Work Text:
“So,” Arlecchino begins, glancing over the script, “the scene calls for a bruise on your neck? A hickey?”
“Yes.” Furina nods, sitting in the chair before her and before the mirrors, looking up at Arlecchino while she stands by the counter. Her hands are folded together in her lap, her thumbs idly knocking together, and she watches as Arlecchino glances over her materials before kneeling down at Furina’s side.
Her eyes scan over Furina’s skin, her neck and her collarbone, and Furina watches as she does with a bit of both boredom and interest - because despite not liking having to sit so still, she likes to see the way Arlecchino’s irises flicker around, likes to feel her gaze. By now, she’s long grown used to it. She’d even say she loves it - if nothing else, it’s comfortingly familiar and, when Furina’s being honest, she wishes she could feel it even more often.
She’s not sure quite why Arlecchino grew to fit so well in her life. It started with a dinner after a late day of filming, and then another dinner, and then lunches and longer conversations and what Furina figures is a friendship. And she likes it. She likes when Arlecchino teases her on her mistakes and chides her for scratching herself on a table corner and invites her to meals and goes home with her to have tea and then wine and then leave even though Furina insists she can stay in the spare bed, and she likes it when she’s close, putting on Furina’s makeup and covering up her flaws while still expressing her admiration for them, enhancing her best traits and turning Furina into her work of art.
Furina knows what it means when she feels so fluttery and so intensely attached to Arlecchino, and when she really thinks about it, the ‘why’ is an obvious answer: Arlecchino is attractive - though she can be cold, she’s kind. She’s intelligent, she’s a gentleman, and she makes Furina feel cared for. But it’s still strange to think that someone like her could fit so well with someone like Furina, that somewhere along the making of this film, Furina found someone she thinks she might love for a long time.
“Furina?” and she’s pulled from her thoughts gently, like a warm hand leading hers.
She shakes her head a little, blinking, and then looks to Arlecchino. “Yes?”
“Still here?” Arlecchino asks lightly, that husky voice of hers lilted with clear amusement. Furina pouts in mock offense and pokes the shoulder of the artist before her, the movement playful and lighthearted.
“Of course,” she huffs playfully, and she doesn’t quite catch how Arlecchino’s expression softens. “I was just thinking. You can go ahead now.”
Arlecchino gazes at her for a moment, and she nods. But when she moves, instead of just starting on making the fake bruise, Arlecchino leans forward, tilts her head up to settle under Furina’s jaw. Furina’s breath gets caught in her throat and she stills, heart racing, while Arlecchino moves and presses a kiss right on the curve of her neck, above her pulse point. When she pulls back, it’s not by even an inch. Furina can still feel her, her body so close, her breath against her throat, the subtle smirk on Arlecchino’s lips when she notices the goosebumps rising on Furina’s skin.
And yet, when Arlecchino speaks, it’s a completely normally phrased question. “Is this a good spot for it, Furina?”
The actress lets out a shaky breath and finds the strength to hold onto Arlecchino’s arms.
“Sure,” she mutters, “but…that- um…”
She sees in the bottom of her view how Arlecchino closes her eyes, how she tucks her head closer and slips her arms down to tangle her fingers with Furina’s. “That was okay, wasn’t it?” she asks in that velvet tone, that soft, irresistible voice that she uses when she’s trying to be comforting. And Furina, with her mind still quite frazzled, lightly squeezes Arlecchino’s hand in an affirmative.
“...Yes,” she says after a second, and then she turns her head and clears her throat, trying not to blush with embarrassment at being so flustered. “Yes, that’s…more than okay.” She feels Arlecchino smile against her neck at the approval, just slightly, and her heart skips.
“Good,” Arlecchino says, and Furina finally manages to relax, as she gently tugs Arlecchino’s hand up to her lips to kiss the back of it.
“Anyway…shouldn’t you get back to work?” she lightly asks. “You’re supposed to be doing my makeup, Arle.”
“Can’t you give me a moment?” Arlecchino replies lowly, kissing the underside of her jaw in a retaliation that definitely proves effective. “My favorite actress is holding my hand. I’m trying to savor it.”
Furina huffs despite the blush spreading on her cheeks, and she pulls her hands back to instead cup Arlecchino’s jaw, tilting the artist’s head up so Furina can look at her.
“Well, she’ll kiss you if you do your job,” she says with an attempt to be stern, and Arlecchino hums at that, drawing back to smirk up at her. There’s a faint tinge of pink to Arlecchino’s face despite her unruffled act, and when Furina notices it she feels herself melt, the adoration that sinks into her in the moment much too thick and sweet in her chest for her to catch her breath.
“Oh, now that’s a good incentive,” Arlecchino purrs. She finally picks her tools back up and gently beckons Furina to tilt her chin up and expose her neck, moving over her to work on creating the fake bruise. Furina sits still with ease and closes her eyes to simply take in the feeling, of the brush and of Arlecchino’s hand holding her jaw while she works, of the warmth of her body on top of hers and the sharp but familiar glare of the lights. Furina settles her hand on Arlecchino’s waist just to hold onto her while she works, and she can’t help but smile when Arlecchino allows her to.
After a moment, she runs her thumb over Arlecchino’s side. When the artist pauses to switch tools and Furina can shift, she opens her eyes and softly asks, “...And…I’m your favorite actress?”
Arlecchino turns back to her, and gently presses down with the fingertips on Furina’s cheek. “Of course. As if there could be any better option.”