Work Text:
They had both, somehow, been waiting a long time for this. Ever since he had first suggested it, during that horrible museum, when he had needed more, and her brain had whispered, Maybe one day.
It had been several years since then. Several years of friendship, laughs, excitement, tears, nightmares, dread. Years of putting off the request one more day, please, I’m not ready . Years of waiting for his muse to be strong, stunning, and healed.
It had taken years for them to reach this point, for her to look at her past headstrong and say I’m ready , for him to say okay .
She knew she was stunning. She knew it, he knew it, their friends knew it. It was why she was in such high demand. She had been to Paris, New York, Milan, been a headliner at many shows, been spotted by paparazzi. One of her eyelashes could probably go for millions if she chose to sell it; so yes, she was pretty.
And yet, looking at her naked body on the wall, she had never felt more beautiful in her entire life.
There was no photoshop, no flashing lights, no makeup. Just her, crouching on the floor, her arms wrapped loosely around her knees, one eye peeking out from behind her hair. It was a side view of her, something beyond the white background seeming to hold her attention. From what she remembered, it was a butterfly.
She saw her scar that ran up her side from a hit she had taken when they had been fighting that man and she didn’t quite understand what dodging meant. Many of her old injuries were small, easily seen as a trick of the light, but this one was constantly covered up. Now, though, it was there, just like the rest of her.
He had done a wonderful job. She didn’t know how long she sat in front of that portrait while others flocked around her, coming and going to see different parts of his exhibit. With each new surge of people, she could hear whispers of I’ve seen her before! And Who is this? It always amused her to hear the latter comments.
In the distance, she could hear him giving an interview, just like the ones that fraud gave. She heard the interviewer asking about the meanings behind his paintings, his answers always cool and measured. Finally, she heard them ask about her, why did he paint her? How did they know each other? It’s so different compared to your other work, Kitagawa-san, what was so special about it?
His response didn’t surprise her. They had known each other for a while, he claimed, since high school, in fact. He had seen her on the train one day and knew he had to paint her! It was like a lightning bolt zapped him with inspiration.
She laughed to herself, remembering that encounter. She recalled the anxiety she felt at his unknown gaze, the surprise at his offer, the relief when she realized he didn’t want to have-
So lost was she in her thoughts was she that the soft thump when he sat down startled her. He smiled at her, one she returned softly. They looked toward his artwork in silence, the thank you and you’re welcome unspoken yet heard all the same.
It could not erase the months of abuse she endured, the pain that man had given to her. But as she gazed upon the painting, her body bare to the world, she knew that finally, she had healed.