"Olympia" by Édouard Manet (1863)

(t1tties censored bc this is wattpad)

We head into the water to swim, needing a break from the sun, and before I know it we can no longer keep ourselves afloat because we're laughing at everything. Like that time in sophomore year when she passed me a note during class and the teacher caught us and read the thing out loud to everyone. I almost died of embarrassment, but now I laugh about it instead.

Eris laughs with me about the awkward dinner with her family last week, over Ms. Montoya and her wool cat sweater she always wears, over the time Eris and I started a heated debate over Édouard Manet's painting Olympia in AP Art while the class watched in silence. Eris claimed that the painting was empowering in depicting a naked, alleged prostitute with a confrontational gaze. And I dragged her to filth, emphasizing that the Black maidservant at the white woman's side, purposely painted to fade into the background, only reinforced racial stereotypes. There was no way that Eris light-skin Lugo would convince me that a rich, male 1800s French painter was in any way concerned with female empowerment. Sexualization is not liberation. It took five minutes until the teacher finally had the courage to intervene, and that was only because we were at the point of yelling at one another across the classroom.

"Honestly, Ef, after I went home and really thought about it, I realized you were kinda right," Eris says now, her gliding hands making ripples in the water.

"And you're only admitting it a year later?"

"C'mon, you know my stubborn ass wouldn't accept defeat."

"And what's changed?"

She leans back to float, droplets glistening off her scars. "For one, I'm high as fuck."

I laugh. "Right."

I shouldn't be finding any this comedic, reminiscing like it's a fond memory. There has to be a limit. There has to be a point when I listen to my brain when it tells me: this is too much. But I've let the girl take me to L.A., I'm having her forge my art, I've had dinner with her narco father, I'm in her pool wearing her clothes.

This shouldn't be okay. She had my brother work as a drug mule. She's no better than Iker, using people to do her dirty work. What will stop her from using me? Nothing.

It's the weed, I tell myself. I'm only acting like this because of the stupid weed. I criticized Fitz for smoking with the enemy only weeks ago, and now I'm doing the same thing. This was supposed to be strictly business, tolerating one another's presence for the minimum amount of time needed to get through this competition.

So why can't I stop?

I stare at one of my braids, the pink artificial hair at the end coming undone—it bothers me that I've been too distracted to keep up with my standard of perfect order. I scheduled in writing an essay for today's afternoon a week ago, yet all my practical commitments fall apart when Eris is involved.

Eventually, we return indoors, smelling of chlorine, bare feet on perfect marbled floors. We resume painting where we left off, hypnotized by our mutilated saint. I have the towel wrapped tight around my chest while she lets hers hang low on her hips, and I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing her in a bikini. In the air-conditioning, goosebumps raise on her hairy arms, and she has her thin eyebrows furrowed in absolute focus as she shades the brown skin of Guadalupe.

We paint for hours. Eris bears with me as I toil over the details, finally seeing my method. The beauty in correcting, in perfecting, in measuring. The red smudge from the other day is gone, forgotten, erased. Maybe the break actually helped... I may have to do that more often. The colors are more vibrant now. With fresh, sun struck eyes and the remnants of the THC, I'm tuned into the interconnections between all shapes, the fundamental structure of the painting. In my mind, I split it into varying depths and lines and golden ratios, explaining my grid of perfection to Eris. Instead of agonizing over every detail and stalling my progress, it's as if I'm able to focus on the ones that actually make a difference.

We don't speak. I sit as far away as possible, and she also seems intent on protecting her bubble of space. But as the hours pass, the golden hour sun streaming in through the giant windows receding, something strange starts happening. At first, she leans against me to reach a spot on my side of the painting, and I go stiff until she pulls away, forgetting the elaborate mental calculation I was working on. Then twenty minutes later, she does the same thing, except when she pulls back, she keeps her right arm pressed against my left and continues painting.

Is this intentional? Is this a game? Or does she simply not notice that we could very well give each other the metaphorical Bubonic plague with how close she's sitting to me, how bare she is in the air-conditioned room...

A drop of red paint falls off my brush onto my knee. Before I even register it, she wipes it off. But it's the way she wipes it off that makes my breath hitch—instead of using just a finger, her entire hand brushes across my knee, her multiple rings cold against me.

Instead of angles and shadows I'm consumed by the placement of my arms, my legs, her hands, and the increasing awareness that this is getting weird.

My rational brain scrambles to put a limit on what is acceptable: You hate her, you're disgusted by her, she's a criminal, she's a murderer; how could you let yourself become so deprived of human interaction you've resorted to spending time with her?

Yes, how could I? How could I allow her to sit so close? Why haven't I pushed her away with a snarky comment and a remark of disgust? Why do the seconds grow unbearably long every time she leans in front of me, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to trace the bones of her spine. Each individual vertebrae, like a lesson in anatomy. There are two dimples on the base of her back.

A knock on the door, and her mom comes in.

"A ver mija, ven a comer," Maria says. "Bring your friend."

▴ ▴ ▴

I can't believe that my life has culminated in this moment. Blazed off Eris Lugo's marijuana, wrapped in her towel, and sitting next to her in her kitchen with a plate of steaming food in front of me as her mother cooks, seemingly oblivious to our intoxication.

Eris nudges my arm and whispers, "Chill. You look tense as hell. Your eyes aren't even red. And my amá is cool with that kind of thing anyway."

I stare at the food—chiles rellenos, Maria called it. Baked green peppers stuffed with chicken, except mine is made with vegetables and tofu, Eris assured. I didn't even tell her mom that I'm vegetarian, and she took the time to make a plate tailored to my preferences. Other than my dad during his rare good, clean-the-entire-house and make-all-the-food-we'll-need-for-a-week moods, it's been years since someone has cooked for me like this. It reminds me of my mother, making Fitz and I bowls of légume and rice and buying half a dozen vegetarian cookbooks once we decided to stop eating meat.

Tears well in my eyes, and I keep my head low while I eat the—honestly delicious—plate. Eris douses hers in a green, homemade sauce that is too spicy even for me. And unlike at last week's dinner, Maria talks the whole time: "It's not every day we can have dinners with the whole family—Daphne has practice for hours, Nico has violin, Axel is at college" and more awkward small talk that tells me nothing about what I'd really like to know. There were questions I wanted to ask, but unlike with Iker, I'm not bold enough to challenge her. She even makes us coffee—it's such a kind gesture I don't know what to do with myself.

Eris and I return upstairs and continue painting. The virgin mother and the skeletal saint clash come to life in a vivid embrace.

After a few hours, Eris starts nodding off. For two seconds—yes, I count them—she leans her head on my shoulder, and instead of recoiling, tears well in my eyes again. What's wrong with me? It must be the food earlier, the painting that's got me melancholic. In front of a canvas, I allow myself to feel everything that has no place in my routine of organization, discipline, and relentless strategizing for how I'll get to the top.

"Carajo," she says. "It's midnight. We haven't even showered."

"Are you going to take me back to my house?" I ask.

"Uh, the bodyguards are kind of off duty right now, and Iker's put me on a curfew."

"So you're just going to keep me prisoner here? Like Hades with Persephone?"

"Bitch I'm not no crusty Hades—I'm Eris."

"Which is also the name of a dwarf planet so irrelevant it wasn't even discovered until the two thousands. Makes sense, since you're so short."

"Fuck you," she breathes, but it doesn't sound threatening. "You know... you can just, uh, stay. Stay over."

"But I need my deep conditioner, my silk hair wrap, my skincare, my toothbrush and fluoride-free toothpaste, my clothes."

Eris rolls her eyes. "I have moisturizer, bro. I can get you some of Axel's clothes. We have silk pillowcases. And you're not gonna die without the right conditioner or your special hippie toothpaste."

The thought of wearing her brother's clothing feels scandalous, almost on par with me wearing her swimsuit. "I don't know."

"If you stay we can keep working on the painting, and then we we don't need to see each other's face again for a whole week."

"That sounds tempting," I say. Eris will go spend time with her friends and maybe even that girl she was with. I will return to my routine. It should fill me with motivation, but my ribcage is as hollow as Santa Muerte's.

"You don't got plans for the morning?" she asks.

"I never do."

So I relent.

▴ ▴ ▴

The shower in the guest room is huge and spotless. There are multiple bottles of shampoo and the best-smelling rose soap I've ever used. I spend as long as I feel is ethical under the water—I'm always conscious of not using more than I need given California's water crisis.

When I change into my underwear from earlier and one of Axel's t-shirts and basketball shorts, I step out.

And he's standing right there in the guest room.

"Mind telling me what's going on with you and Eris?" he asks. "Why are you staying over? No one's been allowed to do that for years."

"We have a painting to finish," I say. "That's all."

I hope to all the saints I don't believe in that he didn't see me in the pool with her.

He looks me up and down, and while I've gotten used to the way Eris does it, I can't shake the sense that he's probably picturing me naked in his bed. He bites his lip, and his chest rises and falls faster than usual. "Why are you wearing my clothes?"

"Nothing else would fit," I say in what's one of the most awkward moments of my life. His hair is slicked back with gel, and he's gotten new glasses—round and frameless, which make him look like a retro intellectual. He's the tallest out of the Lugo children, which makes no sense given that both his parents are shorter than me.

He sighs and leans back against the wall. "How have you been?"

"How have you been?"

"Fine. Doing a lot of chess. And a lot of homework."

"Still sneaking into clubs with a fake ID like before?"

"Not as much. I'd only go now if it was with you."

I scoff. "Absolutely not. Are you still using drugs?"

A smile pulls at the corner of his lips. "It's oxy and xanax, not drugs. You make it seem as if I'm injecting heroin."

"Oxycodone and Xanax are still drugs, Axel."

"You really never hold back with the questions. Always so direct."

Eris' godfather told me the same thing: You are very direct, Persephone. Don't change that.

"But tell me," Axel continues. "How are you?"

"Fine. Other than Eris sending my brother to move what was probably heroin over the border."

He lets out a deep breath—not surprised in the slightest.

"I'm just wondering why it wasn't you instead of her all along," I say. "Coordinating these things. Learning about the trade. Iker raising you to kill. You're the eldest son, after all."

Now his eyes widen. "How much has she told you?"

"A lot."

"Why would she do that?"

"Ask her."

He runs his hand over his face, but it knocks his glasses out of place, and he takes them off to wipe them with the end of his shirt. "Fuck. This is bad. If Dad finds out... it'll be bad."

"So are you going to answer my question?"

"I could never do it," he says. "I hate it. I hate everything about it. I hate the songs they write about it, I hate the money, I hate the paranoia—I never asked for this."

"You never told me anything."

"Why would I? Knowing makes anyone a liability. Eris is careless. Now I guess you're part of the family."

I think about when Eris joked about marrying me, and all my defenses that have been slowly chipped away throughout the day raise instantly. "I'm not part of anything."

Axel stares at me. Just stares with his dark brown eyes.

"Why didn't you leave?" I ask to break the silence. "You had all the means to go to some Ivy League on the East Coast. That's what you used to talk about doing."

"I couldn't leave my family. I feel... indebted to them. Like I need to protect them. Nico, Daphne, Daniel. They're all I have."

I notice the scars on his wrists. Not as pink as Eris' since he's a shade darker and hers seem newer while his are brown and fading. And while she has multiple, he only has two, deep and straight, like he slashed his skin with the intention of bleeding out for good. Now that I think of it, I've never seen him wear a short-sleeved shirt until now.

"Axel?"

He hides his hands in his pockets.

What is it with this family and the self-mutilation? I've known he has serious issues since his drunken rambles when he'd call me late at night, and I'd have to slip into the backyard to calm him down, convince him not to take all his pills at once and down them with alcohol.

"Did you do that?" I ask, trying my best to seem gentle.

He looks away. "I... no... I mean... yes... but not because I wanted to kill myself. Not then, at least."

"Then why would you do it?"

"I had no choice."

"What do you mean?"

"Stop asking me about this," he suddenly snaps. "Stop asking us about everything. You don't need to be all-seeing, all-knowing. That's God's job, not yours."

I stare at the small, golden chain with a cross around his neck—nothing like Eris' flashy oversized pendants, but it holds the same meaning nonetheless.

Eris walks in then, like a cop who's just strolled into a crime scene, except she has no guns in sight. She stares her brother down. "Sorry to interrupt."

"I was just leaving," he mumbles and promptly walks out of the room.

After setting down the silk pillowcases she promised me on the bed, she asks, "What was that about?"

"He was just wondering why I'm staying over."

"Bueno, Iker said it's fine for today, so if he has a problem, he can take it up with him."

We return to our painting. My wrists are tense, my right arm hurting from constantly keeping it raised, my eyelids heavy. Eris is showered, smelling like vanilla again, her hair wet. I notice a bald spot on the side of her head. I looked it up a while back—it seems like she has trichotillomania, the compulsive habit of pulling out one's own hair. I've seen her picking at her eyebrows, too. Is that why they're so thin, occasionally shaped and penciled in with makeup?

After all but two minutes, Eris sets her brush down with a groan and lays right there on the floor. Even her pajama clothes are tight and constrictive—a black crop top and absurdly tiny shorts. It's as if she's allergic to anything comfortable. I've seen more of her body today than I should in a lifetime.

"There goes our plan of finishing before sunrise," I say. "Even I'm tired. We smoked too much."

"Wasn't it good, though? Giving your brain a break?"

"That's a bad habit to get into."

She yawns and rolls over. "I'm ready for bed."

We walk out of the art studio. She heads to her room, and in the darkened hallways, I find my way back to the guest room. It's cold and empty, likely unused for years. I lay among the expensive sheets, feeling more like an outsider than my first day of kindergarten at an all-white school or when we moved to Germany and I understood nothing. Finally, I sleep.

▴ ▴ ▴

I wake at dawn and find Eris' room in the maze of the house. The door is unlocked, and she's sleeping. On the walls, in addition to the Catholic saints, there are posters of new deities. The art style is two-dimensional, colorful, and geometric—probably something Aztec. Her sheets are kicked off and falling off the bed. Her shorts have ridden up, exposing her black lace underwear.

Her stupid teenage boy friends would think it's hot or something. But not me. I'm just... observing. She looks so comfortable while Fitz always tells me I, like him, sleep like a corpse.

"Wake up," I tell her. "It's time to paint."

No luck. I take a closer look at the various religious iconography. It screams of indecision, of not knowing who to believe in, who to turn to for protection, of calling upon anyone—anything—who'll answer.

I climb onto her bed and shake her. "Eris."

She wakes with a start and thrashes to grab something from under her bed—the golden gun. I scramble away, putting my hands up, my heart in my throat as she points it at me. I do not want to die here, surrounded by ancient gods with an accidental bullet in my chest.

"Eris, it's just me!"

With her other hand, she rubs the sleep from her eyes. "Sorry. You scared me." She sets the gun on her nightstand, carelessly cluttered with jewelry that could probably pay my family's rent for the month. "Bruh, it's barely even day."

"The sunrise looks nice," I say. With her room on the third floor, I catch a glimpse of San Diego from the mansion's privileged spot on the hills. Having a gun pointed at me would have me shaking for days in any other circumstance, but Eris makes it seem normal.

She begrudgingly stares out the window.

"I wake at dawn every day to watch it," I say, my heart rate returning to normal. "It reminds me how every day brings me closer to death."

"Damn, that's some dedication. I'm good, though." And she lays back down.

I kneel on her bed again and pull her arm. "I'm not waiting around for you to wake up."

She grabs me by the waist and pulls me down with her, and my previously-normalizing heart rate skyrockets far more than before—maybe ever.

"What are you doing?" I blurt out.

"Just chill," she mumbles against my neck, and my spine convulses with panic, confusion, her uncanny warmth. "We got time."

I am literally laying on top of her, her arms around my waist in the most compromising position possible. She's delirious. She's gone insane. She's not even high this time. There is no justification, no explanation for this depravity.

"Let go of me," I demand. "Now."

"Damn, it's so comfortable like this though, you crushing me."

"Wow, just when I thought you'd run out of ways to call me fat."

She shoves me off of her. With one hand, she picks up her vape pen and takes a long puff, and with the other, she grabs her IPhone and starts scrolling. "Fuck you. I never called you that. Anyway, since you're such a pain in the ass, let's go make coffee."

Iker is sitting in the kitchen. He gives Eris a curt greeting and watches me, not even trying to mask his judgment. Why did he let me sleep over? Why didn't he send me home? He seems like the type of man to pick his battles wisely, and maybe I wasn't worth the energy.

Eris makes coffee with the same extravagant espresso machine Maria used yesterday. I watch her silently, feeling Iker's gaze burn holes into my back. Finally, we bring our cups upstairs and drink slowly as the sun rises in the art studio. The shifting colors are breath-taking, washing the room in light. I never thought black coffee—Eris takes her with cream, a lot of sugar, and foamed milk—could taste this divine.

We paint. I anticipate another accidental touch, holding my breath every time she gets close, but sobered up and caffeinated, she's much more mindful of my space. As an experiment, I lean my left arm against her right. She pauses for a split second—or maybe I'm imagining things—but is otherwise unfazed. Then I lean back, pressing my hand to the floor right behind her so that my arm is ever-so-slightly touching her spine. With my other hand, I take my phone out, pretending to read my texts—I don't have any—and wait for the moment Eris turns around and asks me what the hell I'm doing.

But she doesn't. I've been painting the base for La Santísima's skeleton for the last two hours, and it's made me morbidly curious about Eris' bones. The convex curve of her nose. The slight indent in her brow bone. I've never spent so much time with someone this close.

"I'm not sure if I'm getting this anatomy correct," I say, my voice jarring in the long silence with only Eris' music—this time it's narcocorridos, which Axel implied he hates yesterday and are definitely not my taste. "I wish I had a real skeleton to look at."

"I mean, unless you wanna head to school and steal the one in the biology room, you're kinda outta luck," Eris says without breaking focus.

"I suppose you are the closest thing I have."

Her head turns, and it reminds me of an owl. "Bitch, you complained about me calling you fat, and now you're calling me skinny?"

I scrutinize her prominent collarbones. Her high cheekbones. And her spine. There is something about her spine...

"You haven't exactly left much to the imagination," I say.

Her face flushes pink, and I can tell she hates it by the way she rubs at her cheeks and glares at the painting. There's a small pile of hair at her side from all the strands she's pulled so far, and when she reaches to do it again, I stop her—the fourth time we've made physical contact today.

"You'll go bald," I caution.

"Wow, thanks, genius. Didn't know that."

I squeeze her wrist harder.

"Unless you're gonna hold me down the rest of my life," she mutters, "I don't think that'll do me any good."

"Your wrist is so bony."

"What are you tryna say? You wanna use me as your skeleton?"

"Would that be inappropriate?"

"Wait, you're being serious?" Her paintbrush clatters to the ground, soiling the floor with droplets of blue, and she yanks her arm away from me and hugs her chest.

"Well, I can't skin you alive and take your bones as a reference, but..." I lean in and trace the line of her collarbone, hating how much I don't hate how vivid it feels.

Now it's her turn to shriek in panic. "You wanna feel me up?"

"It doesn't have to be weird if you don't make it weird."

Her face and neck are completely red now, her breaths fast and shallow.

"It's for the painting," I clarify. "It's just anatomy. Purely scientific."

"Anatomy," she repeats.

"I would never willingly touch you otherwise. I may not be able to see them directly, but I can feel your bones and ensure it aligns with what I've done so far before painting the texture and surface colors."

She looks at the canvas. "I mean, I think it looks fine, but you're such an obnoxious perfectionist."

"So you're okay with me studying you?"

She hits her vape pen again, the sunlight illuminating the white wisps that float above. "And what are you gonna do for me?

"Anything you'd like."

"You and me both know that's a dangerous thing to say, Ef."

"Anything you'd like within reason."

"Fine. Deal."

She doesn't move. Her cheeks are so red, I can almost feel their warmth from here.

"So?" I ask. "Go on. Lay down."

"Once you stop being so commanding. Like I get it your mom was military, but you don't need to be such a fuckin' sergeant all the time."

"Okay, Eris, can you please lay down for me?"

"Now you're acting like a doctor. Are you gonna pull out your ruler and start measuring me, too?"

"Yes."

"Santo cielo..."

"I don't mean to pressure you. Quite frankly, I wouldn't be comfortable either if it was the other way around."

"Yeah, but you're a stuck up, prudish bitch." She makes a show of dramatically falling to the floor then juts her chin up and raises her chest, spreading out her arms like Jesus on the cross. "Whatever. Go ahead. Measure me like one of your French putas." 

▴ ▴ ▴

a/n: persephone in the last chapter: "i really can't let it get farther than this" -> persephone in this chapter: 🤡🤡🤡

okay, so that last part was definitely not planned, and as a result it took me several more hours to finish this chapter than anticipated, but i'm rolling with it. it's a record-breaking 4,400 words... these characters have already surpassed the threshold of gay i outlined for them here, and i am pleasantly thrilled. 

if you want to listen to the kind of music eris put on in this scene, i've included a video at the beginning of the chapter. not sure what the name of the song is or the artist, but it's santa muerte and cartel related 💀 listen to immerse in the eris ✨ vibes ✨

silent readers please let me know you're here!! leave a vote or a comment 💜