Work Text:
Once all of Ramonu’s drawing equipment is inside, Rudolf locks the door of the student council room for the first time in years.
This must be bad for her health. Her heart races, faster than it ever seems to when she’s running nowadays. She tries to think of the last time she’s been the sole focus of Mejiro Ramonu’s attention — she never is, even when they race together — and comes to the conclusion there may have never been a time like that at all.
“I’ll move my desk,” she says, just to fill the space.
Ramonu’s lips shift to the side. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
Rudolf exhales, picking up and stacking the documents strewn all over her desk, putting pens away in their proper places on her desk organizer, but Ramonu stops her then, too, telling her to leave it alone.
There’s something about leaving that aspect of herself bare to be immortalized in Ramonu’s sketchbook that makes Rudolf shiver and her palms sweat, but she doesn’t dare protest. What happens in this room will never be known by anyone but them. She trusts Ramonu, whose intentions are always laid bare for those who are able to decipher her, even if none have yet been able.
It’s that familiarity that keeps her from letting the crushing weight of Ramonu’s oppressive aura silence her. Ramonu means nothing by it, of course. She’s not capable of stifling who she is even if she wanted to, and that’s part of why Rudolf loves her so.
She busies herself with making the room presentable, because she won’t give up all semblance of control. “Would you prefer the curtains drawn or open?”
“Natural light is best,” Ramonu responds as she adjusts her easel and flips through a large pad of sketch paper. Rudolf watches her dynamic charcoal figures fly past as the pages flip over the top of the easel.
She wonders if anyone who witnesses this sight in the future will recognize which ones are of her.
Ramonu slides a thin vine of charcoal out from a tin placed on the coffee table. None of the fragile vines are broken, though some have been worn down by frequent use. It’s the kind of care taken by few other than her.
Before Ramonu can tell her to move into place, Rudolf, in her observation, recognizes that she’s ready, stops fiddling with the curtains and slides her chair out closer to the window, standing in front of it.
“Closer,” Ramonu requests. “In front of the desk.”
“I can still move it, if that makes things easier.”
“It doesn’t,” she says flatly.
So Rudolf takes her place standing in front of her desk. She fiddles with the sleeves of her racewear, slings the cape perfectly over her shoulder.
“For gestures, this is acceptable.”
Ramonu’s phone is placed gently down on the coffee table with a timer that’s set to go off every thirty seconds.
“Hold,” Mejiro Ramonu commands while Rudolf is busy fixing the tassels on her shoulder. She goes statue-still in an instant upon hearing the words, fingers splayed in between the strands just as they were the second Ramonu opened her mouth. She can’t see in this pose, but she hears the charcoal’s big, sweeping movements across the page.
The timer dings. Rudolf doesn’t need to be told what to do. She stands with a hand fitted at her hip, mimicking a pose she’d seen on a statue at an art museum. An avid appreciator but not an artist herself, she finds it easiest to imitate rather than innovate.
And this pose allows her to watch. Ramonu’s gaze is intensely focused on her instead of the page, and Rudolf could assume she’s drawing blind contours if not for the minute movements of her eyes shifting back to her sketchpad every few moments. It’s not the Emperor she’s seeing, nor is it Rudolf, or a longtime friend, nor a beloved. In some ways this makes it easier, being no more than a figure for these thirty seconds.
Eight more poses pass this way. She’s certainly noticed Rudolf has been watching, but if Ramonu cares, she doesn’t show it in her body language or her words.
“Come here,” Ramonu beckons in the middle of the tenth pose and Rudolf, conditioned to follow her instructions by only a few minutes of this, takes several steps forward to meet her.
Ramonu’s beautiful, soft hands, covered in charcoal dust, grasp the edge of one of her gloves, dirtying it with her fingerprints before she pulls it off entirely. Rudolf breathes in and out evenly before she forgets how to.
“Relax your fingers,” she says, and she smiles when Rudolf obliges. Being told to relax isn’t simple when Ramonu’s touch, a hair’s width from her skin but never closer than that, makes her hands shake.
“Is there a reason for this?” Rudolf asks, clearing her throat.
While setting her timer again, Ramonu doesn’t spare another glance to Rudolf’s face. “I wanted to study them,” she says matter-of-factly. “I couldn’t, with your gloves.”
“Right.” Ramonu isn’t an enigma — she’s an artist. Rudolf knows where her intentions lie. This isn’t some profound intimate act more than requesting she model for Ramonu’s observational studies in the first place.
Ramonu isn’t naïve, either. She must realize what she does to Rudolf. It’s why she allows her to monopolize her time without complaint. This is, for lack of a more graceful metaphor (though rather one befitting Rudolf in this moment) her version of throwing the dog a bone.
Three minutes pass before Ramonu is satisfied with her hands. This close up, Rudolf can watch as Ramonu’s face contorts in concentration, no less perfect for it, and she mourns the loss of that view when Ramonu tells her to step back and get into position for the next round of one- and two-minute poses.
If she’s willing to be slightly delusional, Rudolf can imagine that she is her muse. That every swipe of Ramonu’s vine against her sketchpad is imbued with appreciation for Symboli Rudolf, lifelong companion.
It’s an interesting way to be used for your body, this.
It would be much more awkward if Rudolf wasn’t entirely willing, focused on being the art like Ramonu is focused on being the artist. Her poses become more bold until there’s almost nothing left of museum halls from her memories and all that’s there is her.
“I like this pose,” Ramonu comments. Rudolf blinks.
“I’ll hold for five,” she offers, and Ramonu hums.
The strain on her muscles is intense. Her endurance is much greater than a normal human’s or the typical umamusume, but it’s not easy to hold one standing pose for the entirety of five minutes. She manages it because she wouldn’t accept herself if she couldn’t, and her sigh when Ramonu’s phone timer dings reverberates throughout the room, to Ramonu’s amused exhale.
“For the longer poses, you should sit,” she tells her.
Rudolf leans back onto the desk, hands gripping the edge of it. “Thank you.”
“It’s only standard,” Ramonu dismisses. “I should be ready in five or so minutes.”
“I can brew you something,” Rudolf offers. Anything to provide more for her.
“You’re doing enough already,” is Ramonu’s reply, and Rudolf doesn’t press, simply watches her gently place her charcoal back in the tin and take out a handkerchief to wipe her fingers. Rudolf moves to sit back at her chair where it’s been pushed back close to the window.
Ramonu’s sketchpad is closed before Rudolf can see any of the poses she modeled for. She’s seen Ramonu’s gestures before, and knows how well she can capture movement and the essence of a person even without most identifying details. She’ll have to ask about it later at a time when Ramonu isn’t so laser-focused on her work.
She pulls out a second sketchbook of much higher quality and a set of brand new pencils. When she sees Rudolf sitting patiently at her chair with her legs crossed, backlit by the natural light of the window, she frowns, and holds up a pencil horizontally.
“Is something wrong?” Rudolf asks, smoothing her skirt with her bare hands.
Ramonu pauses for an uncomfortable amount of time, taking in the sight in front of her with an artist’s eye. “… Could you take off your coat?”
“Ah, is that…”
“It’s distracting,” Ramonu adds, closing her eyes. “The skirt as well.”
It’s merely her racewear coat — the whole ensemble is so layered that removing it and her overskirt would still leave her as far from nudity as she is when she’s in casual wear, but the essence of the act is different. The getup of the Emperor is never incomplete.
She pops the buttons open with care. The coat itself is heavy from the weight of the medals affixed to her chest, though it doesn’t feel like much to someone like her. Gingerly she places the Emperor’s coat across the back of her chair, the light catching on the medals and glistening, tassels dangling next to the armrests. For good measure she unties her cravat and places it neatly on top of a stack of documents on her desk. The skirt is simple — it unzips and falls to the floor, leaving her in her shorts and long-sleeved white undershirt.
Rudolf can imagine the reason for her request; it’s not an unreasonable ask. Her racewear is so intricate and heavy that it drowns out the form of her body, which is the very thing Ramonu is interested in capturing with her pencil. It’s likely that it could be anyone in this chair and it would mean the exact same to her, but Rudolf revels in the idea that she doesn’t.
“Better. You can turn,” Ramonu says.
Rudolf furrows her eyebrows. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“In your chair, put your legs over the armrest… yes, like that.”
She’s certainly never sat in her student council chair like this, but it’s a comfortable pose. “Twenty minutes,” Ramonu reminds her. She rests her head in the crook of her elbow on the armrest.
For the umpteenth time today, she watches her set her timer and place it on the coffee table. Twenty minutes of silence isn’t something unusual for either of them, especially not in this room, or in the presence of each other. Rudolf closes her eyes and lets the constant scratch of graphite against drawing paper lull her into a sense of peace and security.
The clock ticks loud in the quiet room. Girls mill about outside, unaware of the scene occurring above them in the student council room. Not that it would be scandalous in the slightest, but it is something meant for just the two of them, with or without proper intimacy.
“Ramonu,” she says quietly, careful to not shift her position, “would you be free for dinner?”
Ramonu breathes evenly, an artist in focus, and shushes her softly.
“I can’t tell if you’re agreeing...”
“Quiet, Loulou,” Ramonu scolds with the same tone of voice she uses to say anything else. “Another time.”
The nickname coming from Ramonu’s mouth makes her blush until she comes to her senses, even more embarrassed at herself for acting childish.
She stifles a yawn before closing her eyes again. Twenty minutes is a very long time to stay still and awake.
“Five minutes,” Ramonu says to let her know. “This will be the last pose for today, I think.”
Out of desire to prolong the moment, Rudolf doesn’t speak or even let out a hum to let Ramonu know she’s listening.
For today? She might not mean it, but the words give Rudolf a sliver of hope, something to look forward to.
She’ll do this for as long as Ramonu wants her to, until her sketchbook is filled with nothing but her. The idea of Ramonu asking someone else makes her stomach churn with jealousy that she’s well aware she feels, but wouldn’t dare give voice to.
“Stop moving your tail,” Ramonu asks. Rudolf uses all of her willpower to comply.
The ding of the timer on the table pulls both of them out of the moment.
“Was that alright?” Rudolf asks immediately.
Ramonu, before Rudolf can get out of her chair and see the results of the session, shuts her sketchbook. “You did well. Enough for a next session.”
“Ah,” Rudolf stutters, pulling her heavy jacket off of the backrest, “I suppose I’ll get to see your work ‘next time?’”
“It depends.” Ramonu doesn’t clarify what it depends on. Or when. “I will let you know.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Rudolf says honestly. “Your eye for detail is unmatched.”
“It’s been years since you’ve seen what I’ve done,” Ramonu reminds her. She shoos Rudolf away when she attempts to help her put away her easel. “I’d prefer less idle flattery.”
What she says is true, but Rudolf has watched her on the turf recently, and knows that that artist’s intuition has only gotten stronger than it was when they were children. She knows Ramonu, however, and decides to stop pressing entirely.
“What time are you at the track in the mornings, lately?” she asks instead.
Ramonu pauses putting her easel in her bag and looks directly at Rudolf’s face with an intense expression in those beautiful eyes. “Four.”
“I could join you, if you’d like,” Rudolf says, knowing the amount of willpower it would take her to get up at four in the morning to train. In all honesty she’d barely gotten any sessions in recently, what with student council business, so proximity to Ramonu wouldn’t be the only reason for her to carve out a time so early for her runs.
Ramonu smiles. Directly at her. It’s a small one, but it still counts.
“I’m not opposed.”
“Very well,” Rudolf agrees. She slides her overskirt back on and rezips it. It wouldn’t be proper to let anyone but Ramonu see her in a state of… not exactly partial undress, but for someone whose image is so carefully cultivated, something near-equivalent.
The chair is slid back into place at her desk and her cravat regains its spot around her neck. As Ramonu leaves, Rudolf reassumes her student council duties with a glee that will certainly seem suspicious to Air Groove in the morning.