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“Describe her to me,” Sugarfly says, adjusting herself on her stool. She was sitting in front of her easel, the one that she had in her home art studio, in her new, lovely house in New Jersey, not too far from Manhattan. Fire Spirit often dreamed of moving in just down the street. “What does she look like?”
“Well…” Fire Spirit says nervously, and he brings his fingers up to fiddle with his mouth as he starts to think. He lets it all wash over him, willingly for the first time since it all started. He stares at the ground, recalling every sense he had felt since it had begun.
“Take your time, sweetheart.” Sugarfly smiled, setting down her paintbrush to quickly reach over and brush his knee.
“It’s hard to say exactly,” He says, moving his hands to rub against his chin. “Blonde. Blonde pigtails. She’s older.. I think she’s 16. She’s got freckles, heh,” He stops, shutting his eyes again and wincing. Every word he spoke felt like a tiny, sharp pebble being thrown at his chest. “..And tan skin. Two different colored eyes. Her eyes look just like…” He trails off, moving his hands to rub against the top of his legs, frowning. There was more, he knew there was– he could write books listing out every detail. But to say it out loud– that was much harder.
“I see..” Sugarfly nods, still giving him a reassuring smile. “What does she sound like?”
Fire Spirit laughs a little– not quite dry, but not wet either. Somewhere in between, in that frozen place of indecisiveness, where he had been living for years in a sort of limbo, unable to move his hands out far enough, unable to shake the scent out of his hair, unable to ever fully look at himself straight on ever again.
“You,” He starts, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes again. “Sometimes, you and Tiger. Soft and gentle. Sometimes a bit more– a bit more like Snow, a bit more like Sea Fairy. Elegant and witty. Or sometimes she’s got that.. that bite. Most of the time she does. Like Candy and Storm, she’s loud and abrasive and… I dunno. And then other times, not often, she kinda sounds like Cessa and Holly and Moonlight.” He shrugs. “Not really. Usually, it’s that spunky, snarky tone. Usually, it’s like…” And then again, he trails off, unable to finish.
“Mmm,” Sugarfly hums. “I understand. What does she say?”
Fire Spirit stares at her for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed together, before his eyes dart away to think.
“Hi,” he says, cutting the sentence short of its second-half, making the phrase shorter than it already was. He was unwilling to list any of the countless conversations they’ve had, or to say any of the harsh or devastating things she’s said to him in unwelcome one-offs. “She says ‘hi’.”
“How does this help?” Wind Archer questions from behind him, shattering the moment. Fire Spirit whips around in his chair to look at him, forgetting that he was even there. “How does this help at all?”
“Sorry,” Fire Spirit mumbles sheepishly, turning to look at his lap with an intense amount of shame, fiddling with the engagement ring on his finger.
“We’re just going to try something,” Sugarfly says gently. “If it doesn’t help, so be it. But nothing hurts to try.”
“It might,” Wind Archer says, before letting out a frustrated noise. He scrubs his face with his hands before dropping one of them to Fire Spirit’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you. This must be…”
Hard, Fire Spirit internally finishes for him with a frown.
Hard is what people who would never understand say. They always tell him what things ‘must be’. They always assume how it must feel, because they have no idea what it’s actually like.
“You can just go.” Fire Spirit says, looking up at him. He tries not to let any emotion seep into his voice, tries to shove the sadness and anger and fear to the side and replace it with a wall. It didn’t work– he was long past able to use any sort of wall on Wind Archer. He had shattered that ability on one beautiful night, almost two years ago. “You don’t need to be here for this.”
“I want to support you,” Wind Archer says.
“I know,” Fire Spirit nods, placing a hand on the one on his shoulder. “But I don’t think … I think it’s better if you go.”
Wind Archer stares back at him, frowning. He looks from him to Sugarfly, before sighing. “I’ll be back at your apartment, then. I love you, my sweet.” He leans down and kisses Fire Spirit’s cheek. “Goodbye and good luck.”
“Bye. Love you, too.” Fire Spirit says. He waits in silence until Wind Archer is gone, before turning back to Sugarfly. “Where did we leave off?”
“You were going to tell me what she’s really said to you, honey,” Sugarfly says, understanding and somehow all-knowing. Often, it felt like Sugarfly was the only one still in his life who really understood. It was only the women in his life who got it, only the few who were even aware– but even Hollyberry and Princess couldn’t understand him on the level that Sugarfly did. He was grateful that .. that she was there. He needed to tell her more often.
“Right,” Fire Spirit nods, taking a deep breath. He readjusts in his seat, bringing his legs toward his chest. A protection. “Okay. Don’t expect it to be pretty, or sweet, or – or anything.”
Sugarfly nods wistfully and readies her paintbrush. “I’m expecting it to be as bloody as all these sorts of things are,” She said, using words that were almost uncharacteristic in her sweet voice. “Go on, then, sweetheart. Don’t hold back.”
And for the first time, he didn’t. He let the blood spill all over the floor for the third time– this time, it seeped from his mouth, in the form of his words, not down an expanse of skin; it didn’t fall crimson onto the bathroom tile, but instead dripped off of Sugarfly’s paintbrush and onto her white canvas, in shades of blue and orange and warm taupes. And for the second time, it perhaps felt violent, like each word was a murder. Devastatingly, he hoped it would be.
1–3–2. 1, 3, 2. Perhaps the answer all along was to go backwards. Or perhaps he would just stay running in circles for the rest of his life, chasing something eternally out of reach. If he stretched, if he stretched, if he kept reaching and reaching, it was almost as if he could feel a brush against his fingertips. Soft, soft, soft. If he strained his ears, it was almost as if he could hear the tone of laughter. If he shut his eyes, it was almost like no blood ever fell in the first place. If he kept running, running, running, maybe he would one day catch up–
1: He was still out of breath. He could still see the light shining in his eyes. He could hear the beep of the heart monitor. He could still feel that hand in his. He could still remember the drive home and the silence. He ran, he ran, he ran, and he wasn’t fast enough. He could never have been fast enough.
2: He could still hear her voice and her cruelty. He could remember every word. He could feel how chalky it had tasted, could still remember the chill of metal and the way it burned like he was on fire. He could still see the blood on the tile. They scrubbed and they scrubbed and they scrubbed, and it stayed. They never could have scrubbed hard enough.
3.
“Like this?” Sugarfly says, turning the canvas around to reveal her blocky, painted guidelines. Fire Spirit lets out a gasp.
“Hi,” She doesn’t say.