Work Text:
Anneliese's head felt like a fish tank -- full of water and squishy green algae. Finals were taking their sweet time to arrive and just be over with, no matter how many assignments she completed or classes she attended. There was always something to do, not a whole lot of time to do it in, and yet finals week did not have the decency to arrive in a calm, punctual sort of way; it either felt like it would never come at all or arrived out of nowhere with the tires still smoking.
Most of her classes were art classes, which sounded all nice and good, nothing to really stress over, except jokes on everyone else: art classes were everything to stress over. They gobbled time up faster than a dog laps up water and felt even messier. Oil painting meant painting one layer and then waiting at least a full day, if not more, for it to dry before she could continue. She spent that time drawing, sketching, creating water color creations for a portfolio, and hoping the kiln did not murder the vase she made last class period. She was hoping to give that to her mom for Mother's Day, after all.
There were also essays to write up about historical artistic movements, critiques, analyses, and everything else one could imagine to put in an art class. She probably had more examples, but they'd be written in her planner and she didn't want to get that out unless she absolutely had to. There was too much to do. Seeing the black cover with little white flowers just made her sad.
It was after one particular class that Feliciana, a girl in the same class, approached her with compliments to her latest addition to the ongoing portfolio Anneliese had started at the beginning of the semester. Feliciana's wasn't the first, nor the last, to gush about the apparent symbolism and use of colors and how it all tied together.
"I just can't get over the mouth," Feliciana said, adjusting the strap to her large art bag. They were awkward things, large and rectangular, and stiff enough to keep their large sheets of paper from being bent out of shape. "Everything else is in such vivid detail, with such cold colors, and then the mouth is just -- it's blank."
Anneliese didn't really need a reminder as to what her art looked like, so she wasn't too sure what to say. It was praise, that much was obvious, so she said, "Thank you," and hoped it would be enough.
It wasn't, but the arrival of the parking lot soon cut their conversation off. Feliciana waved at her as she drove past and Anneliese lifted a hand from where she stood at the bus stop. She watched as the other girl clipped the curb and sped off, out of view.
It was always the same, though. The mouth, the colors -- she was just glad everyone liked her art enough to allow her self-indulgency. She'd been asked before if the mouth being left away was to represent the voice of women, or lack thereof. Anneliese didn't remember the answer she'd given, but it somehow became an established thing. Whatever got her a better grade, she supposed.
She had everything set up to do another piece when she got home, though the actual painting would only be done after the initial sketching. It was Maria's day off, which was done slightly on purpose.
The door to their apartment swung open with the keys in Anneliese's hand, hovering right where the keyhole should have been.
"Did I scare you?" Maria asked, grinning in a way that said she sure hoped so. Her long, white-blonde hair swung as she leaned forward.
"A little," Anneliese admitted. A year ago, she would have been loath to admit any sort of weakness around the other girl. A lot changed in a year. "What did you do all day?"
Maria shrugged and moved to let Anneliese in. She had on her lazy clothes -- a blank tank top Anneliese not-so-secretly loved on her and some grey sweats she'd found in the men's section at a thrift store. Maria liked to pretend they once belonged to the military, that they had history. Anneliese liked to argue that all the clothing there had history.
"Just computer things," Maria replied. 'Computer things' usually meant her blog, Netflix, games, or a combination of all three. "And I made brownies."
"You?" Anneliese asked as she dropped her own art bag to the ground. The air did smell particularly delicious.
"Yeah, my sister found a new recipe," Maria said. "This one has cookie dough."
Anneliese had to nod to that one -- cookie dough was pretty fantastic. "Are you ready?" she asked.
Maria struck a pose, like she was in front of the paparazzi. "Sketch away, my dear," she said.
Anneliese couldn't help but smile. "Let me get out of these clothes first," she said.
"Yes please."
"So I can change into some comfy pants," Anneliese said, giving her girlfriend a very pointed look.
"Aw."
The sketching always took place by the window, where the afternoon sun shone through, and always started with her eyes. Maria had what others would call a 'resting bitch face,' but to Anneliese, it was just a very intense, always alert sort of look. Sharp and focused. With her blue eyes, it was easy to tell where she was looking and, more importantly, if she was looking at you.
Then came the outline of her hair, long and silvery looking in certain light. It was always straight, though sometimes Maria let Anneliese play with it. They went to a formal party once and Anneliese had put it in curls, pinned it up with a sparkly barrette, and painted her lips the same color red as her dress. She looked amazing, Anneliese had done well, but it only lasted when Maria held still. And in no universe would Maria ever stay still. Even during sketch sessions, she'd twist about.
After the hair came her strong jaw line and her long nose. She had a somewhat androgynous look to her that made Anneliese want to draw her from the moment they first met. Her personality was another reason, as she sort of oozed charisma and character, that there was something so very vivid and interesting within her that made Anneliese watch her without always realizing it.
The shoulders, the shirt, the rest of her were simple lines, to be filled in later with flat colors mostly. The focus was always on her face.
But then she got to the mouth. And she followed the lines of Maria's lips with her eyes, the way they curved when at rest and thought of the way they would pull thin when angry, or twitch up when she was thinking something mischievous. She knew what they looked when wet, when her tongue pulled out and swiped over them. She knew what they looked like parted, breathless.
She never knew when the pencil actually stopped moving, but it always did. And her fingers stopped holding it and instead went to the soft sides of Maria's face, pulling her towards her until her own mouth found the one she'd been looking at.