A/N: This fic was inspired by one of my favourite sculptures, 'Else' by Maité Duval, you should look it up. It's beautiful, but I couldn't help thinking what it would have looked like if she'd used another model.
Bronze
It still scares you sometimes, when you're having trouble sleeping, the possibility that you never would have met. That you'd still be looking for her, not sure you'd been lost. After all, it wasn't until you got to know her that you realised you were in fact looking for her. You were just busy, living.
You still owe your friend a thank you of some sort; if it wasn't for her, you would not have called that number.
She was joking about some creep looking for models when you made your way to the library to study. She'd come across an announcement asking for female models in her favourite coffee shop. How naïve would you have to be to actually react to such an advertisement? You were more likely to get yourself killed in some guy's basement than anything else, she scoffed. You agreed with her, nodding your head, but still went to the coffee shop later to write down the phone number. You were intrigued and if you didn't trust the person answering the phone, you could always say you dialed the wrong number.
It was a relief none the less when a woman answered the phone and told you she was looking for a model. She was working on a new sculpture, but needed more than just her imagination to make it more realistic. She sounded sincere, albeit a bit distracted and not at all threatening. You didn't see a reason not to meet her the next day, just so she could see you and decide whether you'd be able to work together or not.
You'd never been to this side of town before and you were impressed with the houses, protected by well kept gardens. You did some research last night and you figured she must be rather succesful, but you had no idea it could be this lucrative to mould clay. This unsettled you a bit and along with your expectation of a middle aged woman with wiry grey hair, you were in no way prepeared when she opened the door. You didn't even remember ringing the doorbell.
She was wearing faded blue overalls with particles of clay covering the front and black hair tied up in a messy bun. It should not look attractive on anyone, but it was. She was. She could not have been much older than you and you briefly wondered how she could have accomplished so much already. She was just standing there with an easy smile on her face. She opened the door a bit wider for you to invite you in. She didn't even ask who you were or what you were doing on her doorstep, just turned around and called for you to follow her.
When you caught up with her, she was already in the kitchen and asked you if you'd like a drink. She didn't tell her about herself or her previous work, but asked you questions about school and how much time it took you to get here. She was nice and inviting. You were still a bit confused though, was this a job interview or what? She just laughed and said you were already hired the second you walked up to her door.
Apparently you were right and never rang the bell.
You blushed and couldn't help but ask her why. Why wouldn't she use a professional model, or at least someone with more experience?
She explained that she never used a model before, but this new commission was unlike any other she'd ever had. Most of her work was more abstract, but this was a favour to an old friend and she liked the challenge. Working with a professional implied an unfavourable balance, would be too much like giving someone else control.
The fact that this was new to her as well reassured you.
Until she mentioned you would have to pose nude.
You are in no way uncomfortable with your body and you're known as the 'stripper drunk', but this is a bit too much, even for you. She would be looking at you, for hours on end, and although it wouldn't mean anything it still seemed awkward.
She noticed your unease and told you it'd just be you two in her studio, which was in her back garden and had tinted windows. So unless someone got past the gate - which was 8 feet high and made of wrought iron, with a thick hedge behind it – and pressed himself up against the window, you would be safe from wandering eyes. She shrugged, not giving an explanation for her deep sense of privacy. That would have been too personal.
You were still hesitant and almost wanted to leave so you could think about it. But before you could get up, she had already stood up from the table and asked you to join her in her studio. She had some sketches she wanted to show you, so you'd know what she had in mind. You were still curious and you could always say no, so you followed her outside and into the garden. You saw some exotic plants that you could never remember the names of, but would have your father crying of happiness (he's a botanist), lots of flowers and some sculptures. It was beautiful. The path to the studio twisted and led you to a small pond, partly obstructed by some trees. Behind those trees was an old garden house which she told you was actually her studio. You couldn't help yourself and tried to look in through the windows. You were relieved when you couldn't make out much more than some shapes, maybe furniture. You smiled at her and she just laughed again before opening the door and motioning for you to lead the way.
When you were still in school, you used to hate the smell of clay and the two hours of mind-numbing boredom awaiting you. The only thing you managed to make was something between a vase and a pot and you're not quite sure where it ended up. That same smell lingered here,permeated the room and you could not imagine ever being bored here. There were sketches of all kinds, prints of various paintings and sculptures, pictures of famous artists that were long dead. Throughout the room there were some miniatures of her work, placed with a calculated nonchalance. You were surprised to see an impressive sound system, but if you were forced to spend all your time in here, you'd want some music as well.
She let you take in the room and told you it wasn't as old as it looked; she had it built when she moved here but didn't want to disturb the dream-like state of the garden, so she made it look as old as the house. It was a lot bigger than you expected it to be when standing outside. She told you there even was a bathroom and a small kitchen with a very comfortable sofa in the corner where she had fallen asleep many times. You couldn't imagine working here for such a long time that even the few minutes it would take to get back to the house would be too much. She had to be very dedicated to her work.
She called you over to her desk where she kept the sketches she wanted to show you. They were simple, just some smudges of charcoal, but vibrant. With just a few lines she had caught the image of a woman, basking in the sun. She looked up at you curiously, eager to hear your thoughts.
The next time you showed up on her doorstep, you were about to burst with anxiety. Why did you agree to this again? Oh yeah, you had a momentary lapse of sanity and thought this was a good idea.
You didn't get another chance to reconsider, because she had already opened the door, greeting you with a dazzling smile. You tried to act natural, hoping she wouldn't notice your trembling hands when you took the glass of juice she offered you. She did and told you to relax. She would just be working, it wasn't personal.
When you stepped into the studio, you saw she had already made some changes. The middle of the room had been cleared, save for some sort of platform covered in linen and pillows. Several spotlights were readjusted to make sure that the lighting would be even from all sides. The rest of the room was dark. Right.
Maybe you should have asked for vodka earlier.
You could feel your heart in your throat, wringing your clammy hands and you couldn't look in her direction when you stepped out of the bathroom five minutes later. You were wearing the robe she'd handed you, blushing when she told you she bought it a day earlier. You liked the way the silk felt on your skin which was another reason you didn't want to take it off.
She was rummaging with a record player in the corner but when she heard you, she turned around and smiled again. It was a relief to see she was nervous as well and you gave your best attempt at a smile in return.
She explained that she would be making more sketches before actually starting to work with the clay, but neither of you were sure you'd still be needed at that stage.
You didn't recognise the song that suddenly filled the room, but it was soothing and you stepped closer to the platform. She took her sketchbook and pencils with her and pulled a worn chair to the middle of the room. She gestured for you to join her and with a deep breath, you stepped into the light.
She told you how to position yourself and you were so glad she would start with your profile.
Once she was satisfied, she gently asked you if you'd mind taking off the robe now. You felt like you weren't really there, like you were just watching and you saw yourself nod before carefully opening the robe, pulling your arms from the sleeves and placing it on the floor. Your hair was in a loose bun and you rolled your shoulders before taking your position once again. You still couldn't look at her and you felt like you did when you were playing hide and seek when you were six: if you couldn't see the others, you couldn't be seen.
You were leaning back on your arms, your left leg pulled up and your right leg dangling over the edge of the platform. Your head was tilted back and you closed your eyes, closing yourself off from reality and letting yourself drift away with the music.
You can't remember how much time passed until she called you again, voice soft and careful, bringing you back. The music had stopped. Your shoulders and neck felt stiff and your right foot had gone numb some time ago. She apologised for startling you, but she felt it would be a good time to take a break. Maybe walk around, drink something. You were surprised when she offered you a cigarette, she didn't seem like the type to smoke. She shrugged her shoulders but didn't offer an explanation.
You didn't feel like putting on all your clothes only to take them off again in fifteen minutes, so you told her you'd just make something to drink if that was all right. After you tied the robe around your body again, you went into the kitchen and started looking through the cupboards to make tea. You were on the sofa, blowing in your cup of tea when she came back and she told you she'd need maybe another hour today and then you could go home.
It felt weird to think that in two hours, you'd be at home again. Probably sitting on a different sofa (not nearly as comfortable as this one, you could understand how she'd fall asleep on it) and eating dinner in front of the television. It seemed unlikely that this room and yours were in the same universe; they felt completely different.
You asked if she was glad with her progress and talked about her other work until you'd both finished your tea. She got up to put on another record and when you took off your robe this time, you didn't feel as exposed as before.
You fell into a rhythm over the next couple of weeks. Every Tuesday and Friday you'd go there and after some small talk you'd go back to the studio. She to work, you to think. You couldn't do much else.
You were still nervous, every first time you sat naked in the middle of the room. You never looked but drifted off as soon as you heard her pencil scratching across the paper. Closing your eyes protected you from knowing she was working beside you, seeing you. Only after your break, you could relax and you'd find yourself looking at the picturs to your sides.
When she noticed this, she started changing the pictures every other week although you never spoke about it out loud.
She asked what sort of music you liked, but you didn't want to interfere with her routine and told her that whatever she felt like was good for you. And it was, it helped keep the illusion of being isolated from the rest of the world intact. You still couldn't recognise any of the songs and it was comforting.
But then your carefully constructed working method was interrupted. After six weeks of working from various angles, she had to get started on the front. Whatever discretion you had left would be gone.
When she told you you blamed yourself for forgetting and turning into a nervous wreck once again. Of course she would have to draw the front, your front, how could she start working without it? You didn't know how to express what you felt, and still don't, but it seemed like she understood anyway. She invited you to dinner and during that time you could interrogate her to your heart's desire. You didn't know what to make of it, but you agreed.
That next Friday you helped her making dinner, you were in charge of cutting the vegetables. When she decided you weren't asking her enough questions, she just started talking herself. You didn't really understand why she was doing this, but you enjoyed listening to her so you didn't interrupt.
Even now, you can't believe she actually told you all those stories, some of them were very personal and you didn't really know her then. The trust she put in you amazed you.
You can't remember what you had for dinner or what you actually did that night, besides talking, but when you left her house you had a new respect for her.
Over the weekend you kept thinking back to that night and thinking of what would happen in a few days didn't scare you as much anymore.
It took her longer than either of you had expected to finish the sketches. You were just relieved she'd started with you face, or at least the parts that were visible to her. When she was finished with that, you could look around more easily. You put off looking at her until your curiosity finally decided it was time to stop hiding.
She was so focused on her work that she didn't notice you at first, but after a few minutes she felt your gaze and looked at you over her sketchbook. You couldn't see the lower half of her face but you were certain she was smiling. You couldn't suppress a laugh but quickly put on a serious face again, afraid you might have broken her concentration. She just shook her head and you could see her nose scrunching up in amusement. The apprehension you had felt initially, finally fell away and you kept watching her work for another hour.
She told you you could talk to her if it made you more at ease. You appreciated her attempt to help you relax, but even though you didn't feel as self-conscious as you did before, you still hadn't forgotten that you were still very naked and facing her in a pose that left nothing to be concealed.
That was the first time you asked if you could see the sketches she had made. She was reluctant but when you were finished for the day, she called you over and gave you the book before going outside to smoke again. She hadn't done that in weeks.
It was strange to look at yourself like this. You'd seen yourself in pictures, home videos and mirrors, but seeing this girl didn't feel like that. You recognised her, but it wasn't from the images you'd grown used to. Although you don't like praising yourself, you couldn't deny the drawings were beautiful.
You didn't notice she'd come back inside until she accidentally brushed your arm with hers when she looked at the drawings as well. She pointed out some details and flipped through some of the pages to show you where she had struggled with your hands. You felt the cold from outside still lingering in her clothes through your robe and you suddenly needed to step away. You told her you'd get dressed and then you'd go home. You didn't look at her again until you stepped out of the bathroom, fully clothed and with a clear head.
The last couple of meetings with her were a lot like the first and not at all at the same time.
You were guarded again, tried to drown yourself in the music or distract yourself with the pictures and sculptures throughout the studio. It didn't help.
She noticed, but never said a word. You weren't sure whether you wanted her to or not.
Just before Christmas break, she told you she was done. She had all the studies she would need to start on her actual work. She acted more formal than you'd grown used to, which made it easier to accept you'd probably never meet again.
You'd miss those meetings but you knew in advance that it was temporary so you didn't want to feel so upset about it. You didn't understand your own emotions anymore.
The first months of the new year you were miserable. You'd never been too fond of winter, but this time it was worse. Even your friends noticed you weren't yourself and when you broke down crying in a bookstore because of all the postcards for Valentine's day, you knew why.
You didn't know what to do; you couldn't just go to her to tell her you'd been in love with her for several months. You didn't feel like telling your friends either, afraid of what they might say. Not about you falling in love with a girl, but falling in love with a girl who'd paid you to sit in her studio, naked, and watch her watching you. You hadn't told anyone about your job and it didn't seem like the right time or reason to tell them then.
It didn't surprise you as much as you would've thought, discovering you had fallen in love with a woman. You weren't blind and could appreciate women, but this was the first time you had such feelings for one. It didn't scare you, but she did.
So you just focused on graduating.
You decided to take some time for yourself after graduation; you didn't feel like growing up yet and wanted to see the world. You had some money saved, moved your stuff out and were planning to go back to your parents for a while, before starting your trip.
It was another coincidence that you saw the poster. It was in the window of the shop downstairs, the owner had just put it up. A gallery in the neigbourhood had a new exhibition coming up, featuring the latest work of… Oh fuck.
You called your sister to take your packed car to your parents and told her you'd be there in a couple of days. Then you called a friend and asked him if you could crash at his place for a few days. He was surprised, but when you told him something had come up and you had to stay in the city for another couple of days he told you he'd make up the guest bedroom. When you got there you told him what was going on. He's a good guy and you felt like you owed him that much for barging into his house like that. He helped you find out some more details about the exhibition and you figured that the best chance to run into her would be during the opening, two days later.
You don't know how you survived those two days, or how everyone around you survived, but you did and squeezed into a cocktail dress that belonged to your friend's girlfriend, you stepped into the gallery. It wasn't hard to get in, but once inside you felt restless and had to stop yourself from drinking all the champagne you could find.
After half an hour you were saved from yourself when someone announced that the owner of the gallery would like to say a few words. You think he might have said something about her, but you were too distracted by the woman standing on his left. You had not seen her wear anything other than her overalls or jeans and you liked her glasses, but if you had a say in it, she would dress like this a lot more often. The sudden sound of applause broke the trance you were in and when you saw her stepping forward you were relieved to see a waiter with a full tray of champagne glasses. Screw it.
She talked about her new work, her inspiration and started to thank several people. Her parents, some teachers, the friend who gave her her first commission (and this one as well), some colleagues and, much to your surprise, you. She didn't mention you by name, but she did thank you. You didn't hear anything she said after that.
When everyone started moving again and conversations picked up where they'd lef off, you wanted to talk to her. There was some clamour across the room and when you looked over you saw that the sculpture had been revealed.
It was even better than you had imagined.
You expected her to be there but you couldn't see her in all the commotion. You hadn't the faintest idea where she could be, until she stood right next to you. She didn't say anything, she didn't look at you, she just stood there.
Waiting.
It took you another two glasses of champagne to finally face her. Before you could say anything, she'd taken your hand and pulled you into another room. It was probably waiting for another exhibition, because it was empty except for some chairs pushed against a wall. She motioned for you to sit and you were thankful for it. Your legs felt like they were about to give in. She squeezed your hand softly so you'd look at her. She was still standing, but smiling again. Maybe it was because you hadn't seen her in so long, but you couldn't place this smile. It was deeper, brighter and when you felt something on your cheek, she leaned over and softly pressed her lips against your skin. Gently, reverent.
She pulled back a bit so she could see your face and when she saw you smiling, she let out a relieved laugh. You could still hear the party going on at the other side of the door and when she tilted her head to the side, you nodded and followed her outside.
She told you no one would notice she wasn't there for at east another hour and she'd send a message explaining she had to leave because of a family emergency. You didn't care about that, you just wanted to get away, but it was nice to know one of you was responsible.
She didn't need to ask you where you wanted to go and an hour later you were at her house. You followed her upstairs without a thought, but hesitated a bit before you went into her room. You could still feel the effect of the champagne (you'd been too nervous to eat dinner) and you wanted to remember this. She chuckled and told you she wasn't planning to violate you. She wanted to get out of her dress and then you could talk, if you wanted to.
Before walking further into the room, she turned on the lights. You couldn't identify the source of the soft glow suddenly filling the room at first. Then you saw she had put up an intricate design of fairy lights covering the ceiling and part of the walls.
She gave you an encouraging smile and sat down on the bed to take off her shoes. She gestured to the armchair beside her but before you could sit down she stood up, walked to an old fashioned wardrobe and let her dress fall to the floor.
In this light and nothing but some small pieces of lace, she looked softer somehow. Gorgeous and alluring.
The dress she wore earlier had offered you a mere glimpse of her. It was enticing yet elegant, and modest still. At that moment you couldn't fathom why she'd ever want to be modest, hide herself. Her tan skin looked richer, warmer. With the glow of the fairy lights, she was ethereal.
You couldn't see her face, but you could see her breathing had picked up. It wasn't rushed, not quite, but reminded you of those last few seconds before going on stage. Her back was straight with a new awareness and for a moment both of you just breathed. Collecting courage.
You were pleased you'd found yours as soon as you set foot in her bedroom.
When you were so close you could almost touch her, you stopped and asked her to look at you. Your call came out as a whisper although you felt like you were screaming inside. There was a quiver in her voice when she told you she couldn't, her voice full of regret. Not like that.
She had told you about her scars, that night when you had dinner. The way she talked about them then had led you to believe she was proud of them. Your hand stopped hers from trying to cover herself; it was the first time you were the one to initiate contact. It was invigorating.
She looked into your eyes and she must have seen something you had yet to find, because when she turned around to face you fully, she was strong again.
You felt no shame, looking at her.
She was perfect and you wanted to savour everything about that moment. You don't know how long you looked at her, overcome with a serenity you hadn't felt before.
When she gestured to your dress, you felt none of the early anxiety you used to have. You wanted to share this with her, equally, and it felt right.
Her hands on you body were smaller than you were used to. Her lips fuller, her skin like silk.
You didn't want anyone that wasn't her to touch you ever again.
She paid close attention to your every dip and curve, worshipping. The way she touched you was so confident yet gentle you almost wondered if she somehow knew your body already, touched you before.
In a way, you guess she had. You had seen her sketches and the final result. She had captured you in in black and bronze. Moulded you from clay.
Of course she knew you.
Giving yourself over to her, lying in her arms, was the easiest thing you've ever done.
And that's exactly what frightens you sometimes, how easily you fall apart by her touch. It's both the most intimidated and powerful you'll ever feel; knowing there were so many ways you could have missed her scares you more than anything.
But then she kisses those nightmares away and you can't bring yourself to care about anything else. You have everything you didn't even know you wanted, and she's not letting go.