Chapter Text
The moon stood alone at the velvet backdrop of indigo that stretched overhead, white speckles of stars scattered itself among the void. Whispering, praying, and dancing to one and another. The night was calling to the thief.
The lonely moon gave light that stretched onto the balcony and into an open room. Creating a path of light reaching to where an artist stood. At this unknown hour, both the moon and the artist shared the silence together. Soon the stream of light was disrupted by a leaping silhouette. An intruder landed on both their feet as the cape billowed behind them. With their body lunged forward and head tilting down, the intruder straightened their posture. Their body facing the open room. The artist’s focus remained on the painting, her arm moving almost mechanically.
“Are you here trying to steal my painting?” Butter Pretzel’s voice was half irritated and half exasperated. She has not spared a single glance to the intruder, yet her undivided attention was on them.
The uninvited visitor’s tongue clicked as they stepped closer, “Oh my, is this how you’re going to greet your guests?”
The thief’s body leaned in, itching themselves away from the balcony and closer to the room of what Butter Pretzel has labeled as her studio. They permitted themselves to enter, with their arms behind their back and with their signature teasing smile; they moved with grace. Each step light as a feather, the muffled sound of heeled boots became inconsistent as they got closer. Instead of simple strides, they had to arch their knees in order to avoid the cluttered space that Pretzel basically lives in. Both feet planted side to side, now only being a few steps away from the painter.
The ruffled-hair woman’s lips parted slightly to contort, but as her eyes finally snapped away from the painting to read the look of their face, she stammered. Her attempt to say a witty comeback resulted in a staccato flow of words, evident that her mind was being numbed from over exhaustion. The sour, yet what seemed to be a prideful artist that the thief knew was no longer there.
No words were exchanged for a moment, the sound of slow swiping brush strokes filled in between the space, “This is no place for visitors.”
The woman sulked in, her shoulders heavy. She inhaled deeply only to exhale sharply, as if channeling the strength she had left to push her through. A string of inaudible words tumbled out of her teeth before her head coiled back to the painting. The attention now leaving Roguefort and onto the major stressor of Pretzel’s life. Her heavy eyelids stared at the painting and the painting stared back.
Roguefort didn’t feel anything as her eyes left theirs, knowing she’s fixated back on the painting that she has been rigorously working on non-stop. Having their eyes meet for a brief second, Roguefort was able to notice her gaze subtly soften upon seeing them. For a second, Pretzel was taken away from the painting, yet she seemed so distant. The way she looked at Roguefort lingered in their mind. They wanted to see her– her again. They can only hope she felt the same way.
“During my last visit, you swore you’d lock me out. I wonder why you kept the door open?” They teased, probing for an answer to see if she’d be up for a conversation.
“Cheesecake told me I needed more sunlight.” The artist responded quickly, but her voice was strained.
Their words felt louder at night, but twice as quiet at the same time. A private conversation that is only between them and the night. Frankly, Roguefort’s visits were the least of her problems. Coming in contact with detectives and dealing with them would have been more of a hassle. Under the circumstances she was in, she would rather spare the effort.
During their earlier visits, Butter Pretzel was a little bothered. She was shocked and tensed to see them on her balcony. What seemed to be an empty threat to steal her painting was still fresh in her mind. Despite this one-sided rivalry, not once did they ever pose a threat. Besides the playful teasing that would have her flustered and speaking out the first thing she could think on the spot or laughing at their bold comments, they were quite friendly. They knew how to keep the conversation going and their politeness was a bit charming. Sometimes Butter Pretzel forgot they were even a thief in the first place.
Another pair of eyes was no longer on her but onto the painting. The thief remained quiet, but had leaned a little closer to watch the masterpiece be created right in front of them.
“A commission from a Cheesecake Cookie, perhaps?” A voice called out.
Pretzel wouldn’t dare to admit she enjoyed their company. She made it firm that stealing will not be condoned on her property. As long as they abide and follow another set of rules, they were free to visit she supposed.
“..a wonderful woman I must insist, she adores jewels the same way as…”
Roguefort visits would be announced prior in enveloped calling cards left on the balcony. All cards have been stored away somewhere safe. She will never forget the first time she saw it on her balcony and the mixed emotions that stirred within the ribs of her chest. The envelope dazzled under the sunlight which called to her.
Pretzel followed the routine of eat, sleep, paint, and repeat while working with long-term commissions. She has gone weeks without leaving her room. This cycle was not healthy, which both of them knew. She would unintentionally deprive herself from her needs along with socialization. Besides the updates on her progress, which is sent electronically, the most social interaction she gets is from Roguefort. They’re the only one she knew who’s willing to see her at odd hours, and surprisingly flexible with her working hours (well there’s no surprise, a thief had no curfew).
“My apologies for bothering, but I must ask when it’s the last time you have eaten?” The same voice called out, but this time from 10 yards away.
As deadlines come to a grasp, another bit of her sanity sheds. Shells of her former human self would rip open, spill for what’s left for to be molded to what she thought was herself. For the longest, she thought the path of being an artist would no longer be all bumps on the road after she got recognition.
If only she knew the pressure of retaining the title of a respectable artist was tenfold. She achieved so many milestones within a week that she didn't have time to cherish the taste. The sound of calling herself an artist only sounded like velvet gold, if there was value behind each work. What wasted hidden potential did she have if she were to never find it sooner?
A voice one could argue, might have peeped something from the background. Words of concern, words of words. It’s all jumbled and lost in space.
What's relative to space? Time. Time is money, they say. There’s nothing more than losing pennies each second she goes without pouring sweat, tears, and blood. Now she’s spilling what is left of her essence onto the scraps of emptied out paints, forgotten and dumped canvases.
All paintings were given a fragment of herself, the more she creates and is left unsatisfied, the more she loses a piece of herself. Like loose seams of an abandoned plush, only the hands of those who see value in a toy can fix it. If only someone could read in between the lines of all her paintings, then maybe they could understand her better than she did.
This was the side that no one knew but Roguefort. A side that hides behind the walls built of primer, wooden-fabric canvases and oils paint. If eyes could taste what it laid on, each painting is finished with colors that would taste like honey. All her paintings could catch flies with honey. Or that’s what she has thought.
Who else couldn’t prove that she’s worth the title of being an artist, but herself. Creative mind, creative soul, but body far more processed than meat can execute that vision. A crash from the top to was far more terrifying than crashing when you’re already at rock bottom. She could not accept the upcoming pain, she did not have what it takes to die like an artist.
Stress from the hindsight of her brain has not left since the last investigation. It’s now guilt that is rearing its ugly face. A part of her knew that all of this is what she deserved: both recognition and the death of an artist. Nothing is more cowardly and shameful than to frame a crime she committed. It was no life or death situation, but a child’s mess between herself and her pride, and the result of that has put someone else's life on the line.
She wouldn't call that an act of desperation, but rather the boy who cried wolf. She understood how it feels to work with nothing just to meet bare ends. Their way of living must not be any different than hers if both sides are fighting to stay alive. She was not worthy to feel the warmth of the sun for placing her petty struggles onto a scapegoat whose name is tainted by the crimes they committed. Isolation was not enough.
They were not one to share about themselves and neither was she. The other could see right through her. To no surprise, they are more calculating and cunning than she was. They were belted with experience of cracking security codes and making news headliner known escapes.
The world instantly fell in love with them, but with love that lacked adoration. The police have not found out how they were able to execute their heists even when given a head start by calling cards that announced or clued their upcoming heist. That alone was a craft, if only they could manifest in a different form of art because she thinks they’re more deserving to be called an artist than she was.
In a way, they’re just like her. Both seek effortlessly to hone their craft that must be perfected before an audience could see; this was an unspoken mutual experience they both knew all too well. Two artists who are willing to die for their craft.
She didn’t understand why they kept coming back. Not once has she asked how they felt while they were unrightfully detained. Not once could they have been that close to the police. And it was her who made it happen.
She was paying back in dividends for the crime she fabricated against them. It was a punishment against God, a death of an empire. It was all happening right beneath their eyes.
“.....Butter Pretzel?”
From the events of the investigation, time flew by too fast. There wasn’t a second she could process. How was she left off the hook when she had to come out clean. Through pain, only a masterpiece could blossom. She could not stop, not even if she asked. There’s dignity behind each painting, but in order to achieve one must lose it.
A heavy sigh could be heard closer than the words that have been spoken. How long was she gone?
Roguefort eyes met once again, this time they could see the physical state Butter Pretzel was in. Her eye bags were prominent, almost sunken into her sockets. Her hair mangled, strands of it sticking onto her face. Her eyes glossy with fatigue, she has been staring over a thousand yards, not once did she really look at the painting.
“You haven’t been taking care of yourself, my dear.”
She couldn’t be mad at Roguefort for pointing out the obvious. She knew it too well, but it’s closer to the truth than she wanted to admit.
Vision blurred, her eyes couldn’t register the ghostly touch that brushed against her cheek. The warmth lingered briefly until her skin was cascaded by the cold moonlit air. Her mind fogged with fatigue, but something in her instinctively gravitated to find warmth. Their gentle touch was calling her.
Soon she saw the back-lit silhouette in front of her. She couldn’t speak, only mouthing their name.
The woman's head plopped against their chest. A subtle groan could be heard from her. Oh how desperately she wanted to rest. Her body resisted from moving a muscle, she didn’t have the power to find the words to express how empty her mind had become. She was in the hands of their mercy.
The headache she has been repressing has completely resurfaced. She shut her eyes closed to keep her mind off it, but flashing stars behind her eyes nagged her. Dizzy, her hands instinctively searched for Roguefort’s arms. Their arms were around her in an embrace.
Roguefort’s hands gently massaged her back, their thumb pressing against her spine to her shoulder blades. Her muscles were tense, sore from over exertion. Butter Pretzel’s hands weakly gripped on either side of their arm, hoping that they could stay like this for a little more. No words were exchanged other than the warmth of their company. For a moment they were quiet. Together.
So quiet that they could hear each others inhales and exhales. Butter Preztel’s breathe felt warm against her face, her heart skipping a beat, realizing how close they were to each other. She was too tired to react, but that didn’t stop the tingling feeling that rose to her cheeks.
Her breathing heaved, she almost feels guilty. Soon enough, her body untenses.
Hesitatingly, her grip on Roguefort's arm loosen and slowly made its way to their hips. Her hands on their hips twitch in place, her fingers were much more hesitant than theirs, unsure where to place her hands. For an artist whose works with the movement of her hands, this was one of the only times she couldn't.
This made her realize how long it has been since she had a genuine hug. That's what she needed. If only she could tell them, but her mouth could only form the words of gratitude. Their bodies swayed slowly as Roguefort hummed a soothing tune. Together, they held a timid dance in the night. She almost failed to keep her weight steady. Her knees buckled a bit as they swayed, she’s on the brink of collapsing.
She hiccuped. Tears blotching the fabric of the thief’s waistcoat. Her fingers gripped onto Roguefort’s suit before straightening herself up. Her arms quickly wiping the tears away.
“You didn’t have to do this.” She weakly said, her eyes flickering up.
Roguefort’s gaze softened and their eyes met with Butter Pretzel’s teary eyes.
A moment passes and Butter Pretzel is back on her couch. She struggled to get herself situated. There are sealed paints and broken brushes that are scattered among her couch. With a sloppy arching motion, her arms pushed whatever clutter was within her vicinity. Her back sinking into the cushion of the couch, about this time she realized how much her body really did ache.
She set her head back with a low groan. Her heavy eyelids failed to keep open, they felt like sand pouring down her face. She could feel herself drifting to sleep.
Her nose twitched as a faint savory aroma wafted into her nose. It appeared the same intruder made themselves at home. A bowl and a spoon on either hand, along with the smell of tomato soup.
The dish itself was fairly simple, something quick to make with the ingredients left in Butter Pretzel's fridge. It's smelt appetizing enough to make her stomach grumble.
"Don't force yourself, alright?" Roguefort smiled, though concern was written all over their face.
They dip the spoon into the soup. A blossom of yellow bloomed in a rich bath of hues of reds. The soup was brought to Butter Pretzel's lips.
"As long as you eat half of it, I'll leave you alone for the night. Promise?"
Silence ghosted slowly like the savory smell of the soup in Roguefort’s hand.
"Promise..." Butter Pretzel half murmured, her body weakly leaned forward to let the spoon enter her mouth.
Roguefort gently tilted the spoon handle upward to ensure she had the full spoonful. Promptly, they continue to slowly spoon feed her.
The artist's face is slightly brought back to life. She still had the same sluggishness and distress painted across her face, but she is breathing. Calm. The quiet of the storm.
Butter Pretzel’s eyes locked onto Roguefort's gaze. She took note of how much genuine care twinkled in their eyes. She didn't understand them, but she knew they did not pity her.
Her focus returned back on the spoon that was below her lips. And again, she took another spoonful of soup.
If her arms and back weren't in agonizing pain, she would have grabbed the bowl and devoured it like a hungry wolf. It either has been a long time since she had a good meal or Roquefort is a surprisingly good cook. There's so much she didn't know about them.
It's tangy, yet rich. Comforting. She notices the cooked egg infused into the soup, which added more flavor into the soup.
She wondered what other talents they had in their waist belt, waiting to be shown to the world.
A more flimsy solids got in between her molars, making a subtle crunch.
Scallions? Since when did she have that?
The question dissipates like vapor into the air when the spoon returns back to her mouth.
Noise around her becomes filtered, flashing colors of yellows and blues flow past her like the starry night. Time again seems to be passing too fast, yet too slow.
If only she could cherish them, only if she could thank them .
Soon enough, the waves of slumber crash over her. Seafoam laps over her eyes and body, the sand filling from head to toe and it was time for her to sleep.