Title: Finger painting
Prompt: Finger painting—for docholligay's birthday
A/N: There will be possible OOC-ness because I need to finish watching the anime before writing.
Summary: Herfingers had painted broad, bold strokes on the canvas of her lover's body.
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Haruka was never one for painting. That was entirely Michiru's realm, just as this room was her space and not their space.
But the room was empty now, abandoned just as the paints and easel were left long forgotten. Minako hadn't gotten around to packing them up and Haruka…
She had spent as long as she could ignoring the door.
Haruka touched the blank canvas hesitantly and had to resist the urge to look over her shoulder for a raised eyebrow. Even now, months later, she still couldn't enter this room without feeling like a trespasser.
Though she knew better, she kept listening for an ara to invite her in, a pointed look to shoo her away. Michiru's scent was long gone but her presence still lingered here.
If anything, it was strongest here, in her art room. The only thing missing was her violin and Haruka didn't have the courage yet to go find it.
It was hard enough to look at the paints, still neatly covered and organized. Her fingers skimmed the tops and while Haruka was never an artist, there was one time she had used this.
Haruka could still remember the weight of the paint on her fingertips, Michiru's soft gasp of surprise at how cool the liquid was. Her fingers had painted broad, bold strokes on the canvas of her lover's body. A line, a star, an ocean, her fingers had drawn the words she couldn't say.
And she had kissed each spot, marking it as her own as she moved, searing the image in her brain.
"I didn't expect this," Michiru admitted later, looking down at the colours on her skin. Each dip, each curve a different colour, some parts painted twice over in Haruka's exploration.
"It's your birthday," Haruka replied, as though it explained everything.
"Hmmm," Michiru hummed, dipping her fingers into the paint. She drew a line, from Haruka's collarbone to her breast, and let her finger remain there. "This paint is hard to come off." She smiled up at Haruka, that small smile that meant only trouble. "I can't be the only one suffering later."
For months later, they kept finding paint stains. A yellow splotch behind her ear, blue fingerprints on Michiru's ankle, a green line on her thigh.
Haruka looked at her hands now, barren as they were. No paint marks were left, marks screaming mine.
Only her own scent and her own skin and nothing, nothing was as it was supposed to be.
(And nothing, nothing would ever be right again.)