Rosy Fingers

"Andromeda. Cassiopeia. Draco. Ursa Major. Ursa Minor."

He lists constellations for me and waits his turn as I drink form the bottle. Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I pass it to him.

"Orion." He swigs the liquid. "Scorpio."

I can't recognize any of them in the sky, but I know their names, their stories. He can see the shapes sometimes, but to him they are just stars, not princesses and bears and hunters.

"Leo. Pegasus."

"Can you point any of them out?" I ask, shifting my back against the rough bark. I glance over at him and he shrugs, pushing his hair out of his eyes. I can't look away.

"Probably not." Idly, I wonder if he's trying to grow his hair long or if he just hasn't bothered to get it cut. "If I have pictures in front of me, I can find them."

He drinks again and passes the bottle back to me. I turn my eyes to the twinkling sky because I have to.

"Cassiopeia was the mother of Andromeda. She and her husband tried to sacrifice Andromeda to a sea-beast to save their city."

"Did she get eaten?" His voice tells me nothing, but out of the corner of my eye I see his hands playing with the grass. I know that he's interested.

"Perseus saved her. He held up the head of the monster Medusa and then Cassiopeia and her husband turned into stone."

"A convenient rescue in the nick of time?"

I nod. "Exactly." I venture a glance and try to breathe. I can barely make out his features in the dark, and my fingertips itch to trace them. "What time do you leave tomorrow?"

He pulls up grass. "Noon-ish, I think. They're driving me."

"Ten hours in a car with your parents?"

"Apparently it'll help us bond before they leave me there for four years." He laughs lightly. I don't.

"You could refuse to go, you know. You're a legal adult."

"With no money, no job, no car, and no place to live if I refuse." He yanks up more grass viciously. I wince at the tearing noise. "I've tried already. I've pleaded, begged, cajoled, yelled, and at the end of every argument, I'm still leaving tomorrow at noon."

I drink more, feeling the alcohol slide a searing path down my throat. I swallow convulsively against the bitter sting.

A wind gently rustles the tress above us, brushing past our flushed faces. I watch as it ruffles his hair.

"I wanted to paint you a picture before I left, but they took away my paints." He keeps his voice completely level, but I know there is a tremor.

"Send me one from military school."

He shakes his head. "No. I can't paint there. I won't." He turns away a little. "Anyway, the only thing I'd want to paint anymore would be this night; the fading stars, your messy hair, grass strewn on your legs, and your eyes holding a thousand stories."

I laugh finally. "Are you sure you're an artist, not a poet?" Even though I can't see his face, I sense his grin.

"No, that's your department." Suddenly his voice takes a greater weight. "Look, I've never said – " he pauses, and I become afraid of what lies beyond that silence.

"Don't," I say softly, and he glances over at me. I can't see his face clearly, but I have no doubt that he can read mine. The sky is growing streaked with light.

"I don't want to leave things unsaid." His voice quavers a little.

I smile against the sting in my throat and in my eyes.

"They aren't."

He opens his mouth to say something but stops, and continues to gaze at me, before gently reaching over and entwining his fingers with mine. I give into impulse and push the shaggy hair out of his eyes.

The stars are no longer visible and we wait for the dawn.