Chapter Text
They stand in the kitchen, staring at the cabinets of food. Stomach growling, of course. The fridge was right there- they knew that there were fruits and vegetables to snack on inside of it- but they nonetheless stared down the cabinets, considering taking out the cookies they’d kept in waiting. Eating fruits… or the sweets in the-
“For the love of- painter. I see you eyeing those sweets.”
“Yeah. You can’t do anything about it, though.”
“My painter. Open the fridge, and grab the pear I know you bought, or so help me, I will reawaken my own curse.” The painting grumbled from the studio- for the distance, she was still pretty audible. Magic paintings were like that, they guessed. “I’ll drag you back to that dark basement and make you eat proper.”
“Yeah right. You hardly had any food in that place. Apples and macarons and tea…” They grumble, turning away from the cabinet.
(And the melon, pineapple, and banana… though, those weren’t there physically, just in her painting... semantics, semantics...)
“I was copying her, you know that. I could easily-”
“You can’t prove it because you can’t reawaken your own curse!”
“I bet I could. I believe I could, truly. I’m already talking! SHOUTING at you across the house, really!” They snickered a little as she continues. “You’re so insistent on eating sweets, painter. Eat the pear. I’ll silence myself if you eat the pear.”
(...the cookies are far more appealing…)
“Painter.”
They quickly grab the cookies and shove them in their mouth.
“PAINTER-” There’s the distant sound of paintbrushes being knocked over, and they wheeze, leaning on the counter to support themself as laughter started shaking their body. “PAINTER, GODS BE DAMNED, YOU’RE LUCKY THIS ISN’T THE BASEMENT-”
They sit, sketching the view beyond the window, mind drifting. “How did you even knock over the paintbrushes the other day?”
“I’m not entirely certain.” The painting sits in the dark, not quite covered but away from the sunset. They knew better than let her get harmed further. “I just know it happened when I was yelling at you for your wonderful food choices.”
“I don’t even know how you saw that. Also, my food choices are fine.” A pause. “We never did properly introduce.”
“I suppose not.” Silence fills the room, the only sound being the small scratches of the pencil. “I never did have a name. I’m not her, and even so, I didn’t know her name- nor did I know my original painter’s name, the pitiable fool.”
“So you can nickname yourself. Or I could nickname you. How about Matsuro?”
“Matsuro?”
“You know, like- last days of a life were what you captured. And you controlled my fate for a while.”
“Hm… it does fit, at least. I think I will make that my name for now.” They pause their sketch to look over at Matsuro at the next question. “What about your name, my painter?”
“Chiemi. We’re on first-name basis, at least. After everything.”
“Chiemi… it was rude of me to never find out your name when we first met, hee hee. It’s a wonder to finally know it.”
“...the same to you, Matsuro.” They don’t respond further, and neither does the painting- Matsuro.
(It really is a fitting name.)
Neither talks as the sound of the pencil scratching fills the studio again.
Leaning back on the couch, they yawn, stretching as the TV babbles on idly- nothing but background noise. They weren’t even sure what it was saying- the most they were processing was that no-one was being named in this documentary. Which was a shame- they would’ve enjoyed learning the past’s names. It wouldn’t have included the one they had the memories of, though. Nor the truth about the girl, or the old man- oh, it was all just a mess. Nobody else had the true story.
“What are you watching? I can hear it from over here.”
“Hey, Matsuro.” They lift a hand, waving passively at the air, hoping she saw. “Just a documentary about your less-cursed- uh.”
“...half-siblings, just for fun. A shared model is like a shared parent.” She entertains the idea distantly. “Why, though?”
“I was hoping to get names. For anyone from back then- all of your original painter’s memories about that time are jumbled up with my own, but I don’t really remember any names from then- so I’ve been trying to see what people know of the series elsewhere.”
(Curiosity kills the painter… and the bird.)
“Oh. Any luck? I’m curious on my model’s name.”
“None yet. And nothing would lead to what the original painter’s name is- no one associates you with him or the series. He was just an unknown landscape painter.”
“Oh, that sounds like him.” A soft sigh. “I was surrounded by the dark landscapes he’d abandoned. Of course no one would have found those as interesting as me. They weren’t cursed beyond him hating them, and they never got a signature. Just like me.”
Hm. This isn’t such a good topic to talk about, for both of them. “...are paintings by the same painter also half-siblings, but from a different shared parent?”
“...I’ll think on that.”
They hum, and turn the TV off.
“They are.”
“...what?” They look up from their dinner- simple, really, just some cup noodle they had made, not having the will to cook a fancier meal at the moment. Matsuro wasn’t even in the room, but it had become habit to look towards the studio whenever she spoke.
“Your question from last week.” They can almost imagine her tilting her head, closing her eyes and holding a finger up as she spoke. “Paintings by the same painter would also be half-siblings.”
“...why did you remember that?”
“I told you I’d think on it.”
“I didn’t expect you to follow through on those words, though.” They turn back to their food, sipping up the broth a little more.
“Sad that you think so little of me, Chiemi…” She sighs dramatically from the other room, but leaves her painter to finish his dinner in peace.
“You wouldn’t have succeeded anyways.” They say suddenly, one day.
“What?” Matsuro’s confusion was palpable.
“A while back- a few months ago. You threatened to drag me back to the basement if I didn’t eat properly.” They hold their pointer finger up as they speak. “But since me leaving essentially reset the time out here to before I was there, not accounting our memories of it all, it wouldn’t work. It’d be net zero. I would eat in there, but when I left, it would just not matter anymore.”
“...Chiemi.”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you thinking about this all of a sudden?”
“I just remembered, is all.”
“Ah.”
A small giggle from the canvas. “Well, I suppose you’re right. Still, eat healthier more often.”
“You know, you’ve been doing better with talking. Less reserved.”
“Eh.” They shrug, laying flat on their bed. They had woken up in the dark, unable to fall back asleep, and started chatting with Matsuro to pass time. “Not with other people.”
“I don’t have to play games of being such a mind-reader anymore, though. So you’re doing better talking to me, compared to when I first met you.”
“...”
“And if you try to counter with the ‘other people’ thing again, are you considering me not a person? For all my sentience, you would have to say that?” She speaks softly. “Progress with me is still progress.”
(It’s hard to find my voice. You being you helps.)
Of course they can’t say it.
“You likely think otherwise. Or something else, perhaps. I can’t always predict you, my painter. But I know that I will support you and your endeavors. Think better of yourself.”
“...haha. Alright. Alright.” They turn onto their side, tugging the pillow under their head closer. “...I’m gonna try and sleep again.”
“...rest easy, then.”