#fic. posting

'Blueberry Milk can never know,' Truthless Recluse thinks as she opens her sketchbook to a brand new page. Her pencil, held her middle finger, pointer, and thumb hovered over the page hesitantly as she tried to focus.

Recluse hasn't finished any pieces since the last one she submitted to the gallery months back when she first met Blueberry Milk. Not for a lack of interest or enthusiasm, mind you; if anything, her desire to create has never been stronger since that last exhibit. It was instead a matter of her focus being divided between keeping Blueberry Milk's attention and keeping her from finding out her identity- which has led to her canvas collecting dust for months.

The only reason she has pulled out her sketchbook- which she too neglected- is because Blueberry Milk has been gone for two weeks out of her month-long trip a few states away. Even though she had told Recluse in a timely manor that she would be leaving, it did very little to prepare her for what her departure would mean. As if a hole had been carved out of her chest, she could feel the place Blueberry Milk occupied at her side grow colder the longer she remained away. Even if intuitively she knew Blueberry Milk would return, doubt settled heavy in her chest.

For the first time in a very long time, Recluse felt the loneliness that came with her isolation. The bitterness of it, sickening her stomach and filling her head with a familiar static that refused to let her sleep. She once thought she was far passed trivial emotions, that her rationale would shield her from this misery, but how wrong she was as Recluse mourned the presence missing from her side.

It is why, embarrassingly so, Recluse pulls out her sketchbook to draw portraits of Blueberry Milk.

The last time she drew portraits was in college when her professors would assign the class to draw busts or models they had prepared for them. Rarely did she look another in the eye, rarer that she get close enough to get a good look of their features to do the damn assignments to a passable degree. They were her worst performing pieces and it was only when her professor remembered she was blind that they would give her a close up of the faces.

Landscapes and abstraction were her strong suit, with colors swirling together to depict how she was forced to see the world. It was always the colors first, then the unfocused structures, before she finally understood the details. As limiting as it was, and as frustrating as it can be, processing her sight through her paintings makes it tolerable. Even if the landscapes become nonsensical or the abstractions more frightening than was intended, it was her reality.

And the reality of the current situation is that she misses Blueberry Milk, no matter how hard she tries not to. The ache in her heart has swelled to an agonizing degree, and without any pictures or messages to soothe that ache, she decides to draw her.

Months prior, when Blueberry Milk had arrived to her studio apartment the first time, Recluse had no idea what she was meant to be doing. Other than the tea she set out on her bare counter, and the small package of blueberries she bought the morning of her arrival, Recluse has not hosted visitors in a long time. Her apartment is a reflection of this- none of her furniture matches and we're either gifts or stuff her neighbors were planning on throwing out. The walls were empty of any personal items (or taken down before Blueberry Milk's arrival) and her bedroom had only her bed, a desk, and a closet. All of her art supplies were hidden away in the closet and firmly locked as to prevent her guest from snooping.

Admittedly she was never happy with how she lived. The elevator of this building broke far too often and the stairs left her knees shaking once she reached her apartment, and by then she would be bed bound for the rest of the day due to the pain. Her bedroom is normally a mess of sketches and tarps and paints that she lacked the energy to organize, and her kitchen was so empty you would believe no one actually lived there. Recluse wasn't proud of it- she hated it.

Her body fails her so often, and without the energy or strength to fix any of it, it has led to her apartment feeling more like a cage than anything else. Anywhere else was too expensive for the accommodations she needed, or too far from the buses she relies on to get anywhere in the city without feeling faint from walking too long. She despised living there, but it was all she had.

Immediately she could tell Blueberry Milk wanted to say something. She had stopped a few feet from the entryway, eyes scanning the space before her with that thoughtful, thinly veiled concern on her face she only got when she saw something that unnerved her. It stirred an old resentment in her chest.

'Say it,' she wanted to hiss, the words on the tip of her tongue. 'Say it. I know how I look. Tell me how you pity me- your sympathies and condolences you think I need. Say it, make it easier for me to hate you, despise you. Say it, so that this desire in my chest can be smothered. Say. It.'

Instead, Blueberry Milk's face smooths over when she spots the tea set on the counter. She carefully holds the porcelain cup in her hand as she takes a sip, and she turns around to face Recluse with her eyes shining with delight.

"You remembered how I like it," she said, and the rage coiling around Recluse instantly dissipated.

Considering the lack of furniture in her living space, they spent their time in her bedroom. Sat in her bed with her bag on her lap, Blueberry Milk seemed content to take in what little personal touches were in her room. The small potted plants by her windowsill; the stylus on her desk; and her sketchbook that she had forgotten to put away.

"Have you drawn anything new?" She asked, gaze drifting away from the book and settling onto Recluse who sat next to her.

Blueberry Milk had caught her doodling once on a small notebook she kept in her bag during one of the few times Recluse arrived first to their dates. It wasn't anything special- a few birds, some sketches of a hands from her dreams- but she still should have been more careful. Now she'll sometimes asks if she plans on selling her work- which, ironically, she already does.

Recluse slowly shook her head, her hands laid flat on her lap. Her companion hummed, and then with a playful grin, she asked, "Why don't you draw me?"

A typical, and rather predictable question artists normally get. Once someone finds out you can lift a pencil they'll ask you to draw them, and politely declining often led to guilt tripping or anger from the person asking the question. She has gotten them plenty of times, but none of them made her flush as brightly as the idea of having Blueberry Milk model for her.

"No," Recluse quickly rejects, tilting her head away with an embarrassed scowl as Blueberry Milk leaned against her with pleading eyes.

"Why not? Do you not think I'd be a pretty face to draw? Do I not live up to your standards?" She asked, crocodile tears welling up on the corner of her eyes as she pressed her palms together. "Do you hate me so, my dear Recluse?"

Witches, she hated her.

"I take back anything remotely nice I have said to you," Recluse groaned, pushing away Blueberry Milk's face. "You are nothing more than a nuisance."

"Aww, Recluse," She whined against her hand, pouting as she did so. "You are so mean to me!"

"Don't be dramatic," Recluse rolled her eyes, her eyes twitching in annoyance. "That’s not even the reason I won't draw you."

Backing away from her personal space, Blueberry Milk looked at her with a curious look. "Oh? And what would that be?"

The embarrassment grew as she felt her blush reach the of her ears, her scowl faltering as she quietly admits, "I don't know how. I can barely see your facial features on a good day- how can I draw you if I don't know what you look like?"

Blueberry Milk was quiet for a moment, processing what she said before she hums. She throws her leg off the side of the bed to stand, twirling around to face Recluse with a cheeky grin.

"Would having my face close to yours make it easier?"

Recluse raised her brow, appearing confused by her question. "Technically...? But you-" she suddenly gasps, eyes blown wide as Blueberry Milk falls to her knees in front of her with her face inches away from her own.

"Is this close enough?" Blueberry Milk teased, her lashes fluttering and brushing against Recluse's cheeks.

She was left speechless- her voice caught in her throat as Blueberry Milk softly laughed. Her warm hands find hers, and she guides her palms to her face. She presses a gentle kiss to each wrist before she places her palms against the line of her jaw, her thumbs against her cheeks.

"Can you see me now?" She asked lowly, her cheeks reddening as her smile stretched her lips and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. Her hands fell from her own, and she leaned into her touch, fully trusting her.

It was a miracle Blueberry Milk couldn't hear how loudly her heart pounded against her chest- how it threatened to burst from her chest and abandon her for the woman in front of her. Her mind was overwhelmed and thoughts incoherent- for Blueberry Milk looked at her with so much love, her eyes half lidded, that Recluse thought she was about to melt.

Her hands trembled, and slowly did she drag her palms down her jawline. She tilted her head back carefully as her hands rested just below her ears. Both of them pierced, with what appeared to be sapphires framed with gold hanging from them. She could see a blemish on the tip of one ear, and pressed her thumb against and hummed when she received a hitched breath in reply.

Under her hands, Blueberry Milk relaxed into her hold, more putty than person. Recluse took her time brushing aside her hair, counting the dark spots on her face and tracing over the patches of skin affected by vitiligo. Her eyes fluttered shut as she traced over her lids, cementing the shape of her eyes and arch of her nose to memory.

"You don't dye your hair, do you?" Recluse murmured, finding her voice once she felt like she could breathe.

"No, nothing like that. Family trait," she mumbled in reply, enjoying the feeling of her thin fingers running through her hair.

Recluse thumbed at the marking on the center of her forehead, her brows scrunched together. "And this?"

"My twin and I share the same mark, except hers is over her eye," Blueberry Milk said. "It was a miracle she didn't completely lose it."

Recluse let out a thoughtful hum and continued to trace over the details of her face. She had been right; Blueberry Milk was pretty. From her rosy cheeks to her marigold eye, Blueberry Milk is beautiful in everything she is, everything she encompasses. And here she sits, at her feet, on her knees, as if she was the one meant to be worshiped. The logic baffled her briefly, but oh, why a lovely sight it was.

As the details of her face became known to her, her fingers traveled downwards towards her neck. The collar of her blouse is lightly disturbed as she continues, and what she expected to be smooth skin suddenly turned rough. She only felt it for a moment before Blueberry Milk's hands, soft and gentle as always, took hold of her wrists.

Her hands guided back to her face, she heard Blueberry Milk's voice crack as she said, "N-Not there, dearest. Just here for now, okay?"

And Recluse could have pushed. With Blueberry Milk so vulnerable beneath her, she could have demanded anything of her. All her secrets and insecurities, all the pieces of herself she hides away from view- Recluse could have had all of it, but this delicate, tender moment, where Blueberry Milk trusts her to treat her gently, how could she ruin that?

So Recluse keeps her hands on her face, treated her as delicately as a flower, and held her so dearly. Only when she retracted her hands with a low, "That’s enough now," did Blueberry Milk open her eyes to her again. At some point, the Sun had begun to set, and the light streaming in from her bedside window bathed her companion in a gradient of yellows, pinks, and oranges.

It was unfair how pretty she was, Recluse thought as she clenched her fists at her side, as it made it difficult rationalizing having to let her go.

But when her hands reached out to her, her arms inviting and accompanied by that soft smile of hers, Recluse didn't hesitate in wrapping her arms around her waist and pulling her back onto the bed. Settled on their side, with Recluse burying her face in the crook of Blueberry Milk's neck, she breathed in her scent and refused to let go. Her companion shared the sentiment as her nails ran though her blonde hair and kept one hand firmly on her hip.

Nothing more happened that night. Hearing Blueberry Milk's heart against her ear, and wrapped securely in her arms, Recluse was more than satisfied with spending the rest of their time till morning like this.

In the present, she had filled two full pages with the image of Blueberry Milk. Sometimes with a slight tilt of her head, or with the way her face twisted up as she laughed. Most of the time her hair was tied up, but Recluse imagined what it would be like to see that inky hair fall across bare shoulders where no one else but her was in the audience to see.

Colored with the use of colored pencils, Recluse drew for hours until the Moon was far up in the sky. By then, she had colored in Blueberry Milk's face smiling that charming smile that made her insides twist. The pencil slipped from her fingers as she lifts the sketchbook up from her desk and hugged the pages to her chest. Her body curled over it, bending and breaking the spine of it with the pressure but she didn't care. She tried to image Blueberry Milk's laughter, the melodic way she phrased her words, the way she looked at Recluse so lovingly.

"Come back," she whispered to no one, nails scrapping against the cover. "Come back."

But she wasn't here right now.

Minutes pass, and slowly Recluse steps out from her chair, book still pressed against her chest, and walks over to the cabinet. Sometimes, Blueberry Milk will stay the night and leave articles of clothing behind. When she had been packing, she had asked Recluse about her blue vest, and she told her she didn't have it. Now, shifting aside her clothes to reach the bottom, she pulls out the blue vest and returns to bed.

It still smells like her- soft lavender with a hint of fresh blueberries. She placed it over the covers of her sketchbook and stared at Blueberry Milk's drawn face again. She was still missing the dark spot under her eyes, and the earrings don't shine as the real ones do, but it was enough. She hugged the book again and drowned in the scent of her companion.