Work Text:
Graphite lines sketch page after page, sweeping curves followed by scritch scritch of shaded fill. It’s fascinating how Kit moves under the blanket in fevered sleep, and part of her worries, but the rest is lost in time with a pencil and an uncontrollable urge to capture sands from a broken hourglass.
The sketches are entirely pointless. Lili no longer has to ask herself whether there may be something she loves more than painting, because, well, she’s here now isn’t she? The critique session completely exited her mind when she had to haul Kit’s deceptively heavy form off the floor, and she’s not going to consider how he wore nothing under that tomato stained shirt, a-and…
Focus creases her brow. Which fold of the blanket had she been drawing? Quit moving so much Kit!
Bare toes peek out from beneath rumples and she resists the urge to tug the covers back over. He’s like a butterfly escaping a cocoon, if the cocoon were spun of pure stubbornness and oblivion. The apartment was almost frosty when she arrived, and he’d been wandering around barefoot! How could he not notice the temperature?
How could he not notice…
She sighs, and folds the sketchbook shut. The cool cloth on his forehead slips. She slides it back into place, and he murmurs nonsense while she fixes the blanket. He probably hasn’t eaten. By the time he wakes up they’ll both be hungry, and she can’t imagine leaving until his fever fades.
What a sad and funny way to go, if her last few days in London trickle away cloistered in this apartment alongside the one person that’s the hardest to leave.
Nothing has happened between them. The goodbye will be easy and proper. When he wakes she’ll thank him and smile and bow in a way that won’t shame her family or the good memories she made here.
The best memories.
Emotion squeezes behind her eyes and she bites her lip. She should cook something. No more art, no more sulking, just cooking!
Crossing to the tiny kitchenette Lili throws open pantry doors and stares. Tea tins spotted with paint mix among unopened cans. Brushes in various stages of distress stick from food jars. Near the floor the faintest whiff of spoiled paint warns her against opening the large lidded canister probably being used for disposal. She just hopes the fumes haven’t infected the potatoes in the neighboring crate.
Eventually she finds actual ingredients, and not tins rattling with a handful of charcoal or smudging sticks. She gets to work.
Buttery baked bread aroma starts to fill the air. It almost seems sacrilegious to overwrite the apartment’s paint perfume. She knows the smell so well, and it’s become synonymous with Kit. The jacket he left with her carries the same earthy art scent.
She needs to return his coat. She can bundle it into a parcel and squeeze it through the mail slot sometime in the few days she has left.
Maybe she won’t return it.
Maybe she’ll think of him forever.
Dust floats in the sunbeam peeking through sheer curtains. Sketches flock green walls and gold gilded frames, and a painting overflowing with flowers spans the distance between pillared busts that’ve probably been drawn a hundred ways. Late afternoon light casts defining shadows beneath sculpted features. By the stairs a pair of muddy expensive leather shoes lie lopsided.
The entire space feels so intimately Kit she wishes she could take a piece home. There are more art supplies than daily necessities, the kitchenette lacks key ingredients every cook keeps on hand, and confused cleaning supplies all point to unfamiliar independence. He’s not used to living alone.
But it’s cozy now with the warm hearth and baking biscuits. Muted footsteps in the shop downstairs go quiet, only, the sound wasn’t from the bookstore at all. Lili raises her gaze to find Kit’s sleepy attention fixed on her from the doorway.
He looks at her, and looks at her, and then his eyes widen.
H-he’s not allowed to be surprised! She thought she’d finally acclimated to how forward the culture is here, but, maybe entering a place uninvited truly was a step too far… she’d never have done it in Japan… well, if she thought Kit was in trouble then yes…
Confused drowsiness clouds his expression. “You came in… how?”
“You left the door unlocked!” Lili shoots up and sets fingertips to his forehead. Blond strands tickle. He feels okay, but there’s a lot of flustered tension that he seems utterly oblivious to while they talk. He doesn’t remember having a fever, and his idea of personal space is even worse than usual. Standing this close Kit’s arm brushes her shoulder as he indicates the cooking fireplace behind.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Loose grey shirt fills her entire view, and a hopeless urge to plant her face there makes her step neatly back. She hadn’t realized saying goodbye could make a person feel this desperate. The desire to touch him is so powerful it physically hurts, like a rising star trapped in her chest.
They eat the biscuits and jam together in near silence on opposite ends of the apartment’s sulky leather loveseat. Why must it be called a loveseat? Lili perches on the far side poised to fly off the second the cushion so much as moves funny.
Unbothered, Kit munches on a biscuit, knees apart in that loose casual way of his. Lili tries not to look. Tries not to think about shamelessly being offered the same milk bottle on a countryside bridge. Normally the quiet between them feels soothing, but today all her unsaid secrets charge the atmosphere like a string about to snap. Kit won’t look at her.
At least the tea he made starts to work its calming magic. Sweet, but not overpowering, with a surprising smooth texture that reminds her of sake. Earlier she took her shoes off, and below her socked feet the store’s bell chimes. Muted sounds filter through the floorboards as customers browse bookshelves.
“You know,” Kit says, gaze fixed on the other end of the room, “you’re… really something else.”
She almost snorts a smile into her tea, cup clanking into its saucer. “Geeze, coming from someone collapsed on his own floor.” Silly absurdity pinches with sadness. “Take better care of yourself…”
Across the loveseat she catches Kit staring at her. His focused but gentle intensity curls her fingers tight around the saucer. He’s acting floaty, as if he can’t process that the world is real, or that she’s here in his apartment.
Heat creeps across her face. She watches tea inside the cup reflect highlights. The next sip tastes somehow sweeter and smoother. “I guess all nobles know the best teas. The stuff at school is really good too…” Kit never likes having his status pointed out. “Oh. Sorry.”
“I’m the one who should apologize.”
Then he does, for everything, as if somehow he got the wrong idea and all those moments were nothing but grey for her. But that’s not it at all. They’re full of the scenery she always dreamed of, and colors she can’t even describe, just like hues that glimmer in his eyes while she tries to explain it to him on the loveseat.
When she talks about his art he looks at her with those colors and says, “Your paintings make everything feel alive. I love them.”
Nothing could give more meaning to her time in England than that. She walks away from the loveseat because one second longer beside him and she’ll do something foolish. So many repressed wishes beat their wings that she might be shaking. She has to calm them down and she mustn’t cry, so she focuses on breath, and the present moment, and wood floorboards under her feet.
She doesn’t expect Kit to follow her. The cushion ruffles as he gets up.
Barely under control Lili wipes her eyes and whirls to face him, beaming a smile that’s deep and honest with how much she’s loved being here.
“Thank you Kit. For everything. You taught me the most important thing about painting is, well, love. To paint what I love… even if it might not be the most popular.”
“Lili…”
She wishes she could kiss that soulful look from his face. He stands only a step away. Light glimmers in his eyes.
Oh, that’s the color. More than blue. Blue, like the pearlescent inside of an ocean seashell. Blue like sunset reflections on water, or the nameless rainbows that shine on summer festival bubbles. A color vast and indescribable yet gentler than a firework.
Before she goes, she closes the last step between them and trails the back of her hand along his cheek, just because his strange foreign face is so undeniably beautiful.
He said he loved her.
Doubt swirls and she jerks her hand away. She hadn’t been meant to hear that, the day on the Thames with Catherine’s portrait… Lili’s nails nip into her palm to push the blooming emotion away.
It doesn’t work.
She’s leaving. She can’t stay in London any more, she failed to meet the requirements even once, and, it doesn’t matter, it—
Warmth circles her hand. Fingers slip around hers.
“Kit…?”
He sighs, and looks at the ceiling, and waits. The slight angle exposes the underside of his jaw until he tilts his chin to look back down.
Ultramarine irises meet hers. She can never tell what he’s thinking. Maybe, he isn’t. His hand rests calmly around hers, though his focused gaze brims with intent that makes dancing memories butterfly around her heart. This isn’t the gala. He’s much closer. Close enough his presence stills the air between them.
She must tell him she’ll be gone. For a final time she commits his details to heart. Hidden freckled dot near one cheek. Fine lashes gold like autumn fields. It goes against all decency, but she could brush her lips to the drawn corner of his mouth. Or more. Much more than that.
Memories are meant to be painted, not felt. Attraction must be put away and never acted on. But still. Is it wrong to want to remember the best days of her life? Is it wrong to love?
She’ll never see him again.
He leans in. Whatever words are meant to say vanish. It turns out a face can be too close to see, so she closes her eyes, and feels breath heat the nothing space between them.
Lips tenderly press hers. This must be a dream.
“Sorry,” he says, silk soft. The word brushes her skin, catches her heart beatless, and she doesn’t move, doesn’t retreat.
He kisses her again. “Sorry.” Lips, gentle, a quiet touch like spring flowers. He parts the tiniest bit only to whisper against her mouth, “Sor—”
Lili sinks into the kiss. She gives into it; she makes him take it. It’s wonderful. It aches like glass twisting her soul because she has no right.
She should say she’s leaving.
But she can’t.
He tastes like cranberry jam on warm scone. He feels like a room suddenly turned toasty. Fireplace heat snaps in one of the hearth’s charcoals, and she laces fingers with his. She kisses him back and he breathes in, hums a little “mmmh” that turns all thought to temptation.
Gods, here, in his room, there’s nothing to stop them. Unable to step back from how safe his closeness feels, Lili murmurs the only defense she can muster. “We shouldn’t.”
Always so soft when he speaks. “Why not?”
No reason seems important. When she can’t provide an answer, Kit trails the tip of his nose along her cheek, and waits, and isn’t pushed away. His fingertips gently set under her chin. Soft and loving touch preludes the kiss warming her mouth. It feels like what she’s wanted to tell him all this time.
The truth is she can’t let him go. Satin charcoal fabric bunches in her hands the more she grips to keep him there. She kisses the corner of his mouth, then the sweet center.
Kit is always quiet, so this, the little noises he makes that muffle crackling fireplace and indistinguishable bookstore conversation beneath their feet, every one of his breaths and tiny gasps sets her pulse aflame. He wants this. He wants her careful touches amidst the pool of artwork swimming emerald walls.
Hands seek new spots, over shoulders, around waists, but it’s the sensation of his mouth, the knowledge that Kit is the one she’s with, that swoops desperate arousal around her soul. When he nuzzles the side of her neck she can’t help the sounds she makes.
“Lili,” he begs. “I…”
Physical touch swallows the words. It feels like they’ll die if apart. If she can’t feel him, she’ll die. This is a memory she requires to survive if it’s the only one she’s allowed to carry into a future without him.
Hopefully he has his own illogical reasons for doing this, because he must know as well as she that their doomed romance shouldn’t have been touched. Except now that it has, the paints won’t go back in the box.
Kiss after kiss shirt buttons slip through her fingers. Kit’s nails brush along her shoulder and catch the dress strap covering her blouse. He keeps going, and the strap falls loose to the side. Their unsteady footsteps pad towards the bed.
Lili has surely lost her mind. Practically dragging him down with her, she sits on the edge of the bed and gets sucked into the very fantasy she’d been trying to avoid on the couch. Kit’s hand cups her cheek. Their lips meet and emotion squeezing her heart surges so strongly she nearly moans.
“Mmm?” Kit questions.
“Nothing,” she pants. “Don’t worry.”
The rare smile lighting his expression could drop an angel to its knees, but there’s a sadness to it too. Maybe he knows she can’t stay or maybe he plans to disappear as well. Either way, gloom doesn’t belong here, not now, not between them, and they touch and taste until it can’t find a place to stay. Lili slowly sinks into the mattress.
Amazing sensation paints over any memory of lying down. Framed over her, Kit’s smile melts into something breathlessly passionate. His shirt hangs untucked and invisible weight rests either side of her head where his hands splay somewhere in the covers. Disbelief thickens a cerulean gaze overwhelmed by longing. Like she is an impossible dream that suddenly became real in his arms.
“Kit…” She’s so used to saying his name with wonder: wondering what he wants, or, wondering what could possibly be driving him to sink his face into the crook of her shoulder and lip along her neck while their hands intertwine. A shiver races up her spine.
“No good?” he asks, breath warming the spot marked by his attention. She may burst.
“Kit.” This time it sounds like a plea.
“My name isn’t the only English you know…” He returns to adoring her skin. “...but I don’t mind hearing it.”
Flush burns her cheeks and chest. The only consolation is he looks no better. Color flocks his pale tone in blossom patches. He nibbles her neck and she sees no more, only seas of sensation. Her hand slides into the back of his hair, and he murmurs the most wonderful sound.
Lili is no longer thinking. Kit is the same as painting. She’ll not eat, not sleep, and get completely lost. Pure existence.
Except, with touch.
Her hands seek to learn all the contours of the form hidden beneath rumpled clothing. Smooth, straight back leads to a jaunty hip. He’s softer on the underside. Trailing a touch down his stomach her hand bumps unexpected geography. Kit’s pleasant hum hitches.
The only reason she doesn’t yank her hand away and apologize is because his breath stutters near her ear in such a sultry manner that a hot ache lances her insides. Silver gold hair swoops her cheek where he presses close as if he needs support to stay hands and knees over her. Neither of them move.
Lili dares to fan her fingers. Kit groans.
What an amazing crimson color, she thinks impishly, ignoring her own burning skin and tracing the hard shape inside his trousers.
“Lili… if you…”
She relishes how his eyes crease shut when she finds a solid grip. Fabric bunches in her hand around him, though there’s no room to actually stroke.
When he manages to open his eyes it’s to gaze at her in all seriousness, a desire so deep it borders pain creasing his voice. “I have everything here, if you want.” Reaching over her he pulls the nightstand drawer open.
Fully unhinged by what they’re about to do, Lili teases. “How often do you have company?”
The look he shoots could chill ice. Even his anger is endearing. She bites her lip, apology swooping her brows. Painting doesn’t leave time for much else and certainly not visitors every night. It’s honestly surprising he has anything in the drawer besides art supplies at all.
Trying to not dwell on how he stretches over her to shuffle a spotless unopened tin from the drawer, she picks at the blanket. “Were you thinking of inviting me over?”
“No. But. You tend to show up.”
Embarrassing. She wants to be mad but can’t. Chewing her lip more she pushes palms to his chest. “Get up.”
“Oh,” he sulks.
He’s impossible! “I have to change! And don’t look!”
“Oh.” Kit gets off the bed and turns around.
Overwhelmed by every emotion Lili glares at him while grasping the ties holding her pinafore dress and hurriedly undoing enough to shuck the garment off. All while staying underneath the covers she unbuttons her blouse, wiggles out of the skirt, and ditches her undergarments, tossing everything over empty gallery frames crammed behind the bed.
Still facing away Kit drops his shirt on a chair. He reaches for the front of his trousers and the waistband goes slack, loosening.
“Kit! What are you…”
He pauses. “What? Should I leave my clothes on?”
She tucks the sheet up to her eyes. “N-no.”
Fabric ruffles and flaps over a set of drawers. Terror pierces Lili’s racing pulse. They’re both naked. Is he anything like the live models? Is he anything like—
Kit lifts the covers and slides in.
Her brain overheats. It’s easier to not look into each other’s eyes. It’s easier to close them and slowly feel, explore, and touch. No more talking. Only kisses. Only breath.
Just this once they can be together.
She steals the tiniest glance, and it breaks her heart how beautiful he is. Ruffled gold hair frames his face. The pale line of his neck flares into elegant shoulders and chest that recedes into the blanket’s soft shadows.
The rest is an imagination she can only feel.
Quiet mattress creaks. Folded easels click clack against the bed frame and her chuckle twines with Kit’s until a swell of ecstasy takes over. Even as the knocking rhythm grows louder it’s drowned out by desperate only-chance pleasure.
At some point while their bodies are intertwined, for the smallest fraction of infinity, she realizes she’s looking at the unfinished painting beside the bed. Thick oils shine iridescent colors over the surface. That incredible earthy aroma exists everywhere in the cluttered apartment, and it’s in his hair, on his skin. The same warm tone that fills the air every time she paints is Kit.
And she knows.
That scent.
The act of painting itself.
This is love.
For as long as she holds a brush she’ll think of him. Even oceans away, painting will bring her back here, to the art-covered bedroom and the smell of oil on canvas, Kit’s tender touch all-encompassing beneath the slip of sheets on bare skin.