A Work Of Art - Katya X Reader

Part 6: Palettes and Pain

By the time Sunday rolled around, you had managed to finish organising the rest of the girls for the collective photoshoot with the help of Visage, completed Trixie's portion of the painting, and prepared the sketches with Bianca for the dresses, which she had avidly started on. First the smaller mock ups to get an idea of fabrics and materials, and then with measurements and fittings, the girls would have their dresses and a sit down session with everyone (excluding Katya) to fix any proportion and lighting mistakes that might have arisen between painting sessions.

It was strange, you'd made fast friends with Katya, but something about seeing her made you nervous, electricity running through your fingers. You chalked it up to your admiration for her. When your door buzzed, you had to steady yourself, setting out the last of your brushes, and moving to let her in. With one last glance to the canvas you were painting the full portrait on, hidden in plain sight behind other paintings you were working on, you turned the door handle.

"About time, Mary!" he chided. As agreed on, he was bare faced, brows glued and wigless, arms loaded down by a garment bag on one side and a makeup bag on the other. "Where do you want me?"

You gestured towards the lounge area, which sat against the windows opposite the kitchen. "There should be fine. If you need a ring light or anything, let me know."

He shot you an incredulous look. "I'm a drag queen," he explained emphatically. "I'm used to sandpaper and spackling this mug in the dim light of a taxi. You think I need your rich person accommodations? Down with the bourgeoisie!"

"Ah, Maureen again." You chuckled as you followed him to the lounge, watching him get to work. "As if a ring light is rich, anyway. The one I have was like fifteen dollars from Target."

"See!" he replied, layering on makeup. "Rich!"

Rolling your eyes, you found yourself eager to see the process. "Right, I forgot, you're a penniless performer."

"More than you know," came a muttered reply, but he quickly tried to move on. "So what made you choose me for this project? My girlish charm? My stunningly good looks?"

"The colour palette, mostly."

He – or she, rather, as the makeup continued – turned to you, offended. "That's it?"

Cracking a smile, you shook your head. "No, not entirely. It helped, but I figured it only fair to paint you. I mean, I met you first, right?"

"That's right hunty," she scoffed, flipping an imaginary wig. "What's your colour palette again?"

You swooped to stand, going to collect your palette. You'd already taken the liberty of setting globs of your oil paint onto the metal, knowing it would not dry for days. Showing it to her, she offered a knowing look.

"Alright, that makes sense. Still, my charm and wit must have helped?"

"Oh, you bet," you laughed, sitting on your coffee table just in front of her. She queried what you wanted. "No, nothing. I'm just watching what you do. It'll help me paint you on the canvas."

"I don't know how you do that realism shit. Some of those sketches looked like photos!" she marvelled. Brushing it off with a wave, she caught your hand mid-air. "Hey, don't do that." Your hand felt so little inside hers.

"Don't what?" you asked, meeting her suddenly earnest demeanour.

"Don't diminish yourself. What you do is amazing – I could never be so skilled or talented, or whatever you want to call it. You're brilliant. Don't take that away from yourself."

Your heart thumped. In your nightly calls, you'd learned a lot about each other, and over time it seemed that she'd picked up on some things without you ever explicitly expressing them. "I mean, you could. I've been drawing all my life. Anybody could learn to draw, it just takes practice. If anything, I could never do what you do. That's not something you can teach. You have it or you don't, and you definitely do," you countered, sitting back when her hand slipped from around yours.

"Yeah, well, that's all well and good, but it doesn't help me."

This caught your attention. "What? What's going on?"

Shaking her head, she slumped back into the couch. "No, it's nothing."

Dropping the palette onto the table and sliding in beside her, you set your hand on her arm, a comforting gesture. "If it's upsetting you, it's not nothing. Is there anything I can do to help?"

She scoffed, more of a half-laugh sitting forward and setting about packing eyeshadow on – a blue shade she'd picked to match your palette. "Not unless you have a quarter of a grand stuffed in that bra of yours."

Katya'd not mentioned the club troubles to you yet, and out of respect, you never let her know that Visage had let you in on it. The last thing you wanted was the humiliate her in some way. Staying quiet, you left it up to her to say what she wanted, if she wanted. The silence seemed to make her uncomfortable, though, and she finally cracked and looked you in the eye.

The fear in hers near broke your heart. "I'm going to lose my club. My home." Her voice cracked.

"Kats..." you murmured, leaning in to hug her around the shoulders, tugging her head into the swoop of your neck. "Are you okay?"

You froze when you heard a sniff. "Not really," she confessed softly. Pulling back, she brushed the stray tear away, before sighing, frustrated, and grabbing her beauty blender to fix the smudge. "I can deal with being homeless. I've slept in dumpsters before. But I don't know what is going to happen to the girls. Ginge quit her job in Florida to come here for this club. Trixie sunk half her life savings into this thing because she believed in me and I'm about to fuck it all up. I'm tired of failing."

Shaken, you frowned. "Hey. What did you just tell me? Don't diminish yourself. You've created a beautiful thing with Klub Katya. I'm sure you'll pull through. Y-you could set up a new show, get more ticket sales in. Charge more for drinks, or – oh, you could get a loan right?"

"Your optimism is endearing, but naïve and misplaced."

Now you sat back. You knew about the fundraiser, and you wished more than anything to offer her that reassurance right now, but you knew you couldn't. Everyone was working so hard on it, now wasn't the time. Even so, that made it no easier watching her struggling like this. Rubbing her back, you sighed. "You'll be alright," was all you had. "Besides, from what I hear, you're like a cockroach. It'll take more than this to kill you."

Finally, thankfully, a small smile. "You're probably right. Things have a way of figuring themselves out, right?" Not convincing.

"For sure. Look at your makeup, for example. I have no idea what you're doing. Yet your mug always looks flawless. Like, you fail the application, but... like, successfully."

Yes, a laugh from her! "Nothing has ever described me better," she cackled, flapping her hands. When she settled, her eyes once again met yours, her expression shifting all but imperceptibly as she glanced across your face. "Thank you, [Y/N]."

"Here for you," you offered softly, patting her hand. You paused when her other enveloped them both, a strange moment of silence as you just looked at each other. It seemed as though she were going to say something, but thought the better of it, just patting your knuckles and withdrawing, moving to glue some lashes on.

"How's this going to go? I put this shit on, sit down and you use your human-printer hands to slap me on a canvas?"

Chuckling, you moved to resume the spot in front of her, watching her process again. "Something like that. We may only get so far in a day, so I'll take photos as well."

"Cheater."

Rolling your eyes, you glanced more carefully to her eyeshadow, scraping together a more compatible shade with your palette knife in the oil paints. "Oh, fuck off. Would you rather sit there for the thirty plus hours this is going to take?" She affirmed that she would. "As if I could stand you that long."

"Consider the feeling mutual!" she shrieked, tossing her now capped lipstick tube at you, her pout painted on as you spoke. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a wig and some clothes to put on. Bitch." Chuckling, you let her scoop up her things and directed her upstairs to the loft for some privacy. "Cheap ass doesn't want to pay for a strip tease?"

"From a decrepit old man? I'll pass."

A dramatic hand to her chest as she walked up the stares, she gasped. "You're so hateful, I might fall in love with you!"

You laughed, but something in your chest burned. Oh shit.