isolde gets the impression that Klara wants to say more, probably something about crash statistics or a similar topic.
“I assure you, I take every precaution. I’ve never been in an accident.” That seems to satisfy Klara.
They leave after Klara grabs her jacket and gets someone to replace her at the counter.
It’s chilly outside, but thankfully it isn’t set to rain until the evening. Klara rambles on about her day so far, and Isolde walks closely beside Klara, keeping in step with her and intentionally brings their fingers together again and again in glancing touches that Klara neither chases nor pulls away from.
They settle into their seats after ordering (and after Isolde pays for the food before Klara can even think to object) and continue to talk, effortlessly picking up the threads of their conversation at the gallery. Klara is a joy to speak with, even if she takes up far more than what is probably her fair share of the conversation. That’s okay. Isolde is content to listen more than talk.
Beyond her attraction and infatuation - her crush, Isolde’s brain not-so-helpfully corrects - Isolde does want to befriend Klara. She is interesting in a way that other people aren’t, and in this short time of having barely known her, Isolde has been so captivated by her passion and earnestness, both of which are so easy to see.
She asks Klara what drew her to flowers, aside from it being her family’s business.
Klara takes a moment to consider, thoughtfully chewing and then swallowing her food. “I don’t think anyone’s ever outright asked me that before.” The admission surprises Isolde. It seems like a fairly obvious question to ask. “I’ve always liked flowers, caring for them and watching them grow. Arranging them is perhaps the only creative endeavor I’ve ever excelled at, and a nice set of flowers always brings a smile to someone’s face or comfort in a time of need.”
She shrugs, projecting a nonchalance that Isolde can tell she doesn’t actually feel. “I enjoy being a small part of that, just as I enjoy speaking with the customers that come in and hearing why they’re buying flowers, though I think that last part might just be because I like people in general,” she half-laughs.
“I think those are fine reasons,” Isolde states firmly.
Klara smiles, but really her resting expression seems to be a faint, friendly smile, Isolde realizes. “What about you? Why do you paint?”
“I have to create something, anything,” Isolde replies, stirring her tea. She tells Klara that she has had the privilege of private art tutors since childhood, sharing them with her brother, and painting has been her primary hobby since then, though it fell to the wayside a little during her brief operatic venture. “It is incredibly fulfilling to bring something into this world by the virtue of my own two hands.”
Isolde knows it is her raison d’etre, but that is too vulnerable for this conversation. She cannot very well confess that she is but a creature of love, meant to beget beauty and wonder.
“That’s a fine reason,” Klara says, parroting Isolde’s words back at her. “From what I’ve seen of your art, you have a knack for creating some really beautiful things.”
The painfully sincere words make Isolde blush, something she tries hard to hide behind the rim of her teacup as she takes a sip.
Their conversation turns to more everyday topics then, and all too soon do they leave, Klara apologetically informing Isolde that she needs to return to work. They part in front of the flower shop, Klara profusely thanking Isolde for coming to lunch with her.
Isolde doesn’t let Klara leave this time without them exchanging contact info, and she heads back to her motorcycle with a lightness to her step.
They start texting every day, and Isolde is amused every time Klara sends her an absolute wall of text. Sometimes she sends voice memos when there are too many words she needs to say, and her ramblings don’t fail to bring a smile to Isolde’s face. Isolde could listen to her for hours.
Every few days, Klara sends her an invitation to some new event or outing, be it a mutual aid meetup or an open lecture at a university or a jazz concert. Isolde declines most of the invites, wondering how Klara has time for all of this. She may prefer to stay home painting or drawing most days, but it’s terribly kind of Klara to invite her out and want to include her in things.
She does go with Klara to the jazz concert, though, and has a wonderful time. Klara remains perfectly oblivious to her flirting, but Isolde does learn that she is single. It’s something, she tells herself, and she cannot stop staring at how beautiful Klara looks swaying to the music beside her.
Nor can she help her amazement as Klara effortlessly makes friends with the couple they sit next to that night. She really is like that with everyone, it seems.
Her fingers twitch and flex, and she chafes against her simmering need for physical contact. Klara’s hand is right there. Isolde reaches out and gingerly takes her hand, lightly enough that Klara can easily pull away. Klara looks moderately surprised, but she smiles brightly at Isolde and readjusts their hands so it’s more comfortable for the both of them.
Isolde’s heart lurches in her chest. Klara’s hand is so warm.
November turns into December, and they become such fast friends with incredible haste. Klara slots so easily into Isolde’s life that it feels like she was always meant to be there, and it's the easiest thing in the world for them to progress from casual friends to close friends able to talk about heavier, more personal topics.
She learns that Klara is never not in the process of reading a book and that she has no preference between heavy theory, poetry, and dense fiction. Normally, she swaps books with one of her roommates, the two of them having similar enough tastes in many regards. Isolde wonders if Klara might like to attend a poetry reading with her; she and Bkornblume usually attend one together when she is in town.
Klara is a breath of fresh air, the poking of a sun ray through a blanket of dark clouds following the rain. For the second time, Isolde is called to her studio by her new muse and pulls on her usual paint-stained overshirt and ties her bandana around her head and sets to work.
She retrieves a set of wooden stretcher bars she meant for a different composition and one of her rolls of quality linen canvas. With great care she stretches the canvas taut and prepares it before setting it on her easel and gathering the rest of her supplies. She plays a R&B album and paints.
Isolde paints and paints, no real goal in mind aside from imprinting her longing for her newfound friend onto this canvas. It is the closest to automatic writing or drawing she will ever do. Guided by her aching heart, she blends together ethereal visions of flowers and rays of sunny dawn cracking against the deep night.
Hours pass.
With a growing stiffness in her back and legs, Isolde finally steps away from her easel and casts a critical eye over what she has painted so far in this frenzy of hers.
Paint covers the canvas from edge to edge, and the image it presents… coheres. Isolde frowns. It doesn’t feel right at all. This layer will need to dry properly, but Isolde already doesn’t care for this work and struggles to understand exactly why. She continues staring at that canvas, thinking.
The pieces fit together too closely, making the entire image cramped and disorderly in a way that doesn’t accurately portray what’s in Isolde’s heart. The essence of Klara is there, yes, but it’s all wrong, distorted.
Isolde feels no emotion in moderation and so starkly realizes this canvas is far too small to hold the spectrum of her feelings.
She quickly places an order for extra-large stretcher bars, cross braces, stretcher keys from her usual supplier, along with a wide roll of Belgian linen canvas, not particularly paying any attention to the money she’s spending. It’s larger than any canvas Isolde has ever worked on before.
/
The rug-covered hardwood floor grows uncomfortable against Isolde’s back. Normally, she would be fine, but currently one of Trista’s large dobermans, Apollo, lays completely on top of her, completely uncaring of her comfort.
Artemis, his twin, lays beside her peacefully. Both of them are worn out from their walk. She probably should command Apollo to move at some point.
The front door opens, and both dogs perk their heads up as their owner walks in. They make no effort to move from their positions, however, beyond a wagging of their full tails, something Trista scoffs at.
“Traitors,” she mutters as she leans down to pet them. She lightly kicks Isolde’s leg with her foot instead of saying hello.
“It is not my fault they like me more than they do you,” Isolde replies.
Trista presumably rolls her eyes in response, but Isolde cannot see it as Trista walks to her kitchen island. Isolde left her sketchbook and pencils there, and-
Oh no.
She sits up in a rush, ignoring Apollo’s disgruntled sound as she displaces him from his position, just as Trista asks, a tormenting lilt to her voice, “Now just who is this?”
Isolde lays back down. “No one,” she lies, knowing exactly on what page she foolishly left her sketchbook open. She can lie like the best manipulators and politicians, but unfortunately so can her sister; they’re uniquely able to cut through each other’s bullshit - Trista’s words, not Isolde’s.
“Sure,” Trista says. “That’s why her face is all over this page. Oh! On the previous page, too!”
For not the first time in her life, Isolde entertains the idea of faking her own death. Unfortunately, Trista would figure everything out and drag her back to the land of the living purely so she can distress her further. She stays silent, not wanting to incriminate herself any further.
Trista walks over and squats beside Isolde’s supine form. She holds her phone out for Isolde to see. A screenshot of music streaming listening history is pulled up - her listening history, Isolde realizes, filled with nothing but love songs. She groans loudly and throws her arm over her face.
“Just kill me.”
“Maybe later,” Trista says way too quickly for Isolde’s liking. “I’ll make it look like an accident, but right now, this is far too entertaining.”
She waits for Isolde to explain herself, and Isolde knows from experience Trista will out-wait her easily. Sighing, Isolde removes her arm from her face and focuses on petting Apollo instead of looking at Trista’s aggravating grin. “I may have met someone.”
“No shit.”
“Her name is Klara. She is kind, beautiful, empathetic, and principled.” Isolde breathes in and breathes out. “I could listen to her talk ad nauseum. She has ideas and opinions about everything, and I want to hear them all.”
“Jesus Christ,” Trista mutters. Isolde wearily looks over and sees Trista staring down at the page filled with multiple sketches of Klara’s face that Isolde did from memory. “You draw her like she’s the sun or a worshipped saint. She can’t be this pretty.”
“She is.” Klara is the most beautiful woman in the world to Isolde.
Trista groans. “Ugh. You’ve got it ridiculously, disgustingly bad. How long have you been dating?”
Isolde answers very slowly. “We aren’t.”
“What the hell are you doing then?” Trista stares at her, slightly aghast.
“It is not for lack of trying,” Isolde hisses. “Klara is simply-”
Trista interrupts her, knowing full well how much Isolde hates it, and Isolde thinks of keying her car. “Great, she’s an idiot.” There are so many other hypothetical reasons for why two people may not be dating, but of course Trista jumps to the one she knows will annoy Isolde the most.
“She is not an idiot!” Isolde’s protest is immediate. “She is merely a little clueless.” More than a little, but Isolde isn’t telling Trista that.
“Close enough.” Trista sounds completely unimpressed as she stands back up and closes Isolde’s sketchbook, leaving it on the floor next to Isolde.
Isolde eventually picks herself up off the ground, moving Apollo more gently this time, and returns her book and pencils to her bag. The two of them head off to dinner, where Trista interrogates Isolde over Klara. Her questions are so pointed now that it makes Isolde glad she is not facing off against Trista in the courtroom.
(At least when Isolde later tells Druvis about what happened, and about Klara, that conversation goes much more smoothly. Druvis is happy to hear that Isolde has found someone so seemingly wonderful, even if she remains skeptical about Klara’s continued lack of response to Isolde’s flirting.
Surely, Isolde tells Druvis, Klara cannot be ignorant of her clear intentions for much longer. Something will register.
Druvis only hums thoughtfully in response, which says everything and more.)
/
Winter brings the snow with it, though it isn’t as heavy of a snowfall as the prior year. It’s still terribly cold, though.
More often than not, Isolde and Klara’s time spent together is over a meal or coffee, though Klara doesn’t stop inviting Isolde to seemingly every event taking place in Vienna. Klara considers herself something of a foodie and always has a new place for them to try; Isolde enjoys learning more about Klara’s tastes, how she tolerates extreme sourness without batting an eye or how she wrinkles her nose at plums of all fruits.
Isolde would really prefer if Klara would stop teasing her about how she cuts her cheeseburgers in half before eating them. It’s not her fault they’re easier to eat that way! The pout on her face just makes Klara laugh more, and the sound is sweeter than any birdsong to Isolde’s ears. The teasing is worth enduring for that alone.
She enjoys the conversations she has with Klara over these meals, she does, but what Isolde most delights in is the closeness in which she can exist next to Klara. She sits and walks closely beside her, clinging to her arm like a lifeline. The proximity is as agonizing as it is comforting.
It’s impossible for Isolde to not think of kissing Klara.
At this point in their friendship, Klara expects Isolde to grab her hand and interlace their fingers and often will leave one of her hands palm up on the table or armrest, always somewhere easily accessible for Isolde.
Through this, Isolde learns maybe a little too intimately the shape of Klara’s perpetually warm hands. They’re ever so slightly calloused, surprisingly so. Surely floristry isn’t that rough on the hands? Klara keeps her nails short and unpainted, and frequently, there’s a bit of plant detritus or dirt under a nail or two, even though Klara frequently stresses over cleaning under her nails.
The raised scar on her left thumb concerns Isolde. Klara explains it was a bad cut from some pruning shears a few years ago. “Just a bout of clumsiness, Isolde!” She says with a heartening smile, noticing Isolde’s fixation on it.
Isolde frowns, vividly imagining the blood that must have spilled forth from such a cut. She runs her thumb in circles over the scar, as if doing so would allow her to take away the pain Klara surely felt.
The new year lumbers in unceremoniously.
Isolde invites Klara over on a frigid day that Klara has free. An idea has been bouncing around in her head, one she hasn’t been able to exorcise, and Isolde thinks Klara would enjoy it. It’s offbeat in that way she likes.
Klara brings a handful of leftover flowers from the shop with her, along with a vase, remembering the single time Isolde mentioned not owning one.
They sit in her studio. Klara marvels at the size of the canvas hanging on the bare wall. “The size is intimidating, I have to admit. So much potential. I can’t wait to see what the finished painting looks like!” She says brightly, the sole source of warmth today, as the sun has decided to hide behind the clouds all day.
Isolde glances back at the canvas. She’s only barely started on it, dabbling some paint about in an upper corner, radiantly colored as homage to her muse. “It was a pain to stretch,” Isolde mutters, gathering her supplies.
That’s what she gets for needing control over as many aspects of her art as humanly possible. Ordering a pre-stretched canvas would have saved her the headache.
Klara takes her myrtle knit overshirt off, the black t-shirt she wears underneath giving Isolde all the access she needs to her forearms. “When you asked me if I ever considered coloring in my tattoos, I didn’t expect this!” Klara gestures to the body paint Isolde has set on the table.
Isolde smiles, pleased that Klara likes her idea. “Do you have any color preferences?”
“Nope!” Klara says. “I trust you.”
She makes the mistake of looking into Klara’s hazel green eyes that shine so brightly behind her round glasses. It takes considerable self-control to hold back from kissing her.
“Okay,” she replies, voice carefully calm. “Please keep still.”
Isolde positions Klara’s right arm, where the tattoo of the bird among a horde of flowers is located, on the table and begins to color within the lines of the tattoo with paint. She intentionally chooses bright colors and paints in thin enough layers so that the shading of the tattoo can still shine through.
Klara chatters on as Isolde works, holding exceptionally still and talking about the New Year’s Eve party she went to a few days ago with some friends. She had invited Isolde along, but Isolde has had enough of parties like that for a lifetime. She stayed at home, drew a little, and went to bed early.
Isolde only half-listens as she paints, accustomed neither to painting on skin like this nor to being allowed to so freely and intently focus on Klara. It’s invigorating, really, to be able to leave her mark on Klara like this.
“-and you’ll never guess what happened to me at midnight, with all the fireworks going off,” Klara says, laughing like she’s about to say something outrageous.
“What happened?”
“This girl pulled me in for a kiss!”
Isolde’s paintbrush slips, and she cuts a line of emerald green out from the heart of the bird through the flowers.
Voice constricted, Isolde barely manages to spit out, “Did she?” Thorny vines wrap around her chest and squeeze, urging her grotesque feelings of jealousy and possessiveness out from her bleeding heart.
Klara continues on with her story, seemingly heedless to Isolde’s inner turmoil, but Isolde doesn’t listen, too focused on correcting her stupid mistake, too focused on what-ifs and how that should have been her, not a random stranger.
A first kiss at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. That would have been so romantic.
She doesn’t notice the tension that spreads across her shoulders and stays, like a rope pulled too taut. Nor does she see the confused frown that settles across Klara’s mouth.
“Isolde?” She looks up to meet Klara’s gentle gaze. “You’ve been painting the same spot for a bit now,” Klara says softly, nudging Isolde’s foot with her own. “I think it’s done.”
The tattoo lies there on Klara’s arm, brilliantly colored in. Isolde hadn’t realized how quickly she worked.
“My apologies,” Isolde says quietly, still barely trusting her own voice. “I sometimes become quite lost in my painting.” Among other things.
“I’m happy to watch the master work!” Klara grins at her crookedly and gives her a mock salute with her left hand. “Even happier to serve as her canvas!”
Like the sun itself.
The tension dissipates in a flash.
Isolde cracks a smile and then a low laugh. “If you are so happy to serve, then give me your other arm, Klara.” Isolde had initially offered to only paint one arm, but she wants more now.
“Aye aye!” Comes Klara’s snappy response, and Isolde smiles wider. It’s a mystery how Klara is so easily able to dispel her foul moods.
(It’s not. Isolde knows why.)
Isolde scoots her stool closer to Klara’s so that they are now sitting side by side. It gives Isolde easier access to Klara’s left arm, even if the position is a little awkward for her to paint in, further complicated by the fact that this tattoo of Klara’s wraps around the circumference of her forearm.
She’ll just paint in a few flowers on the inside, not the entire piece, and as she paints, she asks Klara about what book she’s reading currently, directing the conversation away from holiday parties and the kisses of strangers.
Klara is only too thrilled to talk about the three books she’s working her way through. One is a charting of the history and shaping of slums globally, the other is a thick fantasy novel, and the last is a reread of some work by Fanon, Isolde didn’t quite catch the name. She wonders how exactly Klara is able to read so many works at once and keep all the details straight in her mind.
She paints a few of the flowers in vivid purples and pinks and yellows, and if Klara notices Isolde tracing some of the lines of her tattoo with her finger, then she doesn’t say anything.
After some time passes, Klara looks down at her arms and admires the finished results. “They look beautiful, Isolde!” She smiles at her, and Isolde feels the warmth of a summer day against her face. “You really did an amazing job. I knew you would, of course. You never do a bad job with anything!”
“You flatter me.”
“No, just being honest.”
Klara really needs to not say things like that. For all of her long-winded monologues, it’s her simpler statements that have a way of making Isolde’s heart skip a beat.
She busies herself with cleaning up, not trusting herself to not do something foolishly impulsive, and Klara prattles on, completely unaware of the effect her words just had on Isolde. Like usual.
But unfortunately all too soon, Klara goes to take her leave, and Isolde insists on walking her down to her car, freezing temperatures be damned.
Isolde pulls on her coat and opens the front door of her loft, Klara right behind her, and very nearly collides with Trista, who stands with her keys in hand, ready to open Isolde’s door. A box is on the ground next to her.
Oh, for god’s sake.
Klara recovers first. “You must be Isolde’s sister!” She says over Isolde’s shoulder, sounding far too chipper. “I’m Klara, Isolde’s friend.”
Isolde dares not move from her spot in between the two of them.
Trista gives Klara a once-over, face impassive. “You’re not much at all, are you?” The distaste and skepticism are more than evident in her voice, and Isolde wants to throttle her. “Trista. Charmed.”
Isolde moves to the side slightly, still staying in front of Klara, to let Trista in. She wordlessly picks up the box and heads inside, and Isolde leads Klara out, closing the door behind them, and heads to the building’s elevator.
“Did I do something to piss your sister off?” Klara asks, brow furrowed.
“No. You did nothing,” Isolde assures her. “She is just…”
“A bit of a bitch?” Sometimes Klara’s words take on an incomparably sharp, almost outright mean in some contexts, edge, both intentionally and not, that cut right to the heart of a matter or strike the truest.
“Yes, more than a bit,” Isolde sighs. “I’m sorry about what she said. You’re everything.”
Klara blinks at her. “That’s kind of you to say, but it’s alright. It’s not her opinion I care about.”
Isolde says nothing, because of course her empathetic words sailed over Klara’s head again, and lightly grasps Klara’s hand.
They wish each other farewell outside with a tight hug that lasts too long, and Isolde returns to her apartment, finding her sister sitting on her couch scrolling through her phone. The box is set on the coffee table.
Trista lifts her head, a challenge floating in her eyes. “She’s not good enough for you,” she announces before Isolde can ask her what the hell is wrong with her.
“That is not your decision to make.” Irritation flares white-hot within her chest.
“I’m your older sister, I’m supposed to have unwarranted opinions on your girlfriends.” Trista waves her hand dismissively. “Or not-girlfriend, which is one of the major issues here. The other is that I knew she wasn’t as pretty as you drew her. You’re just stupidly head over heels.”
Perhaps today is the day she kills her sister, Isolde thinks. “I think your perspective is skewed by having a new model on your arm every other week,” she bites back.
“Which is better than pining for my ‘dear’ friend!” Trista rolls her eyes, voice mocking in the way she repeats what Isolde so frequently refers to Klara as. “I don't know why you’re putting yourself through this, as painfully hilarious it is to watch.”
“Because I want her and no one else,” Isolde professes forcefully, seized by the cathexis of devotion to Klara that lives in her soul. “She is the warmth and brilliance I’ve been searching for all my life.”
Something sympathetic flashes across Trista’s face before disappearing as quickly as it appeared as she stares at Isolde, looking for something. She must find it, whatever it is, as her voice when she speaks is almost approving: “Suit yourself. I reserve the right to laugh at you when you’re still in this situation six months from now.”
“You would, regardless of what I say,” Isolde replies, and the conversation is put to rest as Trista informs her she was really only visiting to drop off a package that arrived for Isolde at her place for some reason.
Then she leaves.
Life continues on, and Isolde works on her paintings, finishing some and starting new ones. She sells a number of them; one of the buyers is a curator for a smaller contemporary art museum looking for pieces to fill out a new permanent exhibit, and apparently, Isolde’s work caught his eye. He calls it ‘fresh’ and ‘innovative,’ and Isolde can only think of how much of her art is inspired by Klara now.
The news is overwhelming. An art gallery is one thing, but a permanent part of a museum collection is another entirely. Isolde barely knows how to react, though the heartfelt, congratulatory words she receives from Druvis and her other friends are more than appreciated.
Klara is excited enough for the two of them, wrapping Isolde in a bear hug the next time they see each other, fierce enough that she lifts Isolde a little off her feet. She is effusive with her praise, telling Isolde how proud she is of her, and oh, those words almost make Isolde cry.
February rolls around, and Klara invites Isolde to her apartment, wondering if she might like to hang out for the evening. She and her roommates are planning to watch some movies.
Isolde is a little wary of meeting Klara’s roommates even if she’s only ever spoken highly of them (or with annoyed affection).
There’s no need for worry. Isolde likes both Marcus and Semmelweis. She delights in learning that she and Marcus share a favorite author and laughs as Semmelweis describes the coworker she’s been butting heads with for the past few months.
Maybe in time they’ll become her friends, too.
She curls up against Klara’s side on one end of the sofa, holding her hand tightly. The movie isn’t to her taste, too filled with schlocky action scenes for her liking, but she can’t complain too much given her current position.
From her position on the other loveseat in the room, Marcus looks down at Isolde and Klara’s joined hands and then back up at Isolde, tilting her head. The question is clear. Isolde shakes her head sadly. Marcus smiles at her, comforting and kind and understanding, and then leans over to whisper something to Semmelweis beside her.
All of Vienna must be able to see her feelings, save for the most important person.
Klara walks her to her car a while after the movie is finished and hugs her. “Text me when you get home safely, okay? The snow is starting to pick up.”
“Of course, I always do. Thank you again for inviting me over,” she says, smiling at Klara.
“I’m always happy to have you!” Klara steps back as Isolde gets into her car. “Okay, bye! Love you!”
The words slide in between her ribs like the sharpest dagger, meeting no resistance at all. “Bye, Klara. I love you, too,” Isolde replies easily and honestly, infusing the words with a resolute ardor that Klara will miss.
She cradles that kernel of Klara’s love against her, letting it make a home within her chest, right next to her heart where it has always belonged, where it always will belong. It is precious and incomparable, like Klara herself is, and she will never not be so utterly thankful to be seen as worthy of it.
Once home safely, Isolde lets her longing draw her to her canvas like it has so many times before, like it will again and again in future.
The canvas looms before her, the vast majority of it completely blank. Isolde drags a stool over and continues her work, spreading and molding paint onto the canvas, her palette evoking the sun and spring and joy.
She never works like this, operating on pure instinct and emotion. Normally, Isolde puts so much thought from beginning to end on her pieces, meticulously crafting them to best shape the empty potential of blank canvas into something beautiful and wonderful. Of course, artists of all kinds put heavy thought into their works, but Isolde has always felt she was especially particular and exacting.
But with this work, this encapsulation of her feelings for Klara, she lets her heart guide her hand, working in a manner completely contrary to her usual means, but even if her procedure is different, the style remains wholly her own. Nothing can change that, and she doesn’t think Klara would want her to change at all.
The thought burns in her heart.
It’s dawn before she knows it.
Day after day, buoyed by her love for Klara, she chips away at this canvas.
/
One concerningly and unseasonably warm late February day, Trista sends her a reservation for two at a restaurant owned by a team of renowned chefs that only opened this past week.
Got this from someone at the firm. I don’t want it, so maybe take that girl of yours?
Isolde ignores how Klara being referred to as ‘her girl’ makes her feel and begrudgingly thanks Trista for the reservation. Trista may give her no shortage of grief over her love for Klara, but at least she’s become supportive in her own way. Somewhat. Isolde still hasn’t completely forgiven her for what she said to Klara.
It is nearly impossible to keep her eyes off Klara the entirety of their meal. She looks gorgeous even as she stares awkwardly at the cutlery, not at all familiar with this kind of fine dining. If Isolde had known of this reservation before this week, she would’ve bought Klara whatever nice clothes she wanted, bespoke or designer or not, instead of leaving Klara to scramble to find something suitable, as Klara had half-complained about on the car ride here.
Her celadon-colored blouse drapes over her figure beautifully, exposing a tasteful hint of décolletage that is enough to continually draw Isolde’s eye. Klara, of course, doesn’t notice Isolde’s heated gaze on her throughout the evening, aside from a single moment where she asks if she has something on her face.
She watches Klara ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over their food, eclectic and oddly shaped as it is, and sees how she excitedly snaps photos of it to share on social media later. Isolde bites down on a star-shaped puff, disliking the taste immediately but enjoying the mouthfeel of the contrasting textures of the fillings and crust.
There’s other things she would prefer to feel with her mouth at this very moment, and she grips the fabric of her dress tightly in an effort to keep her mind from delving any further into that ill-timed thought.
Her desire for Klara has long simmered deep within her, only really surfacing when she is possessed by the urge to kiss Klara senseless or when she has indulged on a lonesome night, but for whatever reason now, the craving is nigh inescapable. She wants to take care of her. She needs-
Isolde struggles to concentrate on Klara’s words as she talks, veering into political topics as she so often does, and thankfully, it is easy to let herself coast on the sound of Klara’s voice, the brightness there as her optimism and hopes for a better world shine through each and every one of her words.
As they walk out of the restaurant, Isolde, clinging to Klara’s arm, asks, “Did you enjoy the meal, Klara?”
Klara smiles lightly. “To be perfectly honest, no!”
Her bluntness draws a giggle out of Isolde. “I didn’t either,” she says. “I do not think the taste was to my liking at all. Interesting textures throughout, though.”
“Really? I find myself at the opposite end,” Klara replies thoughtfully. “I liked the taste of most of the items, but the textures were competing too much for me to actually enjoy anything. But I think it was worth it! Even if I didn’t like the food, I still got to spend time with you, and that’s never a waste.”
Isolde almost trips.
On the car ride back, she keeps a vice grip on the steering wheel.
And if later that night, with shower water short of a scalding temperature hitting her skin, Isolde thinks of nothing but Klara as she runs her fingers down her stomach and lower, wondering, imagining, how Klara would feel around her and how she would sound, then that is her own business.
At the beginning of March, Isolde comes down with what feels like the worst case of the flu she has ever had. Realistically speaking, it’s nothing overly serious, but she is absolutely miserable, barely able to drag herself from her cocoon of blankets in bed to retrieve the deliveries of food left at her door.
Painting is out of the question, as is drawing. She tried, once, and ended up sneezing directly on her sketchbook. Disgusting. Her hands itch, deprived as she is of her art.
An incessant ringing of her doorbell wakes Isolde up at some godforsaken hour of the day. She has no idea where her phone is, surely lost among the depressing amount of blankets piled on top of her bed. With one thinner blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak, Isolde slowly pads to the door, putting a mask on so she doesn’t infect whoever woke her up.
Klara stands on the other side of her door, a reusable bag in her arms. “Isolde!” She walks past Isolde and into her loft, explaining that someone had let her into the building.
Isolde closes the door and follows after Klara, confused as to why she’s here and hoping she won’t get sick from this. She coughs roughly into her elbow, her throat irritated beyond belief.
Klara pulls out a number of items from the bag: cough drops and syrup, tissues, a box of tea, a small container of honey, and multiple tupperwares of soup. The soup is still hot, judging by the steam as Klara removes a lid.
“Klara… You didn’t have to bring me any of this.”
She looks over at her, confused. “What do you mean? Of course I did. You mentioned yesterday you were almost out of cold medication, and knowing you, you’ve been subsisting off of take-out.” Klara grabs a spoon, pushes the soup on the counter towards Isolde, and returns to her current task of making Isolde a cup of tea.
Wordlessly and hesitantly, Isolde removes her mask and begins to eat, the hot broth soothing her throat. “This is delicious. Where did you get this soup?”
Klara sets a mug of piping hot tea in front of her, honey generously mixed in. “I made it. It’s been simmering all day. A home-cooked meal always helps recovery.”
If Isolde weren’t already irrevocably in love with this woman, then this would have been the moment of falling.
She puts her mask back on before another croaky cough wracks her body. “Thank you, Klara,” Isolde says, meeting Klara’s sympathetically worried eyes. “This is beyond kind of you.”
“It’s nothing, really. I just want you to feel better, and whatever small thing I can do to aid that, I’ll do,” Klara says simply.
Isolde wishes she could hug her right now.
Klara leaves after extracting a promise from Isolde to reach out if she needs anything at all and emphasizing how important it is to stay hydrated. Isolde sits at her kitchen island counter and finishes her soup. It’s the most heavenly thing she’s had in a while.
Bit by bit she regains her health, and soon enough, spring finally arrives, full of promise. Isolde works more and more on her massive canvas, putting every feeling, large and small, into it, and it blooms more into life.
Again, Isolde sits in Klara’s apartment with her and her roommates, a movie playing on the TV. This time it’s a drama film.
She has gotten closer with Marcus and Semmelweis in the past month, and Isolde is pleased that she was correct in her earlier assessment and hope that they would become her friends.
The two of them are curled up on one loveseat while Isolde and Klara take up the other. The warmth of Klara’s body sparks an impulsive boldness within Isolde. This isn’t the place nor the time, but she cannot stop herself from blurting something out quietly: “Klara, we should go out together.”
She thinks she said the words at a volume low enough to be drowned out by the sound of TV and only be heard by Klara, but the sound of Semmelweis snorting into her drink clearly indicates the opposite.
“Hm? What, like to dinner?” Comes Klara’s confused reply. “Our food’s almost here, though. Did you want something different, Isolde?”
Isolde leans back slightly and stares at Klara, flabbergasted into speechlessness. This woman cannot be serious. How ridiculously thickheaded does someone have to be to miss that?
Semmelweis is barely containing her laughter, despite Marcus’ best attempts to hush her, and Isolde wants to throw herself into the Danube and let it carry her body all the way to the Black Sea. Her life has devolved into a circus.
Klara remains puzzled, and Isolde wishes she wouldn’t look so adorable right now. But then Klara looks down at her phone, notification bright on the screen, and announces that their food is here before heading downstairs to pick it up.
As soon as Klara is out the door, both Semmelweis and Marcus turn to look at Isolde with a concerning synchronicity, though their expressions couldn’t be more different. Isolde pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please, don’t,” she begs, knowing it’s futile.
“Um,” Marcus begins. “I don’t think that went the way you wanted it to?”
Isolde sighs. “Clearly not.”
“Wow, I knew she was clueless, but I didn’t know it was that bad,” Semmelweis states, her extreme amusement only worsening Isolde’s annoyance.
Of all the people she had to fall in love with, she had to choose the densest person in the entire world. Unbelievable.
“I would offer help, but…” Marcus trails off. “I don’t know if there’s anything at all we can do. I don’t think Klara would get it even if we told her that you loved her.”
Isolde drops her head into her hands.
“Why don’t you just kiss her?” Semmelweis asks. “It’s probably the only thing she’d actually understand.”
She is saved from answering that question as Klara walks back into the apartment, food in hand, but her annoyance doesn’t dissipate.
No, her irritation colors her mood for days after, bleeding into the paintings she needs to finish and her interactions with others. She takes it out on Trista mostly.
(Isolde keeps away from the large canvas, not wanting to put these feelings into it, but guilt gnaws at her. That work is meant to capture all of her thoughts about Klara. Is it not dishonest to herself to keep these emotions from it? She cannot understand for the life of her how Klara has missed every single sign of her love.)
”Did I do something to annoy you?” Klara asks her one day over lunch, and Isolde almost chokes on her tea.
“No, Klara, of course not,” she says, worried. “Why do you ask?”
Klara hesitates. “You’ve seemed a little frustrated recently, and it feels directed at me.” She looks down at her tea, brows knit together and mouth slightly downturned. Isolde dislikes the troubled expression and wants to wipe it away. “So I want to know how to fix it if it is because of me. Or at the very least I want to apologize.”
Isolde takes Klara’s hand and holds it between both of hers like it is the most valuable treasure. Something about Klara’s first assumption of whatever possible offense she may have caused being one of annoyance breaks her heart a little. Klara has always been so attentive to Isolde’s moods, which only makes her inability to see Isolde’s feelings for what they are all the more aggravating, but Isolde never meant for her exasperations to make Klara feel like she did something wrong when she hasn’t.
Her obliviousness is not a crime nor a moral failing, and Isolde shouldn’t be allowing herself to be so frustrated with Klara, at least not to this point.
“You have done nothing wrong, Klara,” Isolde says fervently, holding Klara’s hand more tightly. “I apologize for giving you reason to think so. I have simply been tearing my hair out over a painting. It is not you. You most certainly have not annoyed me.” The white lie comes easily.
Klara’s immense relief is palpable.
“Why have you not done something else?” Druvis asks that night as they talk on the phone. Isolde needs her best friend now more than ever, needs her advice and steady presence. “Ask if you can kiss her.”
That’s the question, isn’t it.
“I am afraid,” Isolde whispers.
Klara has never outright rejected her advances or her affection, has never said that Isolde’s touchiness or clinginess made her uncomfortable, and Isolde knows she would say something if she was truly not okay with something Isolde did, despite her inclinations to put others’ needs before her own. She never seems to mind Isolde’s need for physical touch, is always happy to accommodate her, and responds in kind as much as she can, initiates it even, sometimes.
It is not the possibility of rejection that scares Isolde. Though it would break her heart if Klara truly never did return her love in the way she wanted, Isolde would never hold it against her. Klara loves her, in her own way, and that is wonderful and precious.
What scares her is a disruption to their friendship, a change. Klara does not seem the type to let something like unreturned feelings ruin a friendship; she values all of her friends too much for that. Yet Isolde worries about their friendship weakening or the two of them drifting apart because of possible awkwardness or similar emotions.
She tells Druvis all of this and more, every word a confession.
The smart thing to do would be to move on, yet Isolde cannot and will not fathom falling out of love with someone, with Klara. She thinks she is meant to love until her heart gives out, but she doesn’t know if this is because Klara is her first love or if this is simply how she is as a person. How much does it matter?
“What will you do if she finds someone that isn’t you?” Druvis asks her, not unkindly. “I do not want you to be hurt.”
“I don’t know,” Isolde admits. She remembers what Klara told her about New Year’s Eve. The thought makes her tense and ball her hands into a tight fist, her ugly feelings of possessiveness and jealousy rearing their heads, bearing down on her with all their weight.
She wants Klara to be hers and hers alone.
“I want to continue loving her. I can’t not love her,” Isolde says after a moment of silence. “She has my heart and soul and does not even know it.”
“Every flower blooms in its own time,” Druvis muses. “I only worry that hers will not blossom before yours wilts away.”
Isolde shakes her head even though Druvis cannot see it. “I would wait forever for her. She is not unreachable.” She has to believe that.
No time spent loving Klara could ever be considered wasted.
/
Early April sees Isolde have her first thrashing nightmare in years, reminiscent of the night terrors she suffered through in childhood.
She wakes up gasping for air and crying, tangled in her sheets. It takes several moments to reorient herself, to remember where she is, that she’s not trapped in that godawful dream anymore.
Her mind races like her heart does, and she struggles to wrest it under control.
Isolde shakily reaches for her phone and calls the person who makes her feel safest. It’s just past three in the morning, Klara surely won’t pick up.
But she does, on the fourth ring. “...’Solde?” Comes Klara’s half-asleep voice, and the dropped first syllable is a record scratch in Isolde’s mind. The last time someone shortened her name without permission - and she doesn’t give permission for that to anyone, ever - she had slashed their tires.
(In her defense, she was eighteen, her parents had just passed, and the person had called her Izzy. Ugh.)
“Klara,” she manages to choke out. “I’m sorry. I woke you.” Of course she did, it’s 3:06. “Please, go back to sleep.”
“No, you sound like you’ve been crying.” Klara’s voice is instantly more alert, though sleep still clings to it. “Are you okay? Are you safe?”
She clutches her blanket. “I’m safe.” Isolde sucks in a shuddering breath and exhales slowly. “I’m at home. Bad nightmare.” She has no idea what caused it. The new medication her psychiatrist recommended to her? It’s the only real possibility she can think of.
“I’m sorry,” Klara says. “Is there any way I can help?”
“Talk? Please? About anything, it doesn’t matter at all.” The vulnerability of such a request cuts into her, right through her ribs and into her heart.
“I can do that,” Klara affirms, and Isolde can hear the smile in her voice. Klara has never needed an excuse to talk at length about something.
Klara talks and talks, her voice soothing, and Isolde falls asleep with her phone in her hand, wishing that Klara was right next to her, holding her.
She wakes up the next morning and sees a text from Klara: I’m pretty sure you fell asleep! I hope you managed to get a more restful sleep this time around.
I did. Thank you, Klara. Is what she sends back.
The weeks pass. Isolde throws herself into her paintings as she has so many she needs to finish, including a bluemoon commission she took from someone who had already bought a number of her smaller paintings. Her untitled painting - Isolde hasn’t even considered titles at this point - becomes slowly and slowly more vivid, paint overtaking blank canvas.
Klara continues to bring her the occasional bunch of old flowers from the shop, always chastising Isolde for forgetting to water them. They may be past their prime, but that’s no excuse to not care for them!
With the weather turning warmer, Isolde continues to fill in the tattoos on Klara’s arm every so often. It was such a silly idea originally, but Klara enjoys the splashes of color and Isolde enjoys leaving her mark on Klara. She wonders when she’ll be able to work on the tattoo that begins from under Klara’s collarbone and crests over her shoulder.
In the middle of the night in mid spring, Isolde’s phone rings as she works on a smaller painting. She only answers when she sees that it’s Klara calling.
“Can you let me up?” Klara says immediately. “I’m downstairs.”
She gives Klara the code to the building door, and before she knows it, Klara stands outside her apartment, breathing like she took the stairs and not the elevator.
“What’s going on?” Isolde asks, mildly annoyed at being taken away from her painting.
“Do you have access to the building’s roof? It’s tall and flat so we should have a good view,” Klara asks, not at all explaining anything.
Confused, Isolde replies, “I don’t have a key, no, and I don’t think I can get one at this hour. Why do you need access to the roof, Klara?”
“The moon, Isolde! There’s an eclipse! Come on, grab your camera!” As soon as Isolde retrieves the item, Klara is grabbing Isolde’s jacket from the coat rack and tugging her out the door.
Klara pulls open a window in the hall and climbs out onto the fire escape that Isolde always thought was a little unstable looking. “I don’t think we’re supposed to use this outside of emergencies,” she worries.
“It’ll be fine!” Klara says.
They head up to the roof, and Isolde is already dreading the climb back down. But Klara was right, her building’s roof does allow an unfettered view of the blood red moon shining above them. Totality, or mid-eclipse, must have already started. Isolde is completely unused to taking photos of the moon; she’s sure these will come out poorly, but Klara all but bounces with excitement next to her at the prospect.
So Isolde takes the photos.
Klara chatters on, pointing out the different topographical features of the moon that Isolde is sure she must have memorized from Wikipedia. But as always, Klara is so attractive like this, speaking with such excitement and passion, that Isolde is but the tide pulled along to her gravity.
She wants to kiss her.
Instead, she does something different.
“I love you,” Isolde tells Klara, reaching for her hand and intertwining their fingers as she always does, without fail.
Klara looks at her and smiles like the sun shines. “I love you, too, Isolde!”
She doesn’t mean it the way Isolde wants her to mean it. Marcus was right, even the most direct words don’t register with Klara.
Isolde’s annoyance with Klara’s lack of romantic awareness is entirely fond at this point. She pats the back of Klara’s hand, having no more words to say.
“Thanks for indulging me in this,” Klara says as they leave the roof. “I know it was out of nowhere, but I appreciate it.”
Isolde would give Klara the entire world if she asked for it. This is nothing at all.
/
They have more than a little too much to drink one late afternoon turned into night as spring comes to an end, marathoning two long films that Klara swore up and down Isolde would like, and Isolde’s carefully maintained composure almost breaks.
The films are older ones, artsy and meandering but compelling with their heavy themes and gorgeous cinematography. Klara was more than correct in her assurance that Isolde would enjoy them. That, and Isolde always enjoys how close they sit together during their hangouts, close enough for Isolde to rest her head on Klara’s shoulder. Other times they sit on opposite ends of the sofa, legs tangled together under a blanket or two, but Isolde vastly prefers the former.
Klara is always so warm to the touch.
They talk over the cheap wine Klara brought with her, with one bottle quickly turning to two and then most of a third, after the movies finish, and Klara rambles on and on about trivia. Isolde wonders how she’s able to remember even the most obscure details about each film’s production or the offhand things mentioned in old interviews. She asks Klara about it, and Klara bashfully replies that she enjoys deep-diving into the films she considers to be among her favorites.
With every successive glass of wine, Klara grows only more and more exuberant, her gestures becoming more animated, her eyes shining all the while. Isolde is the opposite, quieting, entirely content to listen to Klara speak unceasingly. She pushes herself closer against Klara, wanting no distance between them, and finds herself all but sitting in Klara’s lap, playing with one of her hands.
Like always, Klara doesn’t mind the new physical proximity, or at least she doesn’t comment on it beyond her usual reaction of making sure that Isolde is comfortable.
Isolde doesn’t normally drink so much alcohol, at least nothing more than a single glass of something at a time. The loss of control that comes with intoxication sits uncomfortably with her, and she avoids it as much as she can. But she feels so safe with Klara; no harm will come to her with Klara here. So, Isolde lets herself indulge, both in alcohol and closeness to Klara. Maybe it’s okay to not be entirely and so rigidly in control of herself here.
“I’m really happy you liked these two films, Isolde! I would’ve been a little disappointed if you didn’t, admittedly,” Klara says, her words a little slurred by the alcohol.
Isolde pokes her. “You know my tastes well enough by now,” she says. “I would enjoy watching just about anything with you.” Mostly anything. Even the shows and films she doesn’t care for would be bearable with Klara’s presence.
“I try!” Klara beams at her, brightening the whole room with her smile. Isolde desperately wants to kiss her. “I would never suggest we watch something that I thought you would dislike.”
“That’s sweet of you,” Isolde murmurs as she leans forward.
She hovers just shy of Klara’s face, the latter looking at her questioningly, lips still curved into a smile, lips that Isolde wants - no, needs - to finally claim. Everything within Isolde screams at her to take this last step, and she feels her resolve, already weakened by the wine in her system, dissipating by the millisecond.
Fantasies flash through Isolde’s mind: the sensation of Klara’s lips against hers and on her neck, her hands on her breasts, the flush on her face and the sounds she makes as Isolde curls her fingers-
With a shaky sigh, Isolde uses the last mote of self-control she possesses and rests her head in the crook of Klara’s neck, mumbling for her to continue what she was saying. Klara deserves far better than their first kiss, their first time together, being some drunken antics.
Klara continues on like nothing happened, wrapping an arm around Isolde’s shoulders and switching topics to some documentary on manatees she watched recently. Her dear voice is music to Isolde’s ears, calming her mind and setting her heart at serene ease as it always does.
“Oh, gosh, is that the time?” Klara’s sudden question rouses Isolde. She hadn’t realized she was so close to falling asleep against Klara. Isolde looks over to see a time well past midnight displayed on Klara’s phone.
She scooches over and removes herself from Klara’s lap as Klara moves to stand. “I should probably get going.” Except Klara stands far too unsteadily, and her words are still too jumbled to indicate any type of sobriety.
“Neither of us are in any condition to drive.” Isolde also stands, her movements a little smoother than Klara’s. “Stay the night with me, Klara.”
“If you’re sure!” Klara chirps happily. “I can crash on the couch.”
“No, silly, sleep with me,” Isolde breathes, voice low and teasing. She is treading a very fine line here, but she absolutely cannot bring herself to care as she grabs Klara by the hand and pulls her in the direction of her bedroom. “I don’t bite much.” That’s a complete lie.
Like all of Isolde’s flirtations, the comment flies so far over Klara’s darling head it exits the atmosphere and leaves Earth’s gravitational pull entirely. How can one woman be so utterly clueless? It defies all rational explanations.
Klara giggles as she stumbles after Isolde. “Like a sleepover! I’d suggest building a fort or something, but I don’t think we’re coordinated enough right now for the engineering genius it takes to construct a good pillow fort.” She nods to herself with all the seriousness that such a topic deserves.
Isolde rolls her eyes goodnaturedly, unable and unwilling to fight the smile that spreads across her face at Klara’s laughing words. So oblivious yet so unconsciously and sincerely charming. It’s a dangerous combination for Isolde’s heart; it has been since she’s gotten to know Klara, since their very first meeting even.
She reaches into one of her dresser drawers and pulls out a worn soft t-shirt and pair of shorts for Klara to wear to bed. They should fit well enough. Klara takes them with a quiet ‘thanks’ and heads to the bathroom to change.
Her head fuzzy with wine, Isolde changes into her typical sleep attire, nothing but an oversized vintage band tee, and goes about her usual nightly routine, or at least parts of it. When Klara walks back into the bedroom, her own clothes folded neatly in her arms, Isolde struggles to think anything remotely appropriate about the fact that Klara is wearing her clothes.
Or about how Klara climbs into Isolde’s bed like she knows she belongs there, glasses placed on the nightstand, picking one side for herself and still chattering on about nothing in particular, though her sentences are now punctuated with yawns.
Isolde switches off the light and gets under the covers. She can barely see Klara in the dim lights of the streets outside that filter in through her bedroom window. Klara continues to speak, but her voice progressively grows sleepier and sleepier.
“Go to sleep, Klara. You can finish telling me about this in the morning,” Isolde says quietly.
“You’re-” Another large yawn. “Right.” Klara rolls over onto her side, facing away from Isolde. “Night, ‘Solde. Love you.”
Isolde stares at Klara’s back in the darkness. “Sleep well. I love you, too.” With those words said, her heart with Klara as it always is, Isolde makes herself comfortable and tries to drift off.
Sleep does not come for her, despite her intoxication pulling her towards the land of dreams. Isolde focuses on the nigh imperceptible rise and fall of Klara’s breathing. The small space between them in bed might as well be as wide as the Pacific Ocean for how distant Isolde feels from Klara.
It’s unbearable.
Isolde inches herself closer and closer until she is snug against Klara’s warm back. She lays her arm across Klara’s stomach, holding her close, her bare legs only just touching Klara’s. There is no resisting the urge she feels to leave a small kiss against Klara’s shoulder. Isolde kisses her again in the same spot once more for good measure.
Better, so much better.
Klara does not stir. She sleeps peacefully, and the combination of her body heat and being able to feel each inhale and exhale against her finally lulls Isolde into a deep slumber.
Isolde wakes up the next morning, feeling slightly dehydrated but otherwise not hungover, and blinks the sunlight that shines in through the window out of her eyes. She shifts and abruptly feels Klara pressed tightly against her back.
At some point in the night, Isolde’s sleepshirt must have ridden up for Klara’s arm now rests on the bare skin of her abdomen and waist, under her shirt. Her hand is settled over Isolde’s ribs, just beneath her breast.
Klara still sleeps but her touch burns like fire all the same.
Heart beating forcefully in her chest, Isolde sinks back against Klara, trying terribly to sear this feeling into her memory. She doesn’t want this to end. Gingerly, she moves Klara’s arm to a more innocuous position as she fixes her shirt and drapes Klara’s arm over it. The absence of the skin-to-skin contact cuts deeply, but she doesn’t want Klara to feel awkward when she wakes up.
Every moment that passes is blissful, though Isolde fears it all ending too much to fully let herself revel in it.
Eventually, she has to get up; her throat is dry and her mouth is cottony. Isolde begins to extract herself from Klara’s embrace, still trying not to wake Klara, only for Klara’s hold on her to tighten as she grumbles and burrows her face into Isolde’s shoulder.
Isolde laughs; she can’t help it.
“Your laugh is so pretty, ‘Solde, but please not so loud,” Klara whines into her shoulder, and Isolde promptly loses the ability to think coherently. It is far, far too early for this. How fortunate that Klara cannot see the blush that colors her face now.
A beat passes before Isolde speaks. She keeps her voice low in volume so as not to aggravate Klara. “You cannot be so hungover, can you? I’m not.”
Klara mumbles an answer: “Always get hungover easily.”
With a promise to bring her back water and aspirin, Isolde manages to reluctantly leave Klara’s embrace. She pulls both sets of curtains on the windows closed and downs a glass of water in her kitchen. There isn’t much in terms of breakfast foods in her fridge or pantry, making her wonder if she can convince Klara to grab coffee and pastries with her this morning.
She returns to the bedroom to see that Klara has pulled the blankets entirely over her head. Cute. Isolde sets the water and two pills down on the nightstand and shakes the Klara-sized lump on her bed.
“I’ll let you sleep in if you want, Klara,” Isolde says softly, and Klara pokes her head out from under the covers, squinting slightly at her with her hair completely and adorably mussed from sleep. “I’ll be in my studio painting when you’re ready to grab coffee and breakfast. Water’s here for you.” She hopes Klara doesn’t already have plans for the rest of the day.
Klara nods and disappears once more under the blankets. “Thanks. I’ll be up soon, promise,” comes her muffled reply.
The aching domesticity of it all tugs at Isolde’s heartstrings none too gently. She so wants to kiss Klara on the cheek or anywhere and everywhere, really, but she settles for squeezing her covered shoulder once.
Isolde gets ready for the day, dressing and putting her hair up in a haphazard bun. Reusable water bottle in hand, she walks to her studio space. She hits play on a jazz album in her phone’s music library, ties her usual lilac bandana over her hair to keep her bangs out of her face, and resumes work on one of her unfinished pieces, a moody nighttime scene dotted with crushed flower petals.
Flowers feature in most of her pieces now, something that Trista gives her no small amount of grief over.
Her mind replays how Klara called her laugh pretty on a loop, how Klara dropped the first syllable off her name like she tends to do when tired or otherwise distracted. She fixates on the feeling of Klara’s hand on her bare skin, how her hold tightened just for a moment as she pulled Isolde closer.
It would have been so easy to pull her hand up a little higher. Isolde bites her lip and wishes she kissed Klara last night, even if she’s ultimately glad she did not.
She can’t work on this piece. Her head isn’t in the right place. There’s only Klara.
Isolde steps away from her easel and quickly cleans her current brush before setting it aside and walking up to the massive canvas that dominates one end of her studio. Still now so much of the canvas is blank, with not even a preparatory sketch lightly drawn. Only a little over half has been painted. She pulls over her step stool to reach the upper corner and border she’s been working on and begins to work.
Nothing else exists but her and the canvas as she spreads and dots warm-toned oil paint onto stretched and primed linen. She pours her currently all-consuming thoughts about Klara out. Nothing guides her but the burning need to make her feelings concrete and tangible in some small, beautiful way that speaks for her, requiring no further action or words from her, no further inaction or things left unspoken.
Isolde doesn’t notice that the album repeats and starts again, as caught in the flow as she currently is, nor does she hear Klara open the glass door to her studio space.
The sensation of someone looking at her pricks along the back of her neck, and Isolde turns to see Klara standing there, who immediately flashes her a bright smile. “Good morning, Klara,” Isolde says, smiling back. She steps down the ladder, sets her tools to the side, and fixes the fallen shoulder of her paint-stained chambray overshirt.
“Hi, morning. I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Klara says, sounding not quite as rough as she did earlier. “It’s a joy to watch you work.”
They talk while Isolde cleans her brushes and materials, and she sees Klara repeatedly glance over to the large piece Isolde was working on. It’s not like she hasn’t seen it before, but Klara has never commented on it beyond remarking on the canvas’ imposing size and expressing excitement on seeing what Isolde would create.
Klara’s gaze lingers on the piece now. She closes one eye as she extends a hand out and traces with her index finger in the air along the edges of where Isolde has painted. “A warmth radiates throughout, starting as a sudden sunburst before settling into something gentler, maybe? Like the feeling of a solid hug or being wrapped with a thick blanket. It’s all joyous, though, completely overflowing with happiness.” She smiles faintly but terribly fondly. “And you’ve rendered the flowers so lovingly throughout so far.”
Never does Klara directly ask Isolde what her paintings might mean, even before she became fully aware that Isolde hates explaining them. She instead offers up her own interpretation of them, observing the piece in its totality, with her thoughts on them often ending up as a long-winded string of sentences, as they tend to do when she’s passionate about something. Even when her remarks are nothing more than a simple praise of a painting’s beauty, the words are still delivered as sincere as anything she says.
And on the bluemoon occasion where Klara has nothing to say, both in regards to Isolde’s art or whatever Isolde has said in general, she’ll return to Isolde days later with an ‘I thought about what you said’ or other similar comment.
Isolde loves that about her.
“I don’t think I can adequately convey how excited I am to see you finish this!” Klara says. “It’s nowhere near finished, but already it’s so beautiful, like all of your paintings are.” She turns to face Isolde. “I know it’ll be a masterpiece,” she says softly, expression brimming with admiration.
Isolde’s grip on the now-clean paintbrush in her hand tightens to such a degree that she worries she might snap the handle in half. She wants to kiss Klara again and again, leaving her as breathless as she unintentionally leaves Isolde on a near-daily basis.
She settles for something else just as wonderful, striding over to Klara and throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. Klara lets out a small ’oh!’ of surprise but hugs Isolde back just as tightly.
Neither of them says anything. Isolde briefly contemplates breaking her self-imposed rule and explaining the painting to Klara, but no, now isn’t the time, if ever there’ll be one. Ideally, she’d like Klara to arrive at the conclusion herself that the painting is inspired by her and her vibrancy, but Isolde may as well wish for world peace or something equally impossible.
“Thank you,” Isolde says as she steps back.
Klara tilts her head to the side. “For what? What I said about your painting? I don’t think I’ve done anything else worth thanking.”
“For that, yes, but mostly just for being yourself.” Isolde smiles at Klara’s confused expression and pats her cheek. “Let’s go have breakfast.”
They walk hand-in-hand to a nearby cafe, and Isolde giggles at Klara’s grumbling about the sun being too bright, completely unaware that she herself shines more brilliantly than it every day.
/
It’s a bright, gorgeous day when it finally happens.
Isolde looks at the sunlight streaming in through the windows of her loft and decides that there won’t be a better day than this to stretch her legs and enjoy the fresh air. She needs a break from the smell of paints that permeates her studio, and today is perfect to do some plein air sketching and maybe take some photos for later studies.
A glance at her phone’s calendar tells her Klara isn’t working today (and she’s made her peace with the intimacy of having Klara’s work schedule listed out clearly in her own calendar. Klara, kindhearted as ever, hadn’t batted an eye at Isolde asking for her schedule, under the excuse of not bothering her so much during her working hours).
She texts Klara, asking if she would be amenable to joining her at the park today. I will be drawing and taking photos, so please feel free to bring one of the many books you’ve been reading recently. I do not wish for you to be bored.
And oh so predictably, Klara responds within a few moments, expressing nothing but eagerness to join her. I could never be bored with you!
Isolde smiles at the text. Druvis has told her many times that it seems like she and Klara are joined at the hip, a pair of inosculated trees growing in perfect harmony.
They really are, aren’t they? Where you find one, you’ll almost certainly find the other not too far away.
It is warm outside, a quintessentially perfect summer day. The park is crowded, filled with people biking and running down the central, tree-lined lane and others hiking through the forested areas.
They walk at a comfortably slow amble, stopping every time Isolde sees something worth capturing for later study practice, from the interesting crumble of bark on a tree to the dapples of light on the water surface of a small stream.
Klara talks about every topic under the sun it feels like as they walk, and Isolde only half listens to what she says, more focused on her photography and the sound of Klara’s voice rather than her actual words. It’s sweet, though, the way Klara pauses in her ramblings whenever Isolde picks her camera up to take a shot so as not to distract Isolde, though little does Klara realize that her mere presence can be terribly distracting.
Once Isolde feels she has enough shots, she and Klara make their way back to the center lane of the park.
Klara stops to buy a large waffle cone with a double scoop of ice cream from a cart vendor and offers to buy Isolde one as well. Isolde looks down at the camera in her hands and the drawing materials in her tote and knows her hands will be too full to properly enjoy the treat. She instead settles for grasping Klara’s hand by the wrist just as she goes to have the first taste of her ice cream and stealing said first bite, enjoying the sound of Klara’s indignant ‘hey!’ as she does so.
She winks at Klara before turning to continue walking, hearing Klara mutter something under her breath but not seeing the way the tips of her ears flush a vivid scarlet, though she can imagine the sight. It has been especially easy to fluster Klara these past three weeks, with something as little as Isolde picking a piece of lint out of Klara’s hair leaving her with a dusting of pink on her cheeks.
Isolde’s unsure what has changed so recently, but she can only hope that maybe her obvious feelings have made it through Klara’s thick skull.
They quickly find a bench with a scenic view through the trees. Perfect for a landscape drawing, Isolde thinks. They sit closely next to each other, but Klara makes sure Isolde has enough room to work without being too crowded. Always so thoughtful. Isolde opens her sketchbook, brings out her colored pencils, and begins drawing what she sees.
“Do you want me to keep talking as you draw?” Klara asks. “Or should I stay silent?”
“Mm. Please continue if you wish. Very rarely would I object to hearing your voice, Klara,” Isolde replies, already intently concentrating on her study. She usually paints or draws when they speak late at night, and Klara always asks if Isolde is sure that she isn’t distracting her.
With Isolde’s permission, Klara continues to chatter on happily in between enjoying her ice cream, and Isolde can’t help but smile to herself as she draws. She feels Klara’s eyes lingering on her at times, watching her work, and doesn’t mind Klara gazing at her at all, not like she would with other people doing so.
Isolde glances over at Klara after she asks a question that Isolde barely processed.
A bit of rapidly-melting ice cream clings to Klara’s mouth, not yet wiped away.
In a fraction of a second, Isolde stops thinking and throws caution to the wind. She leans forward and presses her lips against Klara’s in a gentle kiss, muffling the surprised sound that Klara makes. Klara kisses her back tentatively, and Isolde’s heart couldn’t be beating faster.
The ice cream tastes like heaven itself.
Isolde pulls away after a moment. Klara’s face is crimson, her eyes wide in surprise, and heat rises in Isolde’s cheeks. Neither of them say anything for a moment until Klara sputters a string of incomprehensible words out.
A quiet laugh escapes Isolde. “Klara, I understood none of that.”
Klara takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what I was trying to say there,” she laughs a bit sheepishly before her expression, still ruddy, turns more tender than any Isolde has seen on her face. “Can we do that again? I can kiss you better.”
Butterflies flutter about in Isolde’s stomach. “Please,” she murmurs as she leans forward again. Klara meets her halfway, and the contact between their lips is electric, sending a current of small sparks down Isolde’s spine.
It’s the best kiss Isolde has ever had. She wonders if every future kiss she shares with Klara will continue to be better than the one that came before.
And only with the greatest reluctance in the universe does Isolde break the kiss before she completely loses herself in it, remembering that they are still in public.
Klara gives her a sunny, slightly dazed smile, still quite rosy-cheeked, and Isolde wants to kiss her again and again joyously. A glance down, though, shows that Klara is holding her ice cream cone at a tilted angle, causing some of the melted portions to dribble over the side and onto Klara’s fingers.
“Your ice cream,” Isolde says softly, more than amused.
“Huh? Oh, shit.” Klara scrambles to wipe off her fingers. It’s a miracle she didn’t actually drop her ice cream, Isolde thinks fondly.
Isolde sets her sketchbook and pencils to the side and scoots closer to Klara on the bench, so that they now sit thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. The skin to skin contact gives Isolde such ease. She repeats her earlier action, pulling Klara’s wrist closer and taking a bite of her ice cream. Klara mutters that Isolde could just ask normally if she wanted some and Klara would’ve given her as much as she wanted, but Isolde shakes her head with a small smile and replies that it’s more fun this way.
They settle into companionable silence, sharing and finishing the ice cream quickly. Isolde claims most of the waffle cone pieces for herself much to Klara’s mock dismay.
Klara reaches for her hand and intertwines their fingers with a touch of hesitancy, as if they don’t hold hands all the time, but Isolde supposes that it holds a different meaning and weight for Klara now. Gone is the veneer of purely platonic feelings that coated their relationship.
“I didn’t know if you liked me back,” Klara admits. “I hoped so, of course, but you’re you.” Isolde can only imagine Klara means something outrageous like Isolde being out of her league.
“Klara,” Isolde says with loving exasperation. “I have been flirting with you for nearly the entire time we have known each other.”
“What?!” Klara’s exclamation, not dissimilar to the alarmed squawk of a parrot, is loud enough to draw onlookers’ curious eyes. Isolde almost flinches at the volume. “How- What-” She drops her head into her free hand and groans like she wishes that the ground would swallow her up.
Isolde squeezes her hand sympathetically. She valiantly holds back any and all comments about the numerous exceedingly obvious signs that Klara missed. Likely she’s too embarrassed to hear those right now; Isolde will just have to tease her about them later.
“You’ve had feelings for me all this time?” Klara’s voice is trepidatious, disbelieving, as she picks her head back up. “And I never noticed any of it whatsoever. I can’t believe that you didn’t lose interest or anything!”
“You’re worth waiting for,” Isolde replies easily. Klara’s worth everything and more; she needs her to know that. “You’re so very wonderful.”
Klara’s face is bashful. “You are, too. Beyond wonderful.” She brings their joined hands into her lap, covering Isolde’s hand with both of hers. “God, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for the past few weeks. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.” Isolde stares at Klara, and it may as well be her heart cradled between Klara’s hands for how soft and adoring her voice is. “I don’t know what made me realize my feelings for you, and I’ve no idea how long I’ve felt this way, either. Probably for a while, and I never could tell that my own feelings for you were different.”
She continues on and on, because it’s always been so hard to stop Klara when she gets going, and Isolde cannot imagine stopping her now, not in this pivotal moment. “You’re such a creative, thoughtful person, and you put so much care into every word you say. The way you dedicate yourself so fully to your painting…” Klara smiles at her like the sun, like she always does. It’s a little lopsided, a little goofy looking, but it’s the most beautiful thing Isolde has ever seen. “I admire you so much, Isolde.”
Isolde kisses Klara on the cheek and rests her head on her shoulder, filled with happiness. “Just as I admire you. How could I not when you are so empathetic, charming, and passionate? You’re intelligent and principled and the most sincere person I’ve ever met. Of course I’m enchanted by you on every level possible.” She cannot at all conceive of a reality where she isn’t completely taken with Klara. “You are incomparable.”
“Oh! That’s- You’re too kind.” Klara fidgets slightly, sounding flustered. “You’re my favorite person in the whole world to spend time with. I like seeing you smile and hearing everything you have to say.” She holds Isolde’s hand a little tighter. “Your laugh is the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard.” Again with that compliment. It might be the death of Isolde for how it makes her heart stop.
Klara rambles on, her words ardent and so full of warmth. Isolde loves her so much. She takes their joined hands and brings them up to her lips, reverently kissing the back of Klara’s hand. The simple action is enough to make Klara stop talking with a hitched breath, though such a result was not Isolde’s aim.
Nevertheless, she takes the opening. “Klara, be my girlfriend,” Isolde says, as direct as she possibly can be. “I want to be yours and for you to be mine.” She’s been Klara’s since the first time she saw her, Isolde knows in the depths of her being, but she wants to hear Klara say it.
Klara presses a kiss against her head. “Yes! You beat me to the punch. I wanted to take you out to dinner, give you flowers, sweep you off your feet like you deserve.”
Giddy with joy, Isolde laughs lightly. “You can still do that. How does tomorrow sound?”
“It sounds perfect.” A moment passes, and Isolde can almost physically feel Klara weighing her words beside her. “I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine. You… wanted me to say those words back, right? I’m not misreading you?”
Isolde lifts her head off Klara’s shoulder and stares at her. Klara’s eyes twinkle behind her glasses. A quick glance around reveals any nearby people are too absorbed in their own activities to notice anything out of the ordinary. And so Isolde pulls Klara in for a searing kiss that ends far too quickly. Isolde cannot keep the self-satisfied smile from spreading across her face at how Klara genuinely looks as if she’s seeing stars when she pulls away.
If they weren’t in public, Isolde would be doing unspeakable things to her.
But they are, and Isolde is in no rush to leave the warm air, so their conversation turns to more mundane topics like the show Klara’s been watching or a new artist Isolde recently discovered. Isolde returns to her drawing, later holding up the finished product for Klara to see and her chest filling with pride as Klara marvels over the small details.
“Do you have enough photos?” Klara asks, expression thoughtful. “It’s late in the afternoon, you could get some amazing photos on the Riesenrad? It’s at the end of the park, and we’re here, so…” She trails off. It’s obvious Klara doesn’t want their day together to end just yet.
“I’ve never been on it before,” Isolde says. “I’ve never been on a ferris wheel ever, now that I think about it.”
“No? Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go! We’ll grab something to eat, too. I’m starving!” And there Klara goes, chattering on as she grabs Isolde’s hand while they walk to the northeastern end of the park.
It’s a long walk, and they could have taken the rail if they so wished, but Klara’s hand is warm in hers and like Klara, Isolde doesn’t want their day together to end just yet either.
Klara is right. Isolde does manage to capture some wonderful photos of Vienna blanketed in the colors of the afternoon golden hour during the slow ride. They’ll be wonderful to use as references later.
They are not alone in their Riesenrad wagon, not at all, but Klara looks at Isolde the entire time as if they were, completely ignoring the sunset vista outside. It’s wonderful to be admired so openly by Klara, and the way her hand rests on the small of Isolde’s back feels so correct.
Over dinner, Klara tells her of all the times she came to this amusement park as a kid with her family, and Isolde is almost jealous of the abundantly normal childhood Klara seems to have had. Isolde shares stories of the trips abroad she and her family took in-between her mother’s performances and Trista’s acting jobs, and Klara asks question after question about these childhood trips. Isolde should have expected that.
The next couple of hours pass, and soon enough Isolde is dropping Klara off in front of her apartment building.
“I had a nice time today, Isolde,” Klara says warmly.
“I did as well. Thank you for accompanying me.” Isolde leans over and cups Klara’s cheek before kissing her.
It’s slow and lingering, the kiss of two new lovers who don’t wish to part from one another. Klara grasps the back of Isolde’s neck, sighing against Isolde’s lips. After an unknowable amount of time passes, Isolde pulls away, slightly breathless. Klara fares no better than her. She gives her another quick peck on the lips for good measure.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Klara smiles at her. “Text me when you get home safely, okay?”
Klara doesn’t tell her she loves her like she normally does. Isolde misses it immediately with a foolish aching in her heart. Like everything else, those words surely hold a different meaning for Klara now. Isolde won’t rush her.
They have all the time in the world.
/
Klara does indeed sweep her off her feet the next night at dinner. How could Isolde be anything but utterly charmed by the artfully arranged bouquet of flowers that she knows Klara prepared herself or the affectionate handwritten card that accompanies it?
Oh, but with how irrevocably in love with Klara she is, Isolde does find most nearly everything she does to be incredibly endearing.
That night, despite how tired she is after dinner - they stayed at the restaurant until closing, talking - Isolde finds herself in front of the massive canvas in her studio, bursting with inspiration. She paints until four in the morning.
Her canvas approaches two-thirds of the way done in record speed.
/
The following weeks pass by in a joyful haze as they navigate their new relationship. There’s a slightly awkward period of adjustment as they learn new boundaries, but they grow closer than ever, strong in their shared affections like magnets pulled together.
Klara is as sweet and considerate as ever, and truly, she’s even more wonderful to be with than Isolde imagined. It’s impossible to not notice the conscious effort Klara puts into, well, courting her, and it does make Isolde want to swoon a little. But for all of Klara’s natural thoughtfulness and compassion, her actions now feel several steps above that, and Isolde worries that Klara may be forcing herself to be what she thinks Isolde wants in this relationship instead of simply being herself, which is all Isolde ever wanted.
She voices this concern to Klara as kindly as possible during one of their dates as she plays with her fingers. Klara ducks her head slightly, blushing and squeezing Isolde’s fingers in return. “I know you enjoy the more romantic things, Isolde, and I want to give you everything you want. Is it too much?”
With her other hand, Isolde redirects Klara’s gaze to meet hers with a feathery touch on her jaw. “Klara, I want you.” In every sense of the word. “You need only be yourself. You’re already quite charming.”
“Ah, if you say so.” Klara smiles at her. “I don’t really know what I’m doing - this is all so new to me - but I do know I just want to make you smile every day.”
She presses a quick kiss against the corner of Klara’s mouth. “You already do.”
Klara relaxes a little after that. Still attentive and sweet, but now she’s back to her usual levels of consideration, which are still much higher than many other people’s.
They take things slowly. There are things Isolde wants to rush towards, times where it’s difficult to hold her immense desire back, but she genuinely enjoys this leisurely tempo they move to.
When she can, Isolde brings Klara lunch during her shifts, more often than not picking up food from one of Klara’s many favorite eateries nearby. Klara swears up and down that Isolde doesn’t need to bring her food, but when Isolde replies that it’s merely an excuse to see her, Klara ceases her protests. They eat in the backroom amongst the bulk of flowers and in-progress arrangements, and Klara never lets Isolde leave without a flower tucked behind her ear.
She overhears Klara’s siblings teasing her sometimes, and once as she is leaving, she hears Klara’s mother ask if she wouldn’t like to invite Isolde over for a family dinner one day because she seems like such a nice, proper young lady. The comments make her laugh to herself.
Isolde paints and paints, bringing her massive canvas closer to life. It gets to a point where she has to force herself to focus on her other paintings, the ones she needs to finish for another show, instead of gravitating to that one painting as she normally does.
Trista tells her over dinner, with no small amount of annoyance in her voice, that she almost preferred when Isolde was, in her words, pathetically yearning over Klara. “Now you’re walking around with hearts floating around your head like a cartoon character. It’s saccharinely nauseating.”
Isolde resists the urge to flip her off. “What happened to being happy for me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I told you I was, didn’t I? Just tone it down a few hundred notches; you’re that couple that’s too in love with each other,” Trista says, popping a piece of calamari into her mouth.
No, Isolde thinks she will not do that. She wants her love for Klara to be as noticeable as the full moon in the dead of clear night; Klara deserves nothing less.
Klara shyly confesses something to her one evening as Isolde drives her home after seeing a movie together. “Would it be alright if I stayed over one night? I want to sleep next to you. I didn’t get a chance to fully appreciate it last time considering I was too drunk and then too hungover.” A beat. Her voice is soft. “It was really nice, though, and I’d like to do it again.”
Were it not for the simple fact that Isolde is a skilled driver, despite whatever Klara may claim about her being ‘too aggressive,’ she would have swerved into oncoming traffic out of sheer shock. She keeps her tone steady, breezy, even. “You can come over the day after tomorrow after work if you want? You don’t work the following day.”
“That works!” Is Klara’s happy response.
Isolde makes the mistake of looking over at Klara, only to be greeted with Klara’s exceptionally bright smile. It’s hard to focus on driving after that.
The evening after next Klara shows up in front of her door, holding a bag of groceries. At Isolde’s raised eyebrow, Klara explains that she wants to cook for Isolde, for once, instead of them going out to eat or ordering something. So, Isolde watches Klara bounce around in her kitchen as music plays, Isolde herself strictly forbidden from helping lest she set something on fire despite the fact that it’s her kitchen.
Isolde won’t complain about watching her beautiful girlfriend cook for her, though, even if her singing is terribly, endearingly off-key in a way that makes Isolde’s trained ears mildly hurt and her heart float. She scrolls through her phone, remembering that Klara was complaining about her stand mixer no longer working, and finds one in Klara’s favorite color that she orders without thinking twice.
The food is delicious, and Isolde compliments Klara thoroughly on it, enjoying the resulting blush that appears on her face.
After dinner, Isolde leads Klara to her studio, where she has a couple of inexpensive canvases prepared and her tablet set up on a stand, an episode of The Joy of Painting pulled up.
“Is this why you told me to wear clothing I didn’t mind getting dirty?” Klara asks after casting an appreciative glance towards the massive canvas on the wall.
Isolde plays with the hem of her paint-stained chambray overshirt. “Yes. I thought this might be an enjoyable activity for us.” She wants Klara to understand why exactly painting is so important to her, wants to share it with her.
Klara laughs lightly as she takes her place in front of one of the canvases. “I’m not going to be remotely as good as you, but I’ll give it my best shot. It’ll be fun! I’ve never done a paint-along before.”
“The goal isn’t to be good, Klara. Just do what feels right,” Isolde reassures her.
They paint a serene lakeside scene, and Klara is just so full of questions about what she should be doing or if she’s painting correctly and whether it’s really okay that she’s using Isolde’s expensive oil paints. Isolde really should have expected this. At least Klara doesn’t make as much of a mess as Isolde originally feared she might, just some stains on her hands that Isolde can clean off easily.
After a while, Klara proudly presents her finished piece to Isolde, grinning broadly. Isolde looks over, noting that while it is amateurish in its execution, there is something so undeniably Klara in the energetic brushstrokes and the way she added in small flecks of white to the night sky to give the impression of stars despite those not being in the original.
It’s beautiful. Isolde tells Klara as much as she kisses her cheek. “These will take some time to dry, but I’d like to keep yours, if that is alright.”
Klara looks surprised. “Really? I mean, yes, of course you can keep it, but only if I can keep yours! That way I can say I own an Isolde original!” She pauses. “Or not exactly original per se. But you know what I mean!”
It takes Isolde immense effort to keep from blurting out something like ‘you already own my heart.’ “Of course, Klara. I would be happy if you kept mine.”
Isolde goes to put the canvases on a drying rack, and Klara helps her clean up. “This was a lot of fun! We have to do this again,” Klara tells her, happy as can be, and oh, it makes Isolde’s spirits soar to hear that Klara enjoyed painting enough to want to do it again. “You get this little furrow in your brow when you paint, you know?”
“Do I?”
Klara nods. “Yeah, right here.” She pokes Isolde in the middle of her face, right in between her eyebrows. “It’s really cute, just like your painting outfit.” She gestures to the bandana covering Isolde’s hair and her overshirt with a crooked grin.
Isolde has no answer to that beyond the blush she feels warming her face so she drapes her arms around Klara’s neck and kisses her soundly. Klara’s hands drop to her waist, and many moments pass before they tear themselves away from each other.
They wander to the living area after Isolde shucks her overshirt and bandana and makes sure Klara’s hands are clean of oil paint, as well as a spot on the underside of her chin that Isolde didn’t see earlier. How she managed to get such a large splotch of titanium white there Isolde will never know.
She throws a blanket over the two of them as they settle in on the couch, and Klara wraps an arm around her and hits play. They’ve been watching a drama show together for the past number of weeks. At this point in the show, Isolde thinks she enjoys it far more than Klara does, but Klara insists on finishing the series before she gives her complete opinion, which Isolde is sure will be thoroughly thought out.
As the credits of the third episode they’ve watched tonight roll, Klara lets out a loud, long yawn as she stretches, and Isolde can hear her shoulder crack. It’s always her left shoulder that does so. Isolde looks over to the other tote bag Klara brought, presumably filled with her pajamas and clothes for tomorrow.
“Why don’t you change into more comfortable clothing?” Isolde says softly. “There’s something else I was thinking we could do.”
Klara looks at her curiously but stands anyway and grabs her bag, saying she’ll take a quick shower if that’s okay, and disappears into the bathroom. Isolde heads to her bedroom and changes into her sleepshirt. She grabs the blankets and cushions that she absolutely did not just buy earlier today, along with the pillows from her bed, and returns to the living area to wait for Klara.
“Sorry!” Klara reappears after some time, dressed in a faded t-shirt and shorts. “It took me a bit to figure out how your shower works. What-” She stops mid sentence and stares a little too intently at Isolde’s bare legs for a moment before shaking her head. “What are we doing?”
Suddenly a little embarrassed, Isolde twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “You mentioned something last time about constructing a pillow fort. You may have been joking, but you seemed enthusiastic about it.” She adds in a smaller voice, “I’ve never built one before.”
Klara lets out a small laugh, sounding a little embarrassed herself. “I’m surprised you remember me saying that.” She walks over and picks up a fluffy blanket. “I haven’t built one in years, I think, but we’re both smart! We’ll build the best fort ever!” She mimes holding a sword in a triumphant pose with a mock serious expression on her face, and Isolde can’t help but giggle at her silliness.
Isolde brings over a couple of chairs as Klara pushes the coffee table out of the way. They lay down a number of blankets on the floor and pull cushions off the sofa and stack them. Klara jokingly raises a pillow as if to initiate a pillow fight but stops when Isolde raises a finger in warning. That is not a fight Klara will win.
The fort comes together easily, and Isolde thinks they did a decent job. It looks cozy. Klara flops down inside after draping the final sheets over the top of the fort and makes herself more than comfortable. Isolde grabs her tablet and joins Klara, situating herself next to her under a throw blanket.
Isolde brings up a short documentary she’s been meaning to show Klara, something about ancient medical practices. She found it to be well-researched, with a plethora of interesting sources cited. Klara, of course, is completely invested in it, speaking her thoughts aloud at length after the video ends. Isolde props herself up on her elbow, gazing at Klara fondly as she talks and talks.
There’s a gradual halt to Klara’s words as she looks at Isolde, utterly adoring. Before Isolde has the chance to question Klara, she is grasping the back of Isolde’s neck and bringing her forward for a fervid kiss that leaves them both with racing hearts and heaving chests.
“What was that for?” Isolde whispers, worried that if she speaks more loudly she might disrupt the moment that has settled in with the gentleness of a leaf on the breeze.
Klara grins at her, clearly a little love drunk. “Just because I can.”
Isolde kisses Klara again for that, entirely too enamored with her to do otherwise. They while away the hours like this, alternating between kissing and talking about nothing and everything. It’s perfect, everything Isolde could ever dream of. Klara is so warm against her, her embrace offering safety and freedom in equal measure.
With her head on Klara’s chest and the sound of Klara’s soft ramblings filling the air, Isolde drifts off.
She wakes up to her foot knocking against something and the sound of Klara quietly cursing. “Klara?” Isolde asks blearily as she looks up at Klara’s face and rapidly realizes with a jolt that Klara is carrying her.
Klara smiles apologetically at her. “Sorry, I was trying not to wake you. You were sleeping so soundly, but I didn’t think you’d want to sleep all night on the floor.” She adjusts her hold on Isolde. “I can put you down?”
“No.” Isolde wraps her arms around Klara’s neck and nestles against her as much as she can in her position.
A quiet huff of laughter is her only answer as Klara carries her to her bed, setting her down softly, though Isolde notes with some amusement that Klara’s arms are straining a little at the end. She doesn’t let go of Klara immediately, opting to pull her closer for a gentle, lasting kiss before finally releasing her.
They get ready for bed, brushing their teeth and washing their faces alongside each other in the bathroom. The domesticity of the moment hits Isolde just like it did on that morning a month and a half ago, but now she’s free to kiss Klara whenever she wants.
Klara claims the same side of the bed she did last time. “Clearly, that side is yours now,” Isolde sleepily says to herself, not loud enough for Klara to hear, as she turns off the lights and climbs in after Klara, exhaustion clawing at her.
She lays closely beside her. “My Klara, turn around,” Isolde whispers. “I want to hold you, if that’s okay.” She’s tired enough that she doesn’t register the endearment as she says it.
There’s a pause before Klara answers, her voice a little wobbly. “That’s more than okay, ‘Solde.”
Klara turns onto her side, and Isolde pushes herself completely flush against Klara, her bare thigh against Klara’s half-covered one, her instep against Klara’s heel. Her arm curls firmly around Klara’s middle, holding her as if her life depends on it. Klara rests her hand over Isolde’s, her thumb rubbing circles into the skin there.
Isolde falls into a dreamless, peaceful slumber before she hears Klara wish her a good night.
And just like before, they swap places in the night, and Isolde wakes up with Klara snug against her back, her arm slung over Isolde’s waist under the covers.
The light of dawn filters in through the sheer curtains covering the windows, casting the bedroom in a golden hue. It’s so early.
Isolde places a hand over Klara’s and intertwines their fingers before closing her eyes again, fully intending to fall back asleep in Klara’s embrace. But then she feels Klara lightly kiss the back of her neck once, twice, and Isolde suddenly cannot fathom returning to sleep.
“Good morning,” Isolde whispers and squeezes Klara’s hand.
Another kiss, this time against her shoulder. “Hi,” Klara says just as quietly.
Isolde hums contentedly as Klara holds her a little more closely. There’s nothing but a blissful silence between them as they bask in their shared warmth during this completely mundane but ultimately precious moment.
“I love you,” comes Klara’s voice, colored infinitely soft with devotion and the remnants of sleep. “You don’t have to say it back, but I wanted it out there. I wanted you to know.”
Breath catching fast in her throat, Isolde lets go of Klara’s hand and rolls over to face her directly, and she is immediately met with the tender expression that rests on Klara’s face.
Isolde wants to stare at that expression for the rest of her days. How blessed she is to be the recipient of such a lovely look, meant for her and her alone.
“I love you.” Finally, finally, she’s able to have these words, almost always said in response to Klara’s previously frequent utterances, be understood the way she’s always meant them. “I love you so much.”
The shine in Klara’s eyes and the burgeoning smile on her face rival the brightness of the sunrise outside. Isolde runs her fingertips along the faint, barely there freckles that dot Klara’s sun-kissed cheeks. A beautiful consequence of Klara spending so much time outside during the summer. Isolde peppers kisses over each and every one of the freckles she sees, making Klara laugh breathily. The sound echoes the feather lightness of Isolde’s heart.
When their lips meet, it’s not electric but grounding, keeping Isolde anchored to this reality, to Klara, to her whole world. Their kiss is languid, still a little sleepy, even as Isolde deepens it and Klara pulls her even closer, but it stokes a longing and hunger within Isolde all the same.
For as many, many times she’s dreamed of pleasing Klara, taking care of her - and she still so very much desires to do that, desires it to the point of aching necessity - right now, Isolde desperately needs Klara’s touch more than she needs air to breathe. She takes Klara’s warm hand and slides it under her sleep shirt, placing it directly on her breast, and Klara makes a needy noise that Isolde wants to hear again and again.
Their pace remains unhurried as Isolde pulls Klara on top of her, and they take their time undressing each other. Isolde has never seen anyone so radiant, so gorgeous.
Klara’s touch leaves Isolde burning in its wake, and the overwhelming sweetness of it belies Klara’s sheer eagerness to love her so thoroughly. Klara’s lips and slightly calloused hands are everywhere Isolde needs them to be, everywhere she asks them to be. Klara is only too happy to dutifully follow Isolde’s direction, leaving love bites along Isolde’s neck, chest, breasts, all at Isolde’s gentle insistence.
“You’re so beautiful, Isolde,” Klara murmurs against her breast in between kisses as her fingers coax out a slow rhythm that leaves Isolde gasping. It’s a compliment Isolde has heard countless times from countless people, to the point where it makes her feel nothing, but hearing it now, said with such sincerity and affection, makes Isolde utterly weak.
And then Klara is kissing down her chest and stomach. She lightly bites and marks the insides of Isolde’s thighs before Isolde can even ask her to. Isolde cards her fingers through Klara’s hair and completely loses herself in pleasure, Klara’s name spilling from her lips. It’s not long before she comes with a choked sob.
With trembling hands, Isolde grabs at Klara’s shoulders and urges her up. She kisses her gently, slowly, tasting herself on Klara’s lips. Klara presses kisses against her cheeks and wipes the stray tears from her eyes. Isolde wraps her arms around her Klara and holds her close as Klara tells her the sweetest words.
Voracious desire still gnaws at Isolde, an unbridled want that feels like it will never dissipate. She pushes Klara onto her back, and Klara stares up at her with shining eyes, mouth parted slightly. Unable to keep the praise from flowing, she calls Klara beautiful and good, running her fingers along her jaw as she does, and she delights in the way that Klara blushes so vividly, all the way down to her chest.
Isolde counts and memorizes the number of kisses it takes to travel down the length of her Klara’s throat, from underneath her jaw to where her heart beats loudly in her chest, where it beats for her alone. She traces the floral tattoo that begins under Klara’s collarbone and sweeps over her shoulder and kisses the scant white ink highlights before sucking and biting the skin there, leaving her own blossoming bruises on Klara. Selfishly, she wishes for Klara to always carry such markings.
Klara is hers, all hers.
She mentally catalogs as much of Klara as possible as she leaves no part of her untouched or unkissed: the expressions that dance across her face, the supernal sounds she makes, what she enjoys most. Isolde doesn’t let a single detail escape her. She wants to see all of Klara.
Willing this moment to stretch out into eternity, Isolde keeps her touches and kisses deliberate and careful, moving almost maddeningly slowly across Klara’s body in sweet indulgence. Her pace remains unchanged even as Klara writhes underneath her and begs and pleads for more, and oh, Isolde could listen to her like this for hours and hours.
But when Klara whines her name out brokenly, Isolde decides to have mercy on her and indulge her appetite fully, searing the sensations of how Klara feels around her and how she tastes into her mind. Klara oh so quickly comes undone with the loveliest cry of her name.
It’s not enough for Isolde; she wants and needs more. She pushes Klara past another peak as tenderly as she did the first and embraces her as she comes down from her high. Klara nuzzles into her, pulling her so close that they might as well become one body, one soul.
Isolde loves Klara so much, more than she fears she could ever adequately express in her own words, but she tells Klara anyway, in words both grandiose and modest. Klara replies in kind, just as affectionately, and gazes at her so warmly, eyes keenly astir with all of the fondness in the universe, that it makes Isolde almost cry.
The moment eventually settles into one of comfortable, quiet companionship, until Klara begins to fill the silence with her voice as always, rambling on about some medical science topic that had been in the news recently. Isolde barely follows any of it, but she’s more than content to listen, as always.
As the sun rises further in the sky, the morning grows brighter, but nothing exists outside of them and their love for each other in this nest of theirs. It’s not until the afternoon that they manage to leave Isolde’s home for a meal, the snacks from Isolde’s pantry no longer sufficient to sate their growling stomachs.
/
Time passes, and summer begins to ease its way out. The heat can’t subside quickly enough, though.
Isolde and Klara sit in her studio, Isolde once again coloring in the tattoo on Klara’s right arm. Klara had elected for a blue bird this time, leaving the colors of the flowers up to Isolde’s judgement.
Klara fidgets the entire time. Odd, when she normally sits so still as Isolde works.
“Is something making you nervous, Klara?” Isolde asks, not stopping her painting.
Klara is silent for a moment. “I have something I want to ask. Two things, but you’re going to be upset about the first one. And maybe the second one?”
Now Isolde stops. She looks up at Klara, who won’t meet her gaze. With the clean back end of her paintbrush, she redirects Klara’s eyes to meet hers. “What is the question you are sure I will be upset about?” Isolde settles on getting whatever that could be out of the way first.
“It’s about the painting you’ve been working on,” Klara says nervously, eyes darting momentarily to the large canvas hanging at the end of the room. “I know you don’t talk about the meanings or interpretations of your art, but…”
“Ask, Klara,” Isolde says softly. “I may not give you an answer, but I will not be upset with you.”
“Okay.” Klara takes a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out what you could be saying with such a large piece. It’s bigger than any other canvas you’ve worked on, if I remember correctly.” A rosy blush colors her cheeks. “Is it about me? It’s the only thing that makes sense in my head, but I could be completely wrong here, and oh god, this makes me sound totally self-centered. I-”
Isolde runs her thumb along Klara’s bottom lip, halting her nervous ramblings. Klara looks at her and waits, eyes wide behind the slightly smudged lens of her glasses.
She kisses her gently, trying to assuage all of Klara’s worries. “Yes,” Isolde answers simply, willing to break her self-imposed rule just this once for Klara.
“Oh,” Klara says in a small, awed voice. For once, she has no words, but the smile she gives Isolde is the most gorgeous one Isolde has seen yet. The sun and all of the stars cannot compare.
Isolde returns to her work on Klara’s arm, waiting for Klara to speak again when she’s ready.
“Um, sorry, I’m still recovering from that.” Klara’s voice is unsteady and thick with emotion. “My second question is that I’ve been wanting a new tattoo, and I was wondering if you wanted to design it? Or help design it?”
“What?” Isolde looks up from Klara’s arm a second time, surprised yet again.
Klara shrugs with forced nonchalance. “It was just a thought. You don’t have to. I know you don’t have any experience with tattoo art beyond, well, this.” She gestures to her half-painted arm. “But I talked to my tattoo artist, showed him your work. He said he would be willing to work with you if you wanted to do this.”
“This sounds like more than just a thought,” Isolde teases, and Klara flushes. She places her free hand on Klara’s knee and squeezes it. “You showed him my art?”
“I show everyone your art,” Klara says. “Should I not? I’m proud of you.”
Isolde kisses her again. “That is very sweet of you, Klara. I will think about this, I promise. It is no small thing you’re asking, for my art to be permanently upon you.” She knows she’ll end up doing it, as unable to say no to Klara as she is, but she still requires time to think about it.
“I know.” Klara grins. “But you’re the one who’s been painting a masterpiece about me for months on a canvas that’s bigger than I am, so I think it shakes out.”
Isolde lightly kicks Klara’s foot and finishes coloring in the tattoo, listening to Klara talk about new topics.
Eventually, Klara goes to leave. She lingers by the flowers in the vase on Isolde’s table - proper flowers, not leftovers - and removes some of the wilting leaves and petals and changes the water, muttering to herself that she keeps reminding Isolde to do this herself, to no avail. Isolde doesn’t forget to take care of the flowers; now she willfully ignores them so Klara can fuss over them, thus giving her an excuse to watch Klara work, quick as it may be.
Isolde pulls Klara in for a slow kiss, murmuring an ‘I love you’ against her lips. Klara presses a kiss against her cheekbone, repeating the words back, and off she goes, taking Isolde’s heart with her.
They won’t be apart for long, reuniting tomorrow for their date.
Isolde wanders back to her studio, feet stopping in front of her masterpiece, as Klara called it.
It’s unfinished, about an eighth of the canvas blank still. Isolde isn’t sure how to properly finish it. She has put every emotion, every thought she has ever had about Klara into this piece, even going back in and adding the negative ones. They’re part of the picture too and cannot be left out.
How does one even properly complete a work like this? Isolde’s feelings for Klara will continue to grow and change over time, just as they and their relationship will. For the better, Isolde hopes.
No, best not to overthink this. Isolde has finally found someone that loves her and accepts her love in turn, wholly and thoroughly. With that singular, incredible feeling in her heart, Isolde lets her love for Klara direct her paintbrush, just as she did when she first began.
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