Chiaroscuro
helium lost .
Author's Notes: I was going to do a modern AU, but this thought suddenly came to mind. I honestly think that this fandom should have more weird AUs—and modern, high-school setting fics don't count. (College fics, however, do. Or, they will, once they're written.)
Anyway, I don't strive to have my historical details one hundred percent correct. If there are glaring errors, by all means, point them out to me. But little details like what color Mussolini likes to wear are, frankly, a bit irrelevant, no? Also, the way they speak is modern, because I wouldn't be able to stand making them talk in an older form of English.
Full Summary: (AU) December, 1939: In Germany, there was war. But in Florence, Italy, all was quiet. An unsuccessful artist attempting to carve a path through life was immersed in this quiet, and so was a young university student struggling to find her place in the world. December, 1939: Their paths converge, and in each other they find the light in the rapidly deepening darkness. Zutara.
Challenge:
Livejournal's 30-dates community.
Prompt:
#01. First Date
CHAPTER
I
Impressionistic
First Impressions
In Germany, there was war: Immaculately dressed armies marching in rank and file, the brass buttons on their uniforms glittering in the sun as their arms and legs moved together in perfect clockwork unison. These ceaseless lines of power invaded Poland, and Poland had fallen. And in Germany, there was quiet: the quiet of millions of people holding their breaths, waiting for the next dangerous move.
But in Florence, Italy, locked into a box of four walls plastered over with cheap, flimsy paper, there waged another war, one where the only casualties were the white canvas boards and the exhausted paint tubes littering the ground like fallen soldiers. Palette knifes glinted in the candlelight before they came slashing through the air, cutting a brilliant line across the pale, uneven surface of the canvas, a cut that bled paint most intense.
(In Poland, the echoes of bombs whistling through the air could still be heard; in Poland, the crackling, burning fire could still be heard whispering around the black ruins of all that was left. In Poland, all that hung in the air was the bitter taste of fear, the black thing that lurked in every corner, the black thing that fed the hearts of millions as they waited with bated breath.)
The early morning sun found Zuko hard at work in his room, dabbing bits of paint here and there before stepping back to admire and criticize his work. With a flick of his wrist, he brought life to a woman's eyes; with one long stroke, he built a bridge out of nothingness; with a single, almost careless dab, he created the moon. Whole cities rose and fell at his hands. The early morning light cast his face into a harsh, chiseled relief, one that highlighted all of his features: his jawline was strong, his eyes narrow, his nose somewhat sharp but still soft around the edges. His hair was short and scruffy, roughly cut just to keep it out of his eyes, with no particular attention paid to style nor the way it complemented his face. And across one eye, almost like a stain, was a large, blossom-shaped scar, remnants of a fire from long ago.
Drifting up from downstairs was the sound of metal clanging and echoing through the hallway, interspersed with the sound of a rough, husky old voice singing. The song carried a simple melody, one that rose and fell in soft crests; it pervaded the room, rising above the sounds of the city waking up outside. Zuko could hear the sound of a teapot whistling and the sound of things frying in a pan. He stepped back one more time to look at his work, then set down the brush and the palette on the table beside the easel and sighed. There was an almost careless pile of other works that he had already painted stacked on the ground beside the easel. Whether that would be enough to attract any attention or get any customers, he wasn't sure… He sat on the stool before the easel and buried his face in his hands. He had been doing this for maybe two, four years already, and yet… He rubbed his unscarred eye and stood. Well, he just hoped that it didn't rain today, and that maybe one or two people would at least stop to look at his work.
He left his newest painting on the easel to dry and left his room. He descended the stairs (which creaked under him) and entered the kitchen, where he found his uncle busy making breakfast by the light that was beginning to surge in more strongly from the window beside the stove. His uncle stopped singing and turned, smiling.
"Ah, Zuko! Sit, sit. Breakfast will be ready in a couple minutes." With one hand, he stirred the congee boiling in a small pot; with the other, he flipped the eggs frying in a pan. He began singing anew as the toast popped up from the toaster; in one swift movement, he took the slices of toast and placed them on the plate that was already waiting, then slid the fried eggs on top of the toast. He set the pan, still greasy with oil, back onto the stove, and then tasted a spoonful of the congee. Satisfied, he poured the congee into a bowl and set the pot back onto the stove, which he turned off. He then put a dash of salt and pepper over the eggs before carrying both the plate and the bowl back to the dining room table. He went back to the kitchen and took the tea off the stove, pulling out from a drawer a coaster upon which he placed the burning hot pot. He went back to the kitchen one more time and took a jar of pickled olives.
After everything had been put in its place on the table, Iroh sat down and sighed, smiling. Zuko, with his elbow on the table and chin propped up on his hand, sighed. Iroh, who had just opened with a pop the jar of pickled olives, glanced at Zuko.
"What's wrong, Nephew?" he said before fishing out a couple olives with a pair of chopsticks, letting them plop into the congee. Zuko shook his head.
"It's nothing," he said in a gruff voice, then placed the eggs between the two slices of toast and picked up the entire thing, taking a small bite out of it. He chewed as he gazed out the window at the traffic that was already beginning to trickle into the streets. Iroh slurped his congee and munched on the pickled olives. A slight frown came to his face.
"Ahh, what I wouldn't give right now for some Sichuan zha cai…" he murmured, then popped an olive into his mouth. "Although these Italian olives aren't too bad, come to think of it."
Zuko remained silent, taking another bite of his breakfast. It didn't look like it would rain today—the sky was clear—and his prospects didn't look too bad. It was Saturday; Christmas was just around the corner; he wouldn't be very far from the Ponte Vecchio, where people would be milling about to find their loved ones jewelry for the holiday; and his latest pieces were much better than his previous ones. Iroh poured Zuko a cup of tea, then poured himself a cup, which he raised to his lips and sipped after blowing on it a little to cool it off. Zuko's steaming tea cup remained untouched beside him as he finished off his sandwich. He carried the plate dotted with crumbs over to the sink and placed it into the basin, then went back upstairs to check on his paintings.
The one he had just finished looked dry—there was a small area of purple that still looked somewhat wet, though. He laid out his portfolio and carefully put inside it the paintings on paper that were lying on the ground beside the easel, then took another bag and put in the dried canvases. Once he was through, he checked again the painting on the easel, then sighed—it was dry enough; there wasn't any risk of it getting severely damaged from a brief trip in a bag. He placed some of his painting supplies in a small box and put a few extra sheets of paper into his portfolio. He slid the box into the bag with the canvases, careful not to tear anything. He collapsed his easel and put it into his portfolio, then placed a small stool into the bag. With his portfolio in one hand and the bag in another, he descended the steps once again. Iroh was still in the kitchen; his bowl of congee was completely empty and he continued to sip his tea, gazing placidly out the window.
"Going already, nephew?" Iroh said, and Zuko nodded. "Here, let me get the door for you."
"No, it's all right—I can handle it." He set down his portfolio and opened the door, then picked up his portfolio again and left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. He stepped out into the cool morning air, then strode down the uneven, winding streets. The pockmarked fronts of apartment buildings rose up on both sides; the sunlight slanted into the street over the tops of the buildings, creating a triangle of darkness and a triangle of light. He looked to both sides when he came to the intersection, then crossed the street. He came to the covered path, lined with arches, across the street from the path that bordered the Arno River, and stopped. He set down his portfolio and bag and pulled his coat tighter around himself.
Within minutes, his 'stand' was set up: his artwork spread out on the cobblestones, the easel set up with a fresh sheet of paper on it, the stool set a small distance away from the easel, his box of art supplies lying open and waiting. He set a sheet of paper on his easel and paused to think, imagining a picture in his mind. He had already painted the Ponte Vecchio many times before; he was, frankly, starting to get tired of it. He glanced at the street and caught the sight of a few automobiles beginning to amble down the street. A spark of inspiration set off in his mind, and, within moments, the composition for a new painting almost seemed to draw itself out in his mind. He took out a pencil and began to lay down some basic lines and shapes, hurriedly scribbling them as they laid themselves out in his mind.
In moments, he had the base for his painting; he placed the pencil back into the box and took out a palette and a few brushes. He squeezed some paint from the tubes into the palette, set the brushes down on the easel's ledge, and pulled out a palette knife with which he began laying down basic colors. In about ten minutes, he had the basic form of his painting; he lay down the palette knife and began touching up the painting, adding in details and more colors.
The light of the morning sun began to strengthen as it bathed the city in its warmth and glow, bringing it to life. The Arno River carried slivers of light on its water, slivers like flakes of gold that drifted down on its clear waters. The morning was chilly but not intolerable; his thinning, threadbare coat was still enough to keep him warm. His breath came up in little white puffs before him as he leaned in closer to his painting and added smaller, more intricate details, dabbing his brush in his palette (covered in colors that were rapidly beginning to melt into each other) and almost carelessly smearing dabs of color onto the paper.
"Wow, these are beautiful!"
He looked up from his painting at the person whose voice he heard. He saw a dark-skinned girl probably around eighteen years old with her long, brown hair in a braid that trailed down to her waist. At the moment, it hung over her shoulder—almost flowed over her shoulder. A couple strands of hair came down from her forehead and attached to the bun on the back of her head, framing her face. Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked at the paintings spread out on the ground, her mouth half-open in wonder.
"May I touch them?" she asked, and Zuko nodded, setting down his brush. The girl picked up one of the paintings and gazed at it, admiring its every little detail—detail that somehow managed to sneak itself in, despite the fact that most of the painting was mostly comprised of rapid, loose brush strokes. "Wow… these are amazing. They almost remind me of Guillaumin. Or perhaps Caillebotte. You've heard of them, right?"
Zuko furrowed his brow, puzzled. "No. I just… paint however I feel like painting," he said. He was amazed that she could even pronounce such names. She, meanwhile, raised her eyebrows.
"You have such an Impressionistic style, and you don't know them?" she said, looking up from the painting. He returned her question with a blank expression. She shrugged. "Well, maybe it's just me—I'm studying Art History, so sometimes I forget that people aren't as, well, I don't mean anything by it, but not as knowledgeable as I am."
"Oh," he said after a pause. She set down the painting that she was looking at and picked up another, this time of the Ponte Vecchio at sunset. She lightly ran a finger over its surface, marveling at its uneven, almost sculptural texture.
"I really like this one," she breathed. "It's almost as if—as if the sky were on fire. The colors you chose are brilliant. And the contrast—wow." She lowered the painting, then looked at him. "How much?"
"One hundred lire each," he said, and she winced and bit her lip. She carefully set down the painting and took out her wallet. She opened the folds and sighed, her face dropping.
"I only have twenty-five lire…" she said, then closed her wallet mournfully. "And I would so love to have that painting… My favorites are the Impressionists, you know. Not so much this Abstract Impressionism that I'm hearing about—more of the traditional Impressionists. Monet, Cézanne, Marinot…" She frowned and made to put her wallet back into her pocket, but Zuko stood, reached over, and stopped her hand. She looked up at his face, astonished.
"Twenty-five lire it is, then," he said, and she gasped.
"Really? No… that's only a quarter of your price! I can't…" She bit her lip as he held up the painting.
"Do you want it or not?" he said softly. She covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes wandering over the painting, taking in mountains and valleys of the paint, the brilliant red that seemed to shine from the sky, the dark line of the bridge against the clouds… She lowered her hand from her mouth and touched the edges of the paper, savoring the rough feel of the paint as her eyes continued to take in the picture before her. Still biting her lip, she furrowed her brow and frowned, then, in one sudden movement, she whipped out her wallet again and pulled out the twenty-five lire bill.
"I'll take it," she said breathlessly. Expressionless, he took the note from her and handed her the painting, which she (very carefully) hugged. "Although I still don't know why you're letting me—"
"Don't get any fancy ideas," he said, sitting back down on his stool and putting the twenty-five lire note in his almost bare wallet. "I'm short on money and have too many paintings. Plus, I figured that that was the only way to get you to shut up about your beloved Impressionists." A rare smirk sneaked onto his face as her mouth dropped, an indignant look on her face.
"I—" she began, then stopped as her face softened into a smile. "Well, I'll have to thank you, at the least. This painting will look lovely framed up in my dorm room. All right, it won't really match the blues and whites in the room, but, then again, that'll just make it stand out more." She looked at the painting again and her smile widened. "Every time I look at this painting, I see something new…" She glanced down at his signature and frowned. "I'm sorry, I can't read your signature—what's your name?"
"Zuko Kuang," he said as he picked up his brush again.
"Ahh. Well, I'm Katara Bulanadi. It's very nice to meet you." She shifted the painting to beneath one arm and held out a hand for him to shake. He glanced at it, then sighed and set down his brush, then shook her hand.
"My pleasure," he muttered, and she grinned.
"Well, I hope you have more customers soon," she said. "Your paintings truly are beautiful. But I have to go now."
He nodded, and she walked off, blending into the crowd. He picked up his brush again and attempted to add more details and strokes to his painting, but he found that he couldn't concentrate, and that his hand was itching to draw something else. He frowned, then took out a piece of scratch paper and a pencil from his supply box. In a few rapid strokes, he began drawing what was in his mind: the long braid, the sparkling eyes, the gentle smile… but halfway through the sketch, the impression of her face had already begun to fade.
tbc
Trivia:
• The title is an art term that is used to refer to a style where there is a sharp contrast between light and dark. Caravaggio's work is said to be in this style.
• Zuko's last name, Kuang, was taken from what was, according to Wikipedia, the surname that was decreed by the Emperor.
• Katara's last name, Bulanadi, is a traditional Filipino last name meaning "sister moon".
• Sichuan zha cai is, essentially, a type of pickled vegetable. It's often eaten with congee, also known as jook (which is what Iroh calls it in the show).
As always, leave me feedback:) I was aiming to have this chapter be at least 5,000 words long, but I think it ends pretty nicely at this length, so I'm not going to try to force it to be longer. Anyway, this is my first time trying out Zutara, so I'd love to hear what you think of their interactions.
