Marianne frowns at her, eyes bright, and Héloïse struggles to breathe through the warmth in her chest. "What?"
"Teach me to paint."
Héloïse shrugs, enjoying the way Marianne's eyes cling to the lines of her shoulders. "Why not?"
Marianne guides her hand over the paper, voice soft as she explains line and shape, tendons flexing in her fine-boned wrists. Héloïse is helpless in the face of such beauty, longs to kiss those wrists and hold those hands, but she dares not move. She has always been good at destroying pretty things.
She stares at her portrait later, the pale skin and deep eyes, a mouth like a prayer. Is this what Marianne sees, from behind her canvas?
"How do you do it?" She asks, later, when they're curled into each other, warm in the night.
"I only paint what I see."
She flushes, "We see very different things."
"I think you aren't looking hard enough."
Héloïse scoffs, "I think I haven't looked at anything at all."
"You looked at me."
"You're the only thing worth looking at in this damned place."
Marianne laughs, then, tracing down her arms. "Burnt umber and Naples rose."
"That's what I use to paint you. Burnt umber and Naples rose."
"And here," she says, tapping the peak of her clavicle, "a hint of zinc white."
Héloïse smiles as Marianne touches her eyelids, "Cerulean blue."
A kiss, soft on her lips, "And just a dab of permanent rose."
yes, this is from portrait of a lady on fire, i watched it yesterday at 2 am and i'm in love.