Malory Towers Fanfic "Lines on the Page" Belinda/Irene by pathology_doc
Title: Lines on the Page.
Author: pathology_doc
Fandom: Malory Towers
Pairing: Belinda and Irene
Rating: M/PG15, Sapphic.
Notes: Because the world needs more Belinda/Irene fic. And because I couldn't get the plot-bunny off my ankle.
It was the summer holidays that did it of course, Belinda tells herself later, that made her fall in love with Irene. It wasn't the terms they'd spent together; it wasn't the gradual acquaintance with each other's mannerisms that was part of settling into boarding school life. It wasn't the camaraderie; it wasn't the shared experiences in the classroom, sports field, common room…
It was the music, the art and of course the summer holidays.
Being Irene's friend is a delight. So is Irene, even though the both of them together can't seem to remember a single thing that's important beyond music and pictures. Irene is her honey-blonde, hazel-eyed, bespectacled, sunny-faced muse, humming tunes and scribbling notes without a care in the world. Irene is a summer idyll, legs outstretched beneath a tree, spilling her genius on to the page as bare toes duel with blades of grass in Belinda's back garden. Irene is freckles and summer dresses and an other-worldly concentration that translates itself to an evening's magnificence around her hosts' grand piano.
Irene is a picture that aches to be drawn. Irene is long legs, smooth curves, twinkling eyes and bedazzling smiles. Irene is winks of knees beneath hems of skirts; the gentle push of a burgeoning bust beneath fabric, tucked into brassieres Irene wishes were bigger. Irene is neck muscles and collarbones for her to draw. Irene is shade, colour, perspective; honey and brown and hazel; warm, warm colours for her warm, warm heart.
There are no cool colours in Belinda's palette when she paints Irene; there is the warm brown wood of the piano, the warm colours of the Morrises' music room (for Belinda's mother plays, though she suspects Irene is far better). Sometimes there is green or blue, for grass or flowers, but all those pictures are drawn with her pencil, outside, when both the girls are out.
Belinda sometimes wonders what it is that Irene makes her feel whenever she looks at her, whenever she imagines those curves going down on paper or canvas. Belinda has always put her heart and soul into her drawings, and maybe that's how it happened; maybe that's how the privilege of drawing her special friend became a delight, a delight that was reflected in Irene's eyes whenever she saw the pictures. Maybe that's how the professionalism of charcoal on paper became loving brushes, gentle strokes, hesitant touches... She knows it's not just her charcoal she wants to feel gliding over those curves; defining those cheeks, the long fingers that dash so brilliantly over the keys. By day, she caresses her media and they do her bidding, bringing her friend to life under her expert guidance. In her dreams she caresses the fingers themselves, and it is smooth, tanned skin beneath her hands instead of her instruments.
It happens one afternoon when they are alone and summer showers have driven them indoors. Irene's fingers, slim, agile and delightful, have become a haunting presence that demands exorcism. Belinda picks up her sharpest pencil and begins a drawing of exquisite, almost anatomical precision. Irene must have seen the concentration on Belinda's charcoal-smudged face, because she interrupts the whistling of a very pleasant tune to ask her what she's working on.
The question is a compulsion in the sudden, tuneless silence.
"I'm drawing your hands," Belinda tells her, knowing that it is both pointless and harmless to admit it.
"Not the rest of me?" Irene asks her. She is spread out languidly on the couch next to Belinda's, loose hair spilling over the edge, notebook balanced on one knee, pencil in her hand. Her right hand, where Belinda can see it, almost touch it.
"No," Belinda replies. "I'm… well, sort of fascinated with them at the moment." She leans in close, pretends to squint in concentration. "Maybe it's because we both use them so much; you to play, me to draw and paint."
"I hadn't thought of it that way," Irene says, abandoning her book and turning on the couch. "Would it help you to have a closer look?" she says, offering her hand for Belinda's inspection.
Belinda takes the hand in both of her own, turning it this way and that, examining lines and curves and bony bits and fatty pads, memorizing the map of Irene's hand. And then her fingers close gently over Irene's, and her free hand glides over the back of Irene's, and she knows there's no way on earth that she can justify it in the name of art any more.
In that moment, she wishes she was anyone but Belinda Morris. She wishes she was Alicia, with the daring to tell Irene boldly that she's hopelessly fond of her; she wishes she was Darrell, with a turn of phrase to explain exactly how she feels, and how long she's felt it for; she wishes she was Mary-Lou, with such a gentleness of heart that no loving gesture could ever be taken badly.
And then Belinda feels Irene's remaining hand come up to meet hers, and in the next instant Irene's fingers are intertwining with her own. Pianist's fingers twist and turn around artist's; clean fingers are smudged with graphite, paint and charcoal, and dirty fingers are somewhat cleaner for the transfer. Finger-pads accustomed to ivory play an automatic melody on the spaces between Belinda's knuckles, and only Irene knows that it is a brief interlude from Belinda's favourite tune.
Bespectacled hazel eyes meet brilliant blue.
"It's not about the art, is it, Belinda?"
Belinda shakes her head. "No, it's not. It's about you."
"You and me both," Irene finishes for her.
"Yes, that's right," Belinda replies. "It's about you and me both. Together." She looks down. "Oh dear, look at that; I've gone and got your fingers dirty."
"That's all right," Irene replies. "Fingers wash clean." And then she reaches up with her lovely pianist's fingers and further smudges the charcoal mark high on Belinda's left cheekbone. "So do faces, if it comes to that."
The fingers don't leave Belinda's face for what seems like an eternity, and that's when she realizes that they're not going to in a hurry. She reaches up herself, hand shaking, and her fingers trickle down like raindrops over Irene's cheek.
She doesn't even ask the next question before Irene answers it by touching her lips to Belinda's. It is the work of a few seconds, a frozen moment of daring intimacy made all the more special by its brevity.
In that moment, Belinda is thankful she is nobody but herself.
Author: pathology_doc
Fandom: Malory Towers
Pairing: Belinda and Irene
Rating: M/PG15, Sapphic.
Notes: Because the world needs more Belinda/Irene fic. And because I couldn't get the plot-bunny off my ankle.
It was the summer holidays that did it of course, Belinda tells herself later, that made her fall in love with Irene. It wasn't the terms they'd spent together; it wasn't the gradual acquaintance with each other's mannerisms that was part of settling into boarding school life. It wasn't the camaraderie; it wasn't the shared experiences in the classroom, sports field, common room…
It was the music, the art and of course the summer holidays.
Being Irene's friend is a delight. So is Irene, even though the both of them together can't seem to remember a single thing that's important beyond music and pictures. Irene is her honey-blonde, hazel-eyed, bespectacled, sunny-faced muse, humming tunes and scribbling notes without a care in the world. Irene is a summer idyll, legs outstretched beneath a tree, spilling her genius on to the page as bare toes duel with blades of grass in Belinda's back garden. Irene is freckles and summer dresses and an other-worldly concentration that translates itself to an evening's magnificence around her hosts' grand piano.
Irene is a picture that aches to be drawn. Irene is long legs, smooth curves, twinkling eyes and bedazzling smiles. Irene is winks of knees beneath hems of skirts; the gentle push of a burgeoning bust beneath fabric, tucked into brassieres Irene wishes were bigger. Irene is neck muscles and collarbones for her to draw. Irene is shade, colour, perspective; honey and brown and hazel; warm, warm colours for her warm, warm heart.
There are no cool colours in Belinda's palette when she paints Irene; there is the warm brown wood of the piano, the warm colours of the Morrises' music room (for Belinda's mother plays, though she suspects Irene is far better). Sometimes there is green or blue, for grass or flowers, but all those pictures are drawn with her pencil, outside, when both the girls are out.
Belinda sometimes wonders what it is that Irene makes her feel whenever she looks at her, whenever she imagines those curves going down on paper or canvas. Belinda has always put her heart and soul into her drawings, and maybe that's how it happened; maybe that's how the privilege of drawing her special friend became a delight, a delight that was reflected in Irene's eyes whenever she saw the pictures. Maybe that's how the professionalism of charcoal on paper became loving brushes, gentle strokes, hesitant touches... She knows it's not just her charcoal she wants to feel gliding over those curves; defining those cheeks, the long fingers that dash so brilliantly over the keys. By day, she caresses her media and they do her bidding, bringing her friend to life under her expert guidance. In her dreams she caresses the fingers themselves, and it is smooth, tanned skin beneath her hands instead of her instruments.
It happens one afternoon when they are alone and summer showers have driven them indoors. Irene's fingers, slim, agile and delightful, have become a haunting presence that demands exorcism. Belinda picks up her sharpest pencil and begins a drawing of exquisite, almost anatomical precision. Irene must have seen the concentration on Belinda's charcoal-smudged face, because she interrupts the whistling of a very pleasant tune to ask her what she's working on.
The question is a compulsion in the sudden, tuneless silence.
"I'm drawing your hands," Belinda tells her, knowing that it is both pointless and harmless to admit it.
"Not the rest of me?" Irene asks her. She is spread out languidly on the couch next to Belinda's, loose hair spilling over the edge, notebook balanced on one knee, pencil in her hand. Her right hand, where Belinda can see it, almost touch it.
"No," Belinda replies. "I'm… well, sort of fascinated with them at the moment." She leans in close, pretends to squint in concentration. "Maybe it's because we both use them so much; you to play, me to draw and paint."
"I hadn't thought of it that way," Irene says, abandoning her book and turning on the couch. "Would it help you to have a closer look?" she says, offering her hand for Belinda's inspection.
Belinda takes the hand in both of her own, turning it this way and that, examining lines and curves and bony bits and fatty pads, memorizing the map of Irene's hand. And then her fingers close gently over Irene's, and her free hand glides over the back of Irene's, and she knows there's no way on earth that she can justify it in the name of art any more.
In that moment, she wishes she was anyone but Belinda Morris. She wishes she was Alicia, with the daring to tell Irene boldly that she's hopelessly fond of her; she wishes she was Darrell, with a turn of phrase to explain exactly how she feels, and how long she's felt it for; she wishes she was Mary-Lou, with such a gentleness of heart that no loving gesture could ever be taken badly.
And then Belinda feels Irene's remaining hand come up to meet hers, and in the next instant Irene's fingers are intertwining with her own. Pianist's fingers twist and turn around artist's; clean fingers are smudged with graphite, paint and charcoal, and dirty fingers are somewhat cleaner for the transfer. Finger-pads accustomed to ivory play an automatic melody on the spaces between Belinda's knuckles, and only Irene knows that it is a brief interlude from Belinda's favourite tune.
Bespectacled hazel eyes meet brilliant blue.
"It's not about the art, is it, Belinda?"
Belinda shakes her head. "No, it's not. It's about you."
"You and me both," Irene finishes for her.
"Yes, that's right," Belinda replies. "It's about you and me both. Together." She looks down. "Oh dear, look at that; I've gone and got your fingers dirty."
"That's all right," Irene replies. "Fingers wash clean." And then she reaches up with her lovely pianist's fingers and further smudges the charcoal mark high on Belinda's left cheekbone. "So do faces, if it comes to that."
The fingers don't leave Belinda's face for what seems like an eternity, and that's when she realizes that they're not going to in a hurry. She reaches up herself, hand shaking, and her fingers trickle down like raindrops over Irene's cheek.
She doesn't even ask the next question before Irene answers it by touching her lips to Belinda's. It is the work of a few seconds, a frozen moment of daring intimacy made all the more special by its brevity.
In that moment, Belinda is thankful she is nobody but herself.