#sofia modigliani

[stephen9260]

Happy one fifty years to the best movie of all time

[lilolilyr]

Katya Michailov x Sofia Modigliani (Goncharov, 1973)

[chrysalis-the-butterfly]

Katya: A Poem

"Goncharov" is a 1973 Martin Scorsese film that Tumblr collectively invented in 2022. I'd heard of it, but didn't take too much interest in it. It was only recently that I found out that "Goncharov" had a sapphic ship, between Katya and Sofia. That was what piqued my interest.

In a flurry of activity, I wrote a poem.

I am indebted to all the Tumblr bloggers who came before me, whose creations were captured in this "Goncharov" master doc and this collection of quotes. I hope you enjoy the poem I strung together from your posts!

If you reblog this, make sure to add the tags #unreality and #unrealism so people who would find it triggering don't see it. Remember to Gonch responsibly!

Yekaterina Mikhailova. 

That was my name. 

It was a name that meant nothing,

because I was nothing. 

My father’s daughter,

my brother’s sister. 

For a time, we were rich. 

Then our father received a visit from his co-workers

in the mafia. 

He came between them

and his daughter. 

He died with a smile on his face. 

For the next three years, we were poor. 

My brother and I,

living – no, merely surviving –

together on the streets,

made a resolution:

never again would we fall so low. 

Never again would we be so weak. 

So penniless. 

So worthless. 

We tracked down our uncle. 

Thanks to him, we joined the mafia ourselves –

me first,

my brother later, more reluctantly. 

He learnt not to question what I did,

no matter how much of a father

he wanted to be to me. 

I only have one mother, one father, one brother, one uncle,

but I could trace a path

from Naples to my childhood home in Moscow

with the blood of all the men

who told me they loved me. 

…

Later, I trained as a spy. 

It was in that line of work that I found Lo Straniero. 

The stranger. 

He told me his real name was Leonid Goncharov. 

I chose to believe him. 

What is marriage,

but a way to escape the names of our fathers? 

When I walked towards Goncharov

at the altar,

I thought that would be the moment

I would finally become someone

real enough

to have flesh and blood

to call mine. 

Perhaps the name Yekaterina

wouldn’t sound so empty on my lips. 

And with those same lips

I called his name,

and smiled at him in front of God,

and kissed him in the dark of our room. 

And all I became was his wife. 

A wedding is no different to a funeral,

is it not? 

The old Yekaterina died to Goncharov that day;

he took my name from me,

my very history,

and I allowed him that. 

My husband is a man who collects things he can use. 

A pistol,

a pocket watch,

a woman’s love,

a wife. 

My father would have needed me to marry,

so I did. 

Goncharov would have needed me to love him,

so I did. 

I truly did. 

Oh, I was a good woman, wasn’t I?  

A wife when he needed someone to bed,

a sister when he needed someone to argue with,

a mother when he needed to cry... 

Is that all women were in his eyes?  

Actors? 

Pretty dolls to dress up and spin around

according to his needs? 

No, I shouldn’t be so harsh. 

It wasn’t his fault

he could only ever fall in love with men. 

But the way he treated me? 

That was his fault. 

I needed a new place to exist. 

I found you in the fruit stand. 

…

Sofia Ambrosini. 

That was your name. 

With your serpent bracelet twinkling,

you stooped to pick up the fallen apple

that had escaped my basket

and rolled towards your leg –

the right one,

the one made of wood. 

I recognised from your false leg

and your false snake

that you were in the same world as me –

the same world of murder

whose space we shared precariously. 

But in that moment

we could be two women in a market

shopping for two men,

me my husband,

you your brother. 

Because it’s so hard to make friends in a world of murder. 

But here we were in public,

under the Sun,

and just for a while,

we could pretend we were women

who knew each other from …

somewhere. 

Just making friends. 

Just leading each other into temptation. 

It was the apple’s fault. 

It was the apple that made me bring up Adam and Eve. 

There we so many strange apples at that market. 

I imagined the wild way they looked

was how they looked in the Garden of Eden. 

But then you said,

“I never understood why it had to be an apple. 

Why an apple?” 

I answered, “I don’t know.

Because it’s always been an apple, I suppose.

It’s easier to recreate in art.  

All the painters and sculptors

and everyone else who makes those choices,

they all came together and decided

that an apple looks pretty simple –

nice, smooth, round,

easy enough to draw in a tree –

and now everyone sees nothing but apples

in the Tree of Knowledge

ever after.  

So it’s always apples.” 

I will never forget your response. 

“The dullest possible produce.  

The Forbidden Fruit is supposed to be

something unusual,

something special.  

All the knowledge of the world

and of each other

and of the realisation

that these two fools are

running around the Garden

with their bottoms bare

in front of the Almighty.  

An apple doesn’t seem right for that.  

It’s dull.  

It’s a thing for pastry and postcards.”  

“What would you pick instead?” I asked. 

“Pomegranates,” you said immediately.  “No question.  

It’s the fruit that the God of the Dead used

to trick the Goddess of Spring

into staying with him in the Underworld.  

She tasted the seeds

and she was forced to stay down there

for half a year, every year,

forever. 

A fruit so powerful

it can trap a goddess

seems like the kind of fruit

that can banish humanity from Paradise.” 

We paused. 

We made eye contact. 

“Tastes better than apples, too,” you added. 

And it looks like a jewel

when you split it open.” 

I ate a pomegranate panna cotta

in the bistro later that day. 

And when I licked my lips,

I immediately understood you. 

I did like apples,

but pomegranates? 

They were amazing. 

I’d go to Hell for them. 

I’d go to Hell for you. 

…

“Oh, it’s six already?”

Goncharov said to me when I returned home. 

“The clock’s broken,” I replied. 

“It’s been six for hours.” 

If only time would stop for us. 

…

I was raised Orthodox,

but Goncharov and I had been attending a Catholic Mass

to better fit in with the locals. 

I was unsettled by the topic of Father Gianni’s sermon:

the sins of the flesh,

the importance of resisting Earthly temptations,

and the necessity of self-control in this life,

thereby preparing for glories to come. 

Were there any glories to come? 

You, Sofia, got up to leave in the middle of the sermon,

heading for the stained-glass Virgin Mary,

and you whispered as you passed,

“Take your glories where you may.” 

And like the fishermen who left their nets

to follow Jesus

and become fishers of men,

I got up

and followed you. 

I did not know how my husband felt about me doing that. 

I did not care. 

I started partaking of apples and pomegranates

in equal measure. 

…

Sofia, you told me you had never even touched a gun before. 

But you were clearly too skilled

when those men cornered you

and you took them all down. 

Admit it. 

You just lied because

you wanted me to give you that “hands-on” shooting lesson,

didn’t you? 

“Are we not all murderers in some way, Katya?”

you said to me when I challenged you. 

“After all, a human being is a heart. 

Break that, and how can it go on living?” 

I had to ask,

“Don’t you have a broken heart, Sofia?” 

“It still beats, Katya,” you said, quietly. 

“It still beats.” 

…

For me, it’s always been the darkness I liked;

the way the lights roll off the water between the alleyways

reminds me of the past. 

…

You were adamant in your belief

that all memory is treachery. 

But one of my favourite memories

was us together in my husband’s house,

after dinner at the casino,

me in my evening gown,

you dressed as a waiter. 

You’d asked, “What’s your poison?” 

I’d answered, “Whatever you’re having, darling.” 

For the first time since moving to Naples,

I shook off the white furs

and showed you my dress –

the woman

under the animal. 

“You look good in red,” you said to me. 

Then you called me lisichka. 

Little fox. 

Which should have sounded wrong,

a Russian pet name in an Italian accent,

but that night it sounded right. 

I returned the compliments. 

“And you look good in green,

kukolka.” 

Little doll. 

I gave you one of my pearl necklaces. 

“Every woman should be allowed

to feel like she is looked at

beautifully.” 

My husband’s voice resounded in my head:

“Time isn’t like your pearls, Yekaterina. 

You can’t buy more. 

You think you can own time by wearing it,

but it just beats itself into your bones instead.” 

Well, no-one can tell me what I can and can’t buy. 

…

“If I were cursed, Sofia,

then I would never have found you.” 

“You could still lose me.” 

“Never.” 

…

I started being Katya,

being myself,

not because I fell into my role as Goncharov’s wife,

but because I discovered my inability. 

My unwillingness. 

I knew he cared for me,

but not beyond the presentation we put on for his peers. 

The peers who could end his life at any moment. 

And it wouldn’t be so unbearable

if we were at least still friends,

but all of that went to Andrey –

the friendship, the love, the care –

at least as much as Goncharov was capable of

beyond his own inadequacies. 

Andrey could not live loyally,

so let’s see how he does in death. 

…

I didn’t want Goncharov’s name in your mouth. 

I should have taken his money and left. 

It’s not obvious why I didn’t. 

All this time wandering the wreckage of his house –

I’m sorry, Sofia, it must have killed you. 

“Unlike you,” you said to me,

“I do not lure to cannibalise. 

I watch, and I starve.” 

I rolled my eyes. 

“Well, stop it! 

What do you take me for? 

Stop watching and devour me in full already,

won’t you?” 

So you did. 

I must have looked like a jewel

when you split me open. 

…

“I’ll stay with you tonight, if you’ll have me.” 

“I wouldn’t have anyone else.” 

I lay in bed with you. 

We wanted to do so much,

but ended up doing so little. 

I ran my foot up and down your leg –

the right one,

the one made of wood. 

I thought of what I knew

(what little I knew)

about your past –

how your Jewish family came to Naples,

how you lost them somewhere,

how the Poor Clares took you in and cared for you,

how you searched for your family amidst the Nazis,

how you lost that leg in the riots. 

“The world wants you dead,” I said,

more to myself than you. 

You turned to me. 

“Do you want me dead?” 

I forced myself to meet your eyes. 

“No.” 

You shrugged. 

“Then the world doesn’t want me dead.” 

We stayed in bed together for a while after that. 

…

We were always wasting time we never had. 

How could I love something which was never there? 

Oh, darling, that’s just grief. 

Time is like blood,

and I have wasted both. 

We could not go on forever,

could not fight the story,

could not step outside the marriage

or the mafia

or else. 

We were animals,

and animals, whether wild or tamed,

cannot fight the inevitable. 

“Time stops for no-one, Katya. 

Not even us.” 

…

“What’s on your mind?” 

“Wishful thinking.” 

“Sofia, I’m not cut out for the life you’re offering me. 

That different life. 

I am chained to my history –

a short chain. 

That’s why I cannot leave with you.” 

That’s why you and I

and my husband

and his lover

and your brother

and our enemies

are all in this boathouse. 

November’s the cruellest month of the year,

and Naples is full of fools. 

…

“Of course we’re in love!” I scream at Goncharov. 

“That’s why I tried to shoot you!” 

He laughs and cries at the same time. 

“If we really were in love,

you wouldn’t have missed.” 

He’s right. 

Our love was a grenade,

and now all that remains is shrapnel. 

He loved me, but only for a minute. 

I don’t know if he could handle any more. 

Love cannot be bought;

otherwise, we would have had a happy marriage. 

When we got married, I drew this line

between us and the world. 

He’s crossed that line,

and I can’t go with him. 

He and I are,

I think,

finally out of time. 

He has destroyed and betrayed himself

for nothing. 

That is his worst sin. 

My inability to be loyal to my husband

is what saved me. 

And what now kills him. 

What could now kill you, if you let it. 

…

You are pleading with me. 

“We can have the Forbidden Fruit

and it can be whatever we want!  

Let it be a pomegranate!  

Let us glut ourselves on it!  

And why do we have to follow everyone else’s rules

about what is and isn’t forbidden, anyway?  

None of us in this boathouse

are living within the law in the first place.  

There is blood on everyone’s hands.  

Can’t you and I sin a little sweeter?  

Can’t you admit that the sin you want most

isn’t a sin at all? 

Can’t you spit out the lies you’ve swallowed

in the Hell you found yourself in? 

We could grow our own garden somewhere!”

No, Sofia. 

This is my garden,

my Tree of Knowledge,

better the Devil I know,

and you wish you were my Serpent,

but this is my Underworld to rule

as much as any queen can rule there,

unhappy

but resigned. 

Go, Eve. 

Grow your garden alone. 

The Forbidden Fruit is there to be eaten,

to force us to go,

to let us step outside the walls meant to keep us in. 

But you just can’t make everyone eat. 

The pomegranate is within my reach,

but I have lost my appetite for seeds. 

…

I do what Goncharov would do,

and you know what that means. 

Death. 

Goncharov has never meant anything else. 

I will die like my father,

with a smile on my face. 

I will die for you. 

You were once a little girl, alone and scared,

but that girl is long dead. 

The Sofia that lives now? 

The world should fear her. 

Damn them as they would damn us. 

But don’t you ever raise a hand to me. 

…

Sofia, don’t cry. 

There’s no use trying to rewrite the story now. 

Sofia, get out of this boathouse. 

Take my boat. 

It’s fine. 

I won’t need it anymore. 

Go, zolotse. 

Leave Naples. 

Leave Italy. 

Leave the mafia behind. 

But take your two candlesticks with you. 

Light them on a Friday evening,

and watch the red of the sunset

wash over the white of the candles. 

Sofia, take your day of rest. 

No, a year of rest. 

Make every day a Shabbat. 

Remember to bless yourself. 

Sofia, choose wisely what you do now,

because it might be the last time you get to choose. 

“All memory is treachery.” 

I wonder how you will remember me. 

[froggednb]

What had a bigger cultural impact, the Renaissance or the pearl scene from Goncharov (1973) ?

[umm0lly]

color theory - katya x sofia (updated)

(@mimiadraws for the art) 1031 words - katya x sofia goncharov 1973 - unreality

Katya has always worn white.

White was pure. Katya had to be pure. White was clean. Katya knew she was clean- though her past may not be. White was unconvincing. Soft. She could always rely on their first impressions, first opinions. She never doubted they'd think her weak, and she never missed. She never doubted that white was her color. She never cared for a different color. She never thought that perhaps she didn't need to put on this act- she viewed it as second nature.

Until.

Until Sofia came along. Sofia came along and Katya was stuck. Until Katya punched her mirror, shattering it. Until she broke the facade. She watched the blood splatter on the white carpet. Until Katya knew what she needed to do.

Until Sofia started wearing green and that was the only thing Katya could focus on- her green eyes that she gladly got lost in day after day, always forgetting the way out of the labyrinth that was her touch. Her green dress fit her better than Katya would have liked. She stared more than the men that night. Her green jealousy for all the men who Sofia paid attention to instead of her, all the men Sofia whispered in the ears of instead of hers, all the men that Sofia's gaze was locked on when Katya had only eyes for her-

Until today, she wore white. She was pure. She was calm, the seeds of the pomegranate locked inside. She was unconvincing. Nobody had reason to think twice about her. She never missed, until Sofia. Until Sofia, she wore white.

But Sofia thinks she'd look better in red. The drop of pomegranate juice, the splatter of blood on the carpet, and the rich wine she and Sofia chat over; all the same color. Until Sofia, she never wore red. Until Sofia, she was pure. Until Sofia, she'd only thought about the women around her. Until Sofia, she'd never kissed one.

Until she started wearing red, Katya was trapped. The mirror in front of her reflected a thousand faces, none of which were her own. Until she started wearing red, the pomegranate lay untouched in a basket long forgotten, its blood-red seeds screaming in a failed attempt to be heard and seen. Until she started wearing red, Sofia was out of reach.

Now, Katya wears red. Now, Katya is poison. She is the blood that will be spilled upon the kitchen floor. She is the lipstick Sofia wore when she stained Katya's wineglass and when she stained Katya's cheek and mouth and neck-

She is the glimmer in Sofia's eye when she flirts, a different glimmer than when she's with a man, a different glimmer than when she's without Katya-

━━━━━━━━━━━

Sofia used to wear blue.

Sofia used to be melancholy. Sofia used to be reserved, insecure, and introverted. Sofia had never put herself out there unless she had to. Sofia never grew up rich. Sofia was not Katya.

But Sofia wore Katya's pearls.Every woman should be allowed to feel like she is looked at beautifully, Katya had told her. When Katya looks at her, Sofia feels beautiful. When Katya looks at her, Sofia is broken. Sofia is blue. Katya is white and Sofia is blue.

Then Katya started wearing red.

And, say, if I were to break down your outer layers? What seeds would I find? Nothing worth anything to you.

Sofia knew she had found the seeds. She knew she'd have this chance and this chance only. She seized it. The same red on her lips, the same red as Katya's new wardrobe, the same red as the pomegranate they shared- it wouldn't match her blue.

And Sofia started wearing green.

Sofia was reborn. She is not weak. She is not insecure. She is not hiding from Katya like she used to. She pried open Katya's shell, and she opened hers. Only, Katya will not find red like the red stains Sofia leaves imprinted on her.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Katya found green.

Now, Katya finds a new labyrinth to get lost in. A new Sofia to lose her mind over. A new Sofia to obsess over like she never obsessed over her husband. A new Sofia, who told her to wear red, and who clouds her mind to the point that she's missing her shots. A new Sofia, one who heard the cries of the pomegranate seeds and now devours them whole.

This Sofia manages to tempt the temptress herself, and this Sofia wears green.

The world should fear this Sofia. This Sofia breathes life and death.

Katya has never felt less afraid.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Sofia had once spoken to Katya about her insecurities. She wore blue. Katya wore white. Her nails were red when they took her pearl necklace off and handed it to Sofia. Her eyes were blue when they drilled into Sofia's. Her lips were pink when leaned forward and pressed onto Sofia's.

The next day, Katya wore red. Two days after, Sofia wore green. The day in between, the world was purple.

No questions are raised when Katya's white pearls find their way onto Sofia's neck, then her wrists and ears.

A glance at Sofia's neck is all that she gets when she has to cover it with Katya's red scarf because of the stain of lipstick.

No more than a few whispers are shared when Katya's heels are on Sofia's feet and Sofia's makeup is on Katya's lips because of a rushed morning.

This is all there is, and while Katya sips wine with Sofia more frequently than she sees her husband, she knows that her husband, dressed in black, is drinking with someone dressed in brown, and that is all she knows.

A missed shot leaves white snow red, and Katya only started missing after Sofia's lips were on her neck and shards of her mirror lay on the ground. The grass is turning brown, the color of a suit usually worn by the same man her husband has been drinking with.

The only fruit found in the bowl on top of the kitchen counter is pomegranates. Sofia buys them every Monday morning, and they're done by Friday. It's alright, though. The two of them have each other to satisfy their hunger.

[some-assholes-familiar]

I’m pretty sure it’s already been said but god I just love how no one in Goncharov (1973) is innocent. There’s no good guys here, no one who doesn’t carry some form of regret for violence in their past.

Goncharov himself is probably the most explicit example of this, sparking a good amount of conflict in the film from almost the beginning by trying to outrun violence without confronting his sins and his own mortality, but as much as Katya models herself as innocent (dressing in white acting clueless when Aundre asks her about her husband, etc) she’s still got that violence in her past and seems (at least to me) less angry at goncharov for his involvement with the mafia than she is at his attempts to pretend all of that never happened (whilst still engaging in it! Like c’mon man just hang up the phone) and that’s not even mentioning her final decision to kill him at the clock tower, quite literally staining her with blood ( although if I’m being honest it reads more to me as her being honest with the blood on her hands, to Sofia and herself, a woman taking hold of her own story which is just phenomenal for a film made in the 70’s honestly). Then of course you have Sofia, herself having a violent past hinted at through her interactions with Katya and ice pick joe, loving Katya unflinchingly in spite of the blood on her hands (and saying she looks better in red guh I love that line) and knowing probably full well, without Katya even having to say it, that it’s Goncharov. Then there’s Andre who was right there alongside Goncharov working for the mafia and despite having an objectively better grasp on accepting his own mortality and the role he plays in perpetuating this cycle of violence (though honestly our boy gonch does not make that hard) still finds it so hard to accept it when he himself is directly responsible in goncharov’s death despite knowing full well his blood is on his hands going into this and being fully prepared to take his life seemingly from the get go).

There’s a lot of classic tragedies out there, but I’ve never seen anyone tackle themes like the cycle of violence and momento mori as well goncharov 1973, a story that is only as effective as it is because as much as you know no one is close to innocent from the get go, you still feel for them and hurt for their shared humanity and complexities that inevitably fall short as a result of their own actions.

Tragedy is only really effective as a result of an audience’s ability to see themselves in the characters, but I love just how much Martin Scorsese and Matteo JWHJ 0715 placed importance on the idea that no one here can be innocent, they’ve lost that right to call themselves unambiguously ‘good’ a long time ago. They are all flawed and they are all objectively not great people for a variety of reasons, but you still feel for them regardless. They’re all tragic figures not necessarily because they’re all victims of circumstance but largely as a direct result of the choices they made and the chances they didn’t take that eventually led to the tragic ending we all know and love. They’re the ones that set the clock on their own lives, and it’s spectacular that the filmmakers managed to make us understand that whilst communicating so effectively their own feelings of helplessness.

So yeah, homoerotic mafia movie and all that. Thanks for reading through this rant on a movie I’d honestly not thought to watch myself until very recently.

[ayda-agueforts]

I could write a whole fucking essay about sofia’s character as a reflection of the girl katya could have been if circumstances were different and she hadn’t had to become an ice queen just to survive. like sofia is an expression of katya’s forbidden desires, not only in the sense of her repressed romantic feelings for other woman, but as an exploration of a simpler, kinder life that katya could have had if she hadn’t gotten wrapped up with goncharov and her family’s ambitions. sadly I don’t have time to write a thesis about mafia movie lesbians from the 70’s

[scariercnidaria]

all of you hyping up the katya/sofia kiss scene never once did you think to mention its like. on the cheek. the grand design of the homosexual agenda culminates in making me specifically believe that Balls Old Movies Are Good, Actually and i cant fucking believe i fell for it again

[acidic-lemon]

Sofia Modigliani

[ethannku]

you guys are forgetting how problematic the boat scene is :// obv i can’t speak for everyone but the amount of queerbaiting scorsese did with that scene was honestly terrible and i can’t believe i haven’t seen anyone talk about it

[stephen9260]

Shut up shut up shut up cos I've seen so many people refer to them as "the two apple scenes", especially newer fans, and that is just plain wrong.

At the beginning of the movie when Goncharov asks Andrey to join him that is an apple, yes, but at the end? When Sofia asks Katya to fake her death and run away with her? That is a pomegranate.

And that makes the parallel so much better.

Because both of the semi-forbidden romances are being consolidated by an offering of a red fruit with a negative connotation, but the meaning behind that fruit is so important and thinking they're both apples just ruins it.

When Goncharov offers the apple to Andrey, that apple symbolizes temptation, sure, but aside from the homoerotic aspect of it, the point is that Andrey is being offered a new point of view on what he does, he is being offered to have his eyes opened, just as the snake promised Eve the apple would.

But Katya doesn't need to have her eyes opened. She already knows the toll it takes to be Goncharov's wife. And she is offered a pomegranate, the fruit that bound Persephone to the underworld, thus mirroring the need for Katya to fake her own death.

And most of all, they are two different fruits because they symbolize different kinds of love.

The love of the apple is fueled by lust and sin, but (at least for Greek mythology standards) Persephone and Hades' marriage was a loving one, caring, soft, and all the things Sofia and Katya were.

Andrey and Goncharov could never have that.

Not thematically, at least.

Because in a time and space that already would never let them love each other, men were encouraged to express their care through lust instead of romance, and the apple mirrors that perfectly.

The two relationships are paralleled but also utterly different and I would have for anyone to miss out on that.

[unhinged-lesbian]

nurse, she’s obsessing over fictional made-up lesbians again

[lilolilyr]

caught in your gaze I cannot speak,

caught in your arms I cannot even think

A Katya x Sofia ficlet for the Goncharov (5)1 year anniversary!

1k, rated T-M

Summary: Sofia is supposed to be watching Goncharov, but only has eyes for his wife. Katya accuses Sofia of spying on her, Sofia assures her she has only been watching her out of admiration - and ends up allowing Katya to take her to her room…

Read on Ao3: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

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Moodboard

[panravenc]

Pearls around her neck, she sips the cup of coffee as if every drop doesn’t burn her lips, her tongue, her throat. The muddy waters of a long-lost memory threaten to drown her, choked up by the sought out waste of a sea-sick oyster.

And in the midst of her self-brought masochism, blond strands of hair filter through her vision and dressed with the blood-red she’d stained herself with, Katya sits by her side, and greets her with a smile made of wariness and gut-wrenching hope.

I have become someone I don’t recognize. But Katya and Sofia deserve to kiss on the lips at least once, is all I’m saying.

[umm0lly]

color theory - katya x sofia

Katya has always worn white. She never doubted that white was her color. She never cared for a different color. She never thought that perhaps she didn't need to put on this act- she viewed it as second nature.

Until Sofia came along. Until Katya smashed her mirror and watched the blood splatter the white carpet she had kept clean. Until Katya knew what she needed to do. Until Sofia started wearing green and that was the only thing Katya could focus on- her green eyes, her green dress, Katya's green jealousy for all the men who Sofia pays attention to instead of her-

Until today, she wore white. She was pure and calm. She was unconvincing. Nobody had reason to think twice about her. Until Sofia, she wore white.

Sofia thinks she'd look better in red. The drop of pomegranate juice, the splatter of blood on the carpet, the rich wine she and Sofia chat over- all the same color. Until Sofia, she never wore red. Until Sofia, she was pure. Until Sofia, she'd never kissed a girl, though she'd wanted to.

Until she started wearing red, Katya was trapped. The mirror in front of her reflected a thousand faces, none of which were her own. Until she started wearing red, the pomegranate lay untouched in a basket long forgotten, its blood red seeds screaming in a failed attempt to be heard and seen.

Now, Katya wears red. Now, Katya is poison. She is the blood that will be spilled upon the kitchen floor. She is the lipstick Sofia wore when she stained her glass. She is the glimmer in Sofia's eye when she flirts, a different glimmer than when she's with a man, when she's without Katya-

And now? Sofia wears green. She wears blue no longer. Sofia is reborn as the girl Katya can't take her eyes off of, as the girl to finally hear the pomegranate seeds as they beg and plead for validation, as the girl to finally tempt the temptress herself.

Now, Sofia wears green. And this Sofia? The world should fear her.

Katya has never felt less afraid.

[book--wyrm]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: F/F

Fandom: Goncharov (1973)

Relationship: Katya Goncharova/Sofia Modigliani

Characters: Sofia Modigliani, Katya Goncharova

Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Angst, Suicide mention, Happy Ending?

Language: English 

Summary

For as long as she can remember, Katya has always known that her death would be violent. Even before the shooting that took her mother's life, she'd known—it was in her blood, her fate. For years, she had idly envisioned it, her body broken and bleeding under a smoking gun, a sharpened blade, a ticking bomb.

She had never imagined that it would be a slap that ended the story of Katya Goncharova.