Work Text:
The scent of turpentine hangs thick in the atelier, mingling with the damp December chill seeping through the rattling windows. Lili's brush hovers over the half-finished canvas where Gerda lounges—nude, glorious, a study in ochre and shadow—but her hand trembles. The reflection in the gilded mirror across the room mocks her: the sharp angle of a jaw that shouldn't be hers, shoulders too broad beneath the silk kimono she wears like armor.
Octarine. That's the color of the rage that claws up her throat—some impossible hue between violet and emerald, the shade of magic or madness. The palette knife clatters to the floor with the litter as she seizes the canvas, hurling it against the wall with a raw, guttural scream. Stretcher bars splinter; Gerda’s painted likeness splits diagonally, her smile severed by the crack. Gerda doesn’t flinch. She steps down from the dais, barefoot on the cold parquet, her skin still flushed from holding the pose. She doesn’t reach for her robe. When she pulls Lili against her, the warmth of her bare stomach presses through the kimono’s thin fabric.
"Shh, min skat," she murmurs, fingers tangling in Lili’s hair.
It’s too tight, too much—Lili writhes, but Gerda holds firm, letting her struggle until the fight dissolves into shuddering sobs. Lili’s face presses into the softness of Gerda’s breast, the salt of her tears smearing across bare skin. Outside, the market vendors shout over sleet-slick cobblestones, their voices muffled by the glass. Gerda rocks her gently, humming something Danish and off-key. She doesn’t say I understand. She doesn’t lie.
When Lili finally goes slack, Gerda thumbs the wetness from her cheeks. "Will you try again?" she asks, nodding toward the ruined canvas. The question hangs between them like the smoke from the overturned oil lamp—a dare, an offering.
Lili’s laugh is watery. She touches Gerda’s collarbone, tracing the freckles there. "Kiss for good luck?"
Gerda’s mouth quirks. She leans in, but stops just short, her breath warm. "That’s cheating."
"Then burn it down," Lili whispers, staring at the fractured mirror. "Everything that’s left."
Gerda’s kiss tastes of linseed oil and resolve.