Chapter Text
The clink of pens and pencils rolling onto the faux wood made pearl look up from the plastic and metal bookshelf she was placing books upon. As she peered over a few romance novels she was hit by a ray of sun as she looked, a woman sat at a table nearby was fussing with some items in her backpack and checked her green watch but what drew pearls interest was the heavily decorated sketchbook on the space in front of her; it had stickers, some of which from shows and games she recognised and some of which were just pictures of people that looked handmade. Her eyes sparkled in the shadows and was silently intrigued of the story of the many dents and writings that were scattered along the black background. And who those people were.
As to try and catch her breath after how that stranger took it away, she turned her back to the shelf and took a deep breath, subconsciously making impressions and ideas of who that gorgeous lady could be. Peeking through the bookshelf’s gaps, Her eyes once again fell to the figure, her hands slowly putting on some headphones that were almost as decorated as the sketchbook and flitting through pages of beautiful art, some of which pearl recognised as the doodles she saw on some art in the art studio connected to the library, just a small room with tables and spare bookshelves but people seemed to love it, pearl especially liked sitting there and reading one of the books she placed there. It usually sat empty or with a single person inside.
The library was connected to the small art studio by a spiralling staircase with metal swirls and steep steps which meant it was only ever occasionally open due to inconvenience and how people forgot about it. In fact pearl was going to open it for people in few minutes when she finished putting the new books away and even though she was supposed to be doing more ‘important’ tasks, pearl saw how the library hadn’t a new person enter for fifteen minutes now and so she decided she could get a small break from having to look over the main books for the day. Especially on nice spring days the the one shining outside, she liked to open the art room windows, letting the cool breeze air out any lingering chemicals or paint smells that may have been stewing since it was last entered.
So as the pile of books became smaller and the mysterious persons page filled with small doodles of people and notes in handwriting illegible, she walked to the hallway that connected into the stairwell and as she stepped up, felt a goose walk over her grave. Her hair stood on end as she walked past the painting on the wall. She must’ve almost run to the door in unexplainable fear before turning the silver, dented keys in the old, janky lock and smelt the condensed, sticky air from the heat recently. She felt suffocated and enclosed suddenly by the lack of space to walk and how the heat filled all her senses, the only grounding item was the keys and how she felt the cold of the wall beside her back and tip toed around canvases, old rags and forgotten projects that sat on the floors. This messy path led her to the window, wide and decorated with paint spatters and old debris.
A gust of wind entered the room and gave a brief relief for her, swishing around her flowing sleeves and surrounding the room with fresh cold. Her chest rose and fell slowly, inhaling the smells and the air that diffused it in the fresh sun-warmed air from outside. The warmth softening how the heat stung her eyes, cooling her down from the exterior.
Suddenly she was thrown back to reality with a racing heart as she turned to see what a noise she heard could be but instead saw the someone from downstairs holding her bag and sketchbook sheepishly and that they made a small cough, almost like double checking that her vocal cords still work, and softly spoke the words with an accent that was barely audible
‘Umm… is this open now?’
‘Oh! Yes! Absolutely!’
Pearl literally fell backwards in shock, the person was even more gorgeous when they stood in front of her now, Not just like the moon or another cringe worthy way you may say it. Unspeakably beautiful; she looked like the change in seasons- like she makes a positive impact in peoples lives- like an honest-to-god angel.
Her feathery, red hair glittered in the dappled light from above; the way the light fell reminded pearl of a halo. It would certainly match her glowing red-pink cheeks and the dark framed glasses that sat framing her questioning eyes. Eyeliner not exactly perfect on both sides but close enough for pearl to think they were the same. And the way her lipstick was slightly smudged, the colour in a similar shade to what pearl could assume is her normal colour but with a shimmer in the yellowish light.
The stranger had reached out to catch her fall, their hands refrained from movement for a minute, observing the other’s movements and trying to think of a way that wasn’t as awkward to move forwards. Pearl was stood right in the middle of the room, blocking the main way to get to the table, so when she spun around quick in order to step back, she almost took a long tumble down onto some old canvases and into an odd cupboard covered by the indigo shadow; she accepted her fate of bruises and pain for the week and just waited for the commotion to stop.
That initial shock and adrenaline filled rush never came though and instead, she was at an angle and gripping a soft outstretched hand. It felt like the ocean after a long day, lukewarm and enveloping. like leaning against a radiator after the snow. A feeling she never knew she missed.
Her eyes were looking with wide wonder before she stretched upwards to properly stand on her own; relaxing in the lack of discomfort she expected from the fall yet tensing again as she realised how she held their hanr and how must be uncomfortable for the stranger, basically holding someone randoms hand would definitely make pearl feel weird so she let go and, with more grace now, let them pass by. As they (more carefully than pearl) weaved through the room to the tables behind, pearl smelt their floral perfume, it was like a mix of berries and a sweet jasmine.
They seemed to be a regular in the room; sitting down in the furthest corner with precision and knowledge of all the clutter and mess that littered the linoleum floor, making sure not to hit any of it. The small room was tight as most extra rooms in the library but it felt used, worn with time, and had clear impacts of the past artists and patrons. The bright primary colours of a portrait that hung in the main room, the lingering smell of plastic and fumes from the structure that was placed from the ceiling over the harsh neon lights in the study room below them, the purple, white and black paint in excess left from an artist from the library’s first opening, it always was an anonymous person who painted with the lovely violets and lavenders. Their canvases were spread across the stairwells, which felt fitting with the black metal spiral that they were and how the topics were of people with wide eyes and bodies positioned in a way that felt tense and uncomfortable.
People always looked away from the spooky paintings; pearl never did. She always wished she was better at investigation and research so she could have a small chance of finding the artist, obviously not to tell the general public of the artist, but just to show her appreciation and interest in how the set came to be. She thought maybe it was depicting personal struggles or a feeling a distance with their own life. The eyes always looked like a memory to pearl. The hurt was too much, the glint of porcelain white in their eyes were too planned. It felt like something you want to remember. Like a splinter in your brain but you can’t think of how it got there.
Pearl was standing still at the door, gazing harshly at the one of a small boy with ruffled hair and wings that spread over the whole width and height of the canvas. It felt like guilt to pearl. Like forgetting how you used to act, to live, to breathe. It was the creepiest one to pearl due to the likeness to herself. The way their eyes lined with tears and the way their face frowned. It must have also been a coincidence too how when pearl inspected the painting, she noticed how a birthmark of sorts on the inner forearm was covered up, the same spot she had one.
Quickly, a shadowy figure obscured it as they walked by and pearl was thrown into reality once again. She knelt down in order to calm her mind and to grab the plastic door stopper from the floor, it was covered in paint and was never cleaned once. She jammed it into the gap below the heavy door with a hand pressed against the wood, repeating thrice until it didn’t fall without her palms pushing it open.
The sound of walking and a plastic chair squeaking behind her made her body stand and her hands clench defensively, but becoming loose again once she saw how it was just the stranger collecting a pallet with paints and unhooking a canvas from the opposite wall, in reaction to this pearl tried to speak up in defence of the artists pretty painting and how she would never want someone to edit her art if it was hers. The person caught the last words that she spoke and turned around to face pearl as they cut the cracking silence by replying with a simple
‘Oh, this is my art! See?’
She moved her slim index finger to show the signature in the corner with a touch of her dark green nail on the dry paint, her glitter polish catching the sunlight and calling to pearl for her to watch the way it moved up and down with her breath and speaking patterns. Then after a second and with great regret, apologises and says louder now within a less quiet surrounding
‘Sorry then, it’s so pretty i didn’t want it coming into someone else’s hands. It’s one of my favourites in the library…’
‘Thank you! I appreciate your…appreciation… for it’
And they fell back into a silence only occasionally cut by the papers stuck to a cork board shaking in certain strong gusts of mild wind from the open window pearl was gazing out of before she decided that it wasn’t going to be very fun looking at the business people who walked by on their way to work in the morning rush, so she carefully walked to the wooden shelves and picked out a book on colour theory and symbolism within art.
She always liked seeing and analysing the choices that artists make with their art, it’s interesting how what can be so easily overlooked can be days of thought put into it. the job of being an artist is as impressive as any office worker and pearl even thought that artists were simply better, they took risks but also well planned choices which could properly explain them with logical sense. Even if that was simply instinct.
She was also very interested in how colours can manipulate someone’s emotion or perception of a thing. She mainly learnt this within a few books from the library below them, as the softest and quietest parts of the library were the parts by psychology, maybe that choice was purposefully chosen. Who knows.
She had tried many times in the past to draw and paint: or any sort of artistic representation. She has tried to do still lives and portraits and even the mathematical architecture but she could never get it to look right to her, missing shadows and misplacing eyes and any sort of structure was unbalanced. She always got stuck within a loop of perfection as she sketched. even if she knew it was alright to not be the best on the first try in her head, she never held herself to those low expectations.
She was just thinking about how now she believed she could never be as good as the delightful person across the table. The one with a paintbrush in her hand and a solemn look on her face. She looked angry from first glance at the slight furrow in her brow but that fell when she touched down the brush to the canvas again.
Her red-handled brush left a muted blue streak onto the canvas that portrayed a person, standing in a room of white tile and sterile white windows with darkness outside them, yet the shadows didn’t affect the main subject. A feminine person with long curly hair that held colours which changed from browns to blondes to reds and blacks depending of how you see it. Their mid toned skin was warm and brushed with reds and yellows, bright and lifelike. Yet the beautiful person was wearing what looked like a grey polyester rectangle, unfitted and ugly. But yet that covering reminded pearl of the paintings of women from centuries ago. The fabrics creasing and folding on the stone-shadowed bias.
But what caught pearls eyes was the pink, purple and blue flowers that lay surrounding their face which looked suspiciously like the artists with just some light changes. The flowers that framed her perfect face were bright violet violas, striking and delicate, blue hydrangea, cold and remembering, striped pink carnations, friendly and feminine, with a scattering of elderflower with its cream colour flowers when she looked closer at the gaps. She couldn’t quite remember what the other flowers meant within the widespread symbolism but she couldn’t forget about violets, not only being gorgeous, their flowers represent love between two women.
In fact she remembers studying this topic when she was younger and how the symbolism came to be, how it started with the poems of Sappho from lesbos who gifted her women lovers violets and now her name has been taken and slightly changed to refer to two women loving each other; the name for lesbians and sapphics. She always felt queer from a young age, like something was missing from her puzzle but when pearl read about it online as a teen, sitting on her bed and listening someone speak the words she had been searching for, for years. She later felt like when she wasn’t being forced into a relationship with them, boys weren’t too bad. Labelling herself as bisexual which also lead to how she currently wondered if the artist knew about the colours she used.
Her mind wondered speedily to whether the person knew of the symbolism she was using within her art. Especially how the subject was reminiscent of the person painting it. She wondered how the person felt about the colours she had chosen being that of the bisexual flag; they didn’t look to straight and certainly not homophobic but pearl definitely would not be bringing it up. Perhaps it was a coincidence too, but pearl found herself flustered at the thought of having a chance with the pretty person sitting across from her.