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Cedar can count the number of times she and Cerise have spoken using only the ten wooden fingers her father carved for her when she was created. You might think this is an exaggeration, but it’s not: if Cedar could exaggerate, she’d say she could count the number of times they’d spoken on five of her wooden fingers, and she’d make you quirk your head and widen your eyes in surprise. But Cedar can’t exaggerate, so she can only tell you she can count their conversations on ten of her wooden fingers, and you’re going to have to believe her.
Now, Cerise is actually Cedar’s roommate. There you go, now you’re surprised. See, Cedar can tell good stories too, even though she can’t lie or exaggerate. Anyway, Cerise is Cedar’s roommate, which would make you think it’d be hard for them to have only spoken up to ten times, but apparently it’s not hard, because Cerise has accomplished it very effectively. They spoke the first day of school, and Cedar tried very hard to make conversation work for a week or two, but then she gave up, because Cerise is very committed to not speaking to her if she doesn’t have to. Cedar would like to be able to tell you that this is fine, and that she understands, because some people have secrets they need to keep and Cedar isn’t very good at keeping them, but Cedar can’t lie, so she has to tell you that she hates it so much it might’ve driven her crazy if she had an actual brain.
Fuck. Let’s start over. The basic truth of the matter is this: Cerise Hood is keeping a million secrets. Cedar Wood has only ever been able to keep one.
She’s thinking of that secret now, while she watches Cerise sleep. She knows that sounds creepy — is creepy, since she has to be honest — but she didn’t start doing it on purpose. Cedar just… well, she doesn’t have to sleep, because she’s not a real person. And when you don’t have to sleep, you spend a lot of time awake, and when you spend a lot of time awake, you have to find something to do with that time. So Cedar watches Cerise sleep. She thinks she’s learned more about Cerise in her sleep than she has in all the moments she’s watched her during the day, because people aren’t able to hide from you as easily when they’re sleeping, and sometimes Cerise talks in her sleep. It’s usually not enough for Cedar to know anything, but it’s enough to make her feel like maybe the wall Cerise has built between them is a little bit thinner than she previously thought.
Cerise sleeps in her hood. Cedar doesn’t know if this is because of personal preference, like for comfort or safety or something, or if she’s really hiding something under the thick red fabric, but either way, it feels representative: Cedar knows Cerise about as well as the average pair of eyes would know the way the back of her head looks, which means Cedar doesn’t really know Cerise at all.
Cerise shifts, and Cedar tightens her chest like she’s holding in breath. A soft murmur, a bit of brown hair loosening from the hood’s tight hold. Cedar wants to reach out, wants to tuck it back under, but she doesn’t think wood likely feels very good caressing a human cheek. (That’s what she chooses to think, because it’s true so she can say it, but it’s easier than the bigger truth, which is that Cedar doesn’t reach out and touch Cerise because she doesn’t want Cerise to push her hand away.) Cerise exhales roughly, a puff of breath that fascinates Cedar, who can’t breathe at all. She loves how different they are: living and inanimate, hot and cold, secret and compulsive. They’d make a good pair, if it weren’t for the obvious.
“Don’t — ” Cerise mutters, panting, “don’t run from — no, don’t — ” She shudders, full body, and Cedar’s eyes widen, wooden limbs creaking as they tense. “No, you — stop — ” Disjointed speech paints half a picture of the nightmare Cedar knows Cerise must be having. She doesn’t really know what to do. Should she wake her? She doesn’t think Cerise would like that. It doesn’t feel right to let her keep dreaming though, not when it’s so clearly causing her distress.
“Cerise,” Cedar whispers, testing the waters, praying she’ll be able to wake her without having to touch her. Cerise keeps thrashing, eyes tightly shut. “Cerise,” Cedar says again, louder this time. “Cerise, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
“No, no, no,” Cerise wails, and shit, she’s actually crying. Cedar’s never seen Cerise cry before.
“Cerise!” Cedar yells. No use. Cedar sighs — which sounds more like a heavy creak coming from her — and shuts her eyes as she reaches out to shake her shoulder.
“Fuck!”
Cedar’s eyes hinge back open at the outburst. She pulls her hand back like she’s been burned and holds it limply in the other one. She watches Cerise’s eyes flash when they adjust, follows her hands as they quickly secure the hood around her face. She hates the emotions she thinks she’s observing: fear, disgust, maybe even anger. She wishes she was someone Cerise could like. “You were having a nightmare,” Cedar says, low and pathetic.
Cerise doesn’t say anything. She stares at Cedar, chest heaving, letting sharp little breaths out through her nose.
Cedar imitates a swallow, pushing her head up like there’s something in her throat. “Do you want some water?”
Cerise opens her mouth, closes it. A muscle twitches in her cheek. Every second that passes makes Cedar feel like she’s being fed to a woodchipper. Finally, Cerise says, “Okay,” voice hoarse. She licks her lips, and Cedar notices that oh, her teeth are so sharp. She imagines the marks they could make on her shoulders. “I could use some water.”
As Cedar fills a cup in the bathroom sink, she realizes she can’t count their conversations using just her ten fingers anymore. So much for that bit of dramatic storytelling.
Cerise is downing the water before Cedar has completely let go of the glass, throat bobbing as she gulps ravenously, little droplets trickling down her chin. Cedar wonders what it must be like to be waterproof. Cerise drinks until the cup is empty, then roughly wipes her damp mouth with the back of her hand. She makes eye contact, and for once Cedar is grateful for her cold, wooden cheeks. “Do you often watch me sleep?” Cerise asks, voice less hoarse but characteristically gruff.
“I don’t have anything better to do,” Cedar says.
Cerise laughs, shaking her head only enough that her hood won’t fall down, and stretches a tan, lean arm to set the cup on her nightstand. “Right.”
“I don’t,” Cedar says, frustration seeping into her voice. She wishes she could at least hide her emotions. “I can’t lie, Cerise.”
Cerise meets her gaze again. “I know you can’t.” Her eyes drop.
She doesn’t say anything else, and Cedar’s body feels tight, restricted; she can’t stop the words when they fall out of her mouth: “Why won’t you ask?”
“What?” Cedar wishes Cerise’s eyes would just pick a place to land.
“You know,” Cedar says, the frustration intensifying and making her sound hysterical. “Why don’t you ever ask?”
“Cedar,” says Cerise, voice dripping with pity, “do you want to have to tell me?” This time it’s Cedar who looks away. Cerise sighs. “Paint something, okay? Read a book. Don’t watch me anymore. Stop hurting yourself.”
Cedar closes her fist around a bunch of bedcover. “It’s not fair for you to put all of it on me.”
Cerise sighs, shakily. “I need to go back to sleep. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” She rolls over on her side, leaves her shoulders uncovered but her hood on tight. Cedar thinks there’s something so uniquely cruel about lying to someone who isn’t capable of lying back.