Work Text:
Monika’s home is empty.
It always has been. She couldn’t live in it, otherwise; there would be too much inside of it. The physical fortitude of the house didn’t matter - all that mattered was not even a lesser spider took nest in its drafty, cavernous rafters. A drop of water spilt from decaying tiles would echo beneath these ribs.
More abandoned than it ever was, that Monika took root in it. Emptier than ever.
She doesn’t sleep in it, but she does wait.
Art club is today.
This is why the girls are laying on the floor.
Monika is crouched, pinning, eyes fixated upon her work; a long, steady outline drawn around Sayori, sprawled and delicate and watching Monika curiously, chest rising and falling evenly. Monika could purr. Sayori understands the work.
“What’ll we do with it?” She asks, “Afterwards?”
There is no hesitancy in the way that she says it. Sayori’s version of events, straightforward, is simply that she and Monika and the others are going to continue participating together in this project. Together. All together.
“Fill it up,” Monika replies, drawing steadily.
“With what?”
“Everything you love.”
Monika pronounces it strangely, but Sayori doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stutter.
“That sounds nice,” she says, watching Monika watch her own hand, twisting and curving around the smallest minutiae with devoted precision. “It’ll be fun, right?”
“Forever.”
“Then I like it.” Sayori sighs, eyes fluttering shut as a hum escapes her, Monika’s knuckles brushing her own. “I love it.”
She pronounces it correctly.
Art club is today.
This is why the girls are laying on the floor.
Monika is crouched, pinning, eyes fixated upon her work; Natsuki laid out beneath her, presentative, a display that Monika is laboriously decorating with every marker at her disposal. Cold, and wet, and pointed, Natsuki shivers and flinches minutely with every press and drag of colored ink against her skin. Monika could purr. Natsuki could not.
“What’s the point of this,” she groans, “Why are we drawing on me? I’ll have to wash it off before I go home.”
The annoyance in Natsuki’s tone very poorly masks the tremor of uncertainty. Monika knows that these markers do not stain human skin, but Natsuki is only assuming as much, playing entirely off of Monika’s own confidence in laying down marks - beautiful, intricate patterns trailing in beautiful, intricate places. Natsuki does not trust Monika necessarily; she simply trusts in the logical reality that Monika would not have painted so readily with permanent ink. That Monika loves her and would treat her so.
“Not all art is meant to be preserved,” Monika replies. “Sometimes it’s fleeting. Ephemeral.”
“Fancy-pants ass. Did Yuri teach you that one, or did you go to the same thesaurus convention?”
“I learned it where she did. A book.”
“Hmph,” Natsuki snorts.
She trembles, imperceptibly, beneath Monika’s fingertips.
“… ephemeral.”
“You aren’t,” Monika says. “You won’t ever be.”
Natsuki shudders again, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.
Monika paints the color red in fractured lines beneath her ribs.
Art club is today.
This is why the girls are laying on the floor.
Monika is crouched, pinning, eyes fixated upon her work; Yuri, eyes fixated right back, staring deeply and critically as Monika drips tacky, white school glue down onto her cheek. Monika stares deeply and wholly too, smiling mischievously as she presses her thumb into the droplet and smears. Monika could purr. Yuri understood the premise.
“You seem quite pleased with yourself,” Yuri says, carefully and evenly. “Might I ask why?”
Yuri’s pulse and breath, fluttering, gave away her game before it began; traitorous pupils widening beyond her control. Still, she stares, fixant; a challenge she didn’t have any hope of delivering, let alone contesting in. Monika smiles wider, an expression that seems innocent on people, and giggles disarmingly.
“You like this kind of sensation,” she replies, flatly factual and with no room for argument. “I know it feels nice. Isn’t this a lovely kind of art, too?”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re pleased.”
“I love art,” Monika says. “And I love you. Isn’t it pleasurable to please?”
Monika’s thumb tilts, the nail biting teasingly.
“Do you find it pleasurable to please?”
“Isn’t that what love is?”
“Do you find that to be accurate,” Yuri challenges, voice only shaking a little bit, “Or is love different?"
Sayori is filling herself up, and Natsuki is wiping herself off. They are huddled at the other side of the room, absorbed in their activities and their whispers. Neither gives glance to Monika descending upon Yuri, faces so close that Monika could swallow her every breath.
“Isn’t Love to consume?” She whispers, feather-light and joyous and sweet, “To memorize the taste?”
“… for you,” Yuri breathes, hot, into Monika’s mouth, as she asked. “I would suppose love is devouring.”
“Are you in love?”
Yuri wets her lips.
“Are you?”
Monika’s loving teeth pierce through the flesh of Yuri’s ja
Art club is today.
This is why the girls are laying on the floor.
Monika is crouched, pinning, eyes fixated upon her work;
All of it, art.