I think I'll do a series of drabbles; extras and excerpts and odds and ends from my webcomic, Stitches. If you remove the spaces, you can find it here: stitch . comicgenesis . com
And it contains femslash/femmeslash/yuri/shoujo-ai/lesbians, and gays, and furries. And I'm afraid this probably won't make much sense without it.
Stitch 16.5: Closing In
I dropped my pencil in the lake again, and you're not supposed to get it out for me.
Seriously, you aren't. I'm perfectly capable of apologizing to the Head of the second level, receiving detention, and receiving a new one. Once Gabe threw Niku's pencil in the lake – I don't know why – and they had me strip down and go down and get it. So I could. I won't. It's probably not appropriate to do it on my own, when higher leveled students haven't asked me to, but the point is I'd be capable if I were allowed. I could manage. I could ask a first level mouse or a first level lizard to strip down and go down and get it out for me. I have options.
You're not one of my options: get out of the lake.
"I can't believe you don't have fish," You drawl as you wade out, because I dropped it a ways out. Okay, I didn't drop it. I threw it. I was frustrated, no I am – I've been frustrated for a while. I feel the art in my bones and I want it out my fingers, but I can't. (Because all I want to draw is you and I hate it.)
"I could have done this," I mumble, falling down to my knees, because I'm upset and slightly bitter. But I hate getting the fur on my tail and my ears wet, and Jak once told me that all cats hate water. So it isn't really my fault, and I shouldn't go down. (But I know that isn't true; I'm a kitten and I love the rain – just not so much when I'm in it.) And I hate that I'm grateful. "Wet pencils don't work, anyway."
Even though you know I won't say "thank you," you suck in breath, and hold it in, and duck your head below the surface. The water ripples where you left, your shadow fades down, splashes die out. If I stood up, and I leaned over, and I tried, I could probably see the short black strands of your hair waving through the blue, but I'm being stubborn so I watch my shoes. You take a while. Bubbles rise. I don't know how you'll ever see it. You say you can't shoot fire out of your hands, but I think that maybe you can hold your breath forever – maybe it's some strange Teeri thing that I'll never understand, like the rest of you.
(I think you can shoot fire out of your hands. I'm so sure you're magic and that's the obvious thing. But I don't think you'd lie to me, either. So I suppose I don't really know so much as suspect.)
I wonder about you, sometimes.
Your head reappears, and you gasp in some breath. Your ebony hair frames your face and clings to your skin, and can't quite reach your shoulders, which are broader than mine. I fist my fingers in my sunshine-yellow hair, and I'm glad it isn't wet, too, even if I won't tell you. You smile at me with that stupid grin of yours, the one that somehow only ever reaches your midnight eyes when they're locked on me. (But they're always locked on me, so... I guess that's always?) Anyway.
Anyway, what's your problem? You should stalk someone else for once. (I think I'd be lonely, but I'm so mad at you for making me that way. The space where your body once was shouldn't bother me, and I shouldn't remember and I shouldn't care. But I would - ah, please - stop giving me tangents.)
But then, I would have had to get my pencil myself, I realize, as you place the small device in my palm, and leave little droplets of solidified crystal in the absence of your fingers. You fist your hands in the warm grass and you push down, and you climb out, and you bring half the lake out, with you. Then you turn around and fall into the grass, so your back flattens the blades and your front catches the sun. Yellow rays on black fabric on green earth. The sun's moving slow, and it's warm.
"Fish are great," you sigh, watching the clouds. I fall for it once, and look up, but they're just clouds. "I miss all the little things."
"Fish are..." I begin, because sometimes I can't help but wonder, no matter how hard I want not to.
"Like wingless birds," you finish, because you're maddeningly helpful.
"..." I watch the sky anyway, because you remind me of birds, and if I look down, I'll blush. My sketchbook sits in my lap, feeling unloved. Give me moments, I think to it. When my pencil dries, I'll draw something beautiful, something amazing. (But not you. Even if I want to.)
Even though it's warm out I somehow say, "If you don't change out of your wet clothes, you'll get sick."
And when I look back, you're drawing again, and more crystals have fallen from your fingertips and made pits in the paper. Do you always have to draw me, every single time? Get a new muse.
Okay, just this once. I'll draw you just this once, but only for revenge.
I drew a pic to go with this: yeaka . deviantart . com /art/Closing-In-68687167