w a t e r y graves (lance)

[camena]

``everything may return to water

The rain wasn’t about to end, the clouds still pouring their hearts out upon the earth, the trees, into the lake, upon him. And it was awkward to say the least, sitting here with the victim of cruelty and utter no-good, but the rain made it better. The rain made everything better as the exploding droplets sounded as glass beads striking a wooden floor, staving away silence, staving away what was the awkwardness of predator and prey.

Unable to hold his tongue from a snide remark, he muttered under his breath, “It’s probably for the best if it weren’t finished.” Louder he said, “You can paint another one.” Lance didn’t understand the sentiments of an artist, how each work was “unique” or so they say -- he created sculptures of ice, and they were mere replicas of whatever he chose, much like the “artists” who chose to call their work anything else by mimicry.

But whatever, he thought, whatever made kept them from pressing their craziness into the world. At the name of the other, he turned and quirked an eyebrow out of surprise or more so a “what-the-hell” look; they hardly needed introductions since they wouldn’t be on speaking terms anyway. However, taste was something he couldn’t ignore, so at the offer of a name he had to exchange it with his own even if he felt that his name was wasted upon the pink-haired female, “Lance.” But not the full name; he’d only give enough.

Still her eyes brimmed with those cursed tears, and he became more frustrated and more depressed -- god forbid he felt that way -- the longer he watched her cry. “Why are you still crying? Just sit out here and do another goddamned painting.” He stomped over to her, rage, irritation, and conflict at whether he wanted to kick her easel or (how atrocious) hug her. Bending down, he reached for the canvas, calling the water off along with the running paint, drying the godforsaken thing so that it was almost as good as new save for a few smudges of dry color. “There. Finish it. Now, will you stop crying?”

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[alice]

x x

The air around me still feels like a cage
And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again

Alice really didn't know why she was still crying. She was trying everything she had to stop, but it just wasn't. Maybe this was some pent up emotion she had never confronted. She had taken up painting to clash with her inability to read or write, as a method through which to pour her emotion. Perhaps these were the feelings that had been meant for that canvas, having lost their catalyst for manifestation and thus redirecting themselves the only way they knew how.

Tears and water. Weren't they one and the same? But one meant far more than the other. One granted life and the other one simply mourned it. Maybe the tears were her emotion's homage to the power of the water, the real magic of the lake that it sustained so much life so easily. The reason Alice couldn't answer the boy's, Lance's, question was identical to the reason she had taken up painting. She simply did not have the words to explain, to describe, and so she found other ways to do so, more physical mediums.

She wiped her eyes off again, this time in her skirt where the material folded over her knee, willing the tears back with everything she had. There was no need to cry, she was just making a fool out of herself. What was this? Those large watery eyes looked up at Lance as he made his way over to her and grabbed the canvas with the ruined painting. She watched as he willed away the paint and left the canvas nearly blank. No, it was nowhere near blank. It was a kaleidoscope of faded colors and old lines. Dried dyes without the water that made them paint, absorbed by the canvas to color it.

Alice looked at the canvas and she felt an odd feeling in her stomach. It was something she felt every now and then for things such as her easel, a feeling of purpose, of potential, of importance. When she had bought her easel she had walked past dozens of others, but when she saw hers she'd known she wanted it. It was no different than any of the other easels except in the fact that it was hers. And now she cared for it. That same feeling welled up at the canvas and she wondered about that curiously. "Thanks," she whimpered weakly.

[/justify]

[camena]

``everything may return to water

This Alice was a moody one. He stared at her with intent, waiting for something to happen -- he always wanted something to happen, but when she just sat there and took the canvas, he almost slapped himself in frustration; it seemed in the past hour, the merman had more desire to cause himself pain than others, and such a feeling would have to be fixed with utmost speed in the next few hours ... after he took care of this thing.

And thank whatever higher being was out there for the cork over the mouth of her tear glands; this Alice had finally stopped crying her eyes out over a simple little thing. “Well, aren’t you going to paint?” Getting impatient again, he felt the volume of his rising, and caught himself to lower it to a controlled, but forced tone, “That’s what you came here to do, right?” That would make it better, if she just painted.

The sound of rain filled the silence between them as he continued to look at her with electric intent, lined with purple and blue; it was nice to have something to fill the silence, but time was ticking and impatience was ever at the door. He sat down in front of her, a little closer than necessary -- he was being nice after all and couldn’t help his subconscious from having a little fun -- and waited for something to happen. Nothing happened. Feeling a little fidgety without the progression of things, Lance's brows twitched under his own intense scrutiny of the muted colors upon the canvas.

“Are you done crying? The canvas isn’t going to paint itself you know.” Yes, that’s it. It would make her feel better and he could be on his merry way and never have to deal with this ever again, but he was still curious. For now. So he stayed, a tad conflicted about being nice or keeping his board game clean with dirt. It was hard keeping his tongue to himself, but something about this girl told him that there were specific things that he should keep clenched within his jaws, and he wondered about that. He wondered why this girl cried over a silly thing, and why he even bothered to stay. What was it about the tears of this one?

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[alice]

x x

The air around me still feels like a cage
And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again

Alice had no real drive to paint, not at that moment. The emotions that had been bottled up for painting were pouring outward from her, no longer contained and eagerly awaiting the canvas. The easel was safely tucked away in its bag along with all of her paint and supplies. With the rain and the mud and the sudden horrible weather she didn't want to risk putting her precious easel in the line of fire for the water. So she sat there and stared at the canvas.

That wasn't the whole truth, either. The canvas held weight in her heart for some reason. Alice wasn't a believer in fate, but she did believe that some things held a purpose more significant than others. Yeah, it was sort of a double standard for fate, but Alice liked the idea of fate, just not in application to herself. But that same sense told her that she didn't want to paint on that canvas right now, that she should save it for a day when she knew she should use it. When her gut was positive that its purpose had come.

She reached out and took the canvas, laying it gently by her bag of supplies. "You're trying, I guess that has to count for something," she said meekly, her throat now hurting from the sobs she had tried to swallow. That hadn't been her greatest idea. When crying it was usually better just to let it go; when you tried to hide it things only got worse, but she was a stubborn lass and she wasn't going to show that weakness if she had a say in it. Which had only made the situation worse.

"I'm done painting for now, it won't do anything. I'm going to save this canvas for another time," she murmured, still sitting and hugging her knees. It was raining and she didn't want to get her easel wet, there wasn't much else to do until it let up. A thought occurred to her and she wondered what she would do if the rain continued on into the coming night and left her stranded there. But, as said, she was a stubborn lass and refused to get that easel wet, no matter the cost.

[/justify]

[camena]

``everything may return to water

So she wasn’t going to paint; what a waste of effort. Lance sighed in frustration, running his fingers through the tangled wet mess that was his hair, which would be annoying to fix, but it was raining so he couldn’t complain, and at least it was raining so he didn’t dry up in the god-forsaken sun. And what was this, he wondered. Oh, no. She was not going to lump him in with the goody-goody crowd of “lovable on the inside” or “it’s what on the inside that counts”. “I’m not trying anything,” he growled. There was no way in all the worlds she would put him in those categories.

“What the hell are you still doing out here, anyway?” Impatience nipped at the edges of his voice again; there were things to attend to -- well, better things to do. “If you’re not going to paint, then what’s the point?” Artists were too damn picky. He grunted an lay upon his back, the sparsely littered grass folding under his weight as the earth also gave; the clothes would be in need of washing, but that didn’t really matter at the moment since they were already ruined for the most part.

But he seemed more interested in the way the rain pounded upon his face, washing it of the kelp and algae and dust, and in a way, the rain was cleaner and it came from above, higher than the ocean, the waves, the lakes, the rivers. Of course it all came from the ocean as well; the process of evaporation and distillation wasn’t new to him, but sometimes we would like to think otherwise -- it must be nice to be stupid. And it the weather wasn’t new to him; he recognized the smell of the clouds, the sound of the thunder and the voices of the droplets, and he spoke -- more to convince her to get up and go.

“You know, the rain is only going to get worse into the night.” What a stupid female, risking herself for no reason. He would be fine: he thrived in water. But these land-dwellers drown or fall ill and get all these strange things from water. Not that he was concerned for her health, but he wouldn’t want to be responsible for her pneumonia if she happened to be unfortunate enough to get it. And this one was a nagini... fragile thing. “Go back already.”

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[alice]

x x

The air around me still feels like a cage
And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again

Lance made it abundantly clear that he was not a nice guy, even making efforts to support the illusion, but then in the same breath he continued to try and get her to leave. The very fact that he laid there was enough to convince her that he wasn't a total jerk. Why would she need to be convinced of that anyway? Why did she even care if he wasn't a jerk. The fact was that he had tried to drown her for whatever demented reason he cited, and proof of that still dripped from her clothing. The skirt was definitely ruined from the mud made under her.

And as if to put a cherry on top, she sneezed. A light little sneeze, that most would probably call adorable, but no doubt Lance would just call it proof that she was annoying. She covered her mouth quickly after the noise escaped her and felt her cheeks turn a little red with embarrassment. She didn't catch cold easily, she really didn't, but then she had been to the bottom of the lake and back in the last hour and now a storm was rolling in slowly and surely, so catching a cold was inevitable.

But Alice didn't care. That easel meant too much to her. A cold would come and go, she would just have a few days of aches and pains and such and she'd be back to normal. The easel couldn't be replaced, not without a lot of difficulty, so it remained her priority. She looked to where Lance lay, insisting she retired, and scrunched up her nose at the thought. "It wouldn't be the first time I've slept outside," she said in response, though she really doubted going camping with her family counted for much here.

"You can go, leave me here, I can look after myself," she insisted. Whatever kernel of nicety was keeping him there to look after her seemed to annoy him. She wasn't going to irritate him longer than she had to. When had this become about irritating him, though? He had tried to drown her, after all, maybe she should try to irritate him. But she couldn't, she didn't have that kind of spite inside of her. "You're good in the water, but you can probably catch a cold just like the rest of us."

[/justify]

[camena]

``everything may return to water

Stubborn woman. “Fine, be as stubborn as you want, kitten.” Lance pressed an arm over his eyes, not in the mood to deal with idiocy -- it was true he could catch a bug just like the land-dwellers, but he was better. He would be better. The rain felt nice in a way; it was cool, but not cold, not to his skin that was so used to darkness and coldness, and the rhythm was beautiful, the ordered chaos of the rain. It’s sound calmed him, and he blamed it for his leniency with this female -- oh, he could do so much more, say so much more, but the rain kept his fire at bay, kept it an ember.

And she sneezed. Lance nearly jumped to his feet as he sat straight up, not in surprise, but panic -- this female better not be catching something. His eyes narrowed: what to do, what to do. He would not have this upon his head. Shooting a finger out for added emphasis and as if to keep his distance, the boy almost shouted, but kept himself and merely said, “What was that? You’re getting sick aren’t you?!” A hand brought itself to slap his own face, his fingers sliding down the point of his chin, Great.

“You are not getting sick, you hear me?” It was a tad unreasonable for him to yelling at a sickness, but panic gripped him for another unknown reason. He never dealt with consequences very well, and he didn’t want this woman to be griping at him for his little bit of fun. Charity. This was what it was was, but it seemed most reasonable when taste was at stake. So, he brought up a hand to command the wetness from her clothes as he smirked in spite of himself and in spite of her. “If you’re going to sit here, kitten, might as well have company.”

And his company, no less. He pulled the droplets together above the woman’s head, creating an umbrella of ice, just floating there, as he continued to wonder why she chose to sit outside -- she could so easily just get up and run back. Women. So he kept his gaze focused upon the floating thing above her head and decided that it was ugly, and that he was bored. The rain wouldn’t dampen his mood and neither will stupidity. It would be an igloo or a castle or something of the sort to keep his mind off of her idiocy. But no, it wouldn’t be extravagant, merely practical, so he carved out a simple roof supported by sturdy columns -- simple and practical. It would keep her dry, that was it.

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[alice]

x x

The air around me still feels like a cage
And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again

Alice refused to move even after she sneezed, and even willed back another sneeze that worked its way to the front. She was not getting sick. You sneezed when people were talking about you, so maybe her parents were discussing her time there at the Academy or something. That was what she forced herself to believe. She wasn't going to get sick just because of a little water, nor was she going to get sick because it would irk her company. Wait, wouldn't that be motivation to get sick? She blinked and buried her face in her knees.

She had to straighten out her thoughts now. No more of this silent reverie. Her eyes were red and puffy because of her random crying and now her nose was starting to run, whether due to sickness or to the crying. That wasn't pleasant, to say the least, so she sniffled and tried to ignore it. Things went away if you ignored them. Out of mind and all that. It was like a placebo effect. The more she thought about how she might be getting sick the more sick she would start feeling, entirely psychological, so if she didn't think about it then she wouldn't be sick. Simple.

Except she sneezed again when she decidedly put it out of her mind, no longer keeping aware for those oncoming feelings and thus one just slipped out. She kept her face buried in her knees to hide the blush where her cheeks lit up. She wouldn't get sick, no! "I'm not getting sick," she murmured into her knees. She was stubborn, yes, but it was getting harder and harder to ignore it and she didn't want to face reality. That and the rain and having nearly drowned both somewhat contributed to putting her in a bad mood.

Then he formed a dome of ice over her, and reshaped it into a roof with columns. She blinked as she watched the ice form, looked through it at all the swirls and patterns that it contained. It was beautiful, glistening in the rain, though somewhat useless considering she was sitting under a tree so thick that no rain was getting through. Her eyes turned back to him and narrowed as he started to refer to her with a pet name. "Kitten? I'm not a pet," she hissed. Of all the names he could come up with for a nagaini, why kitten?

[/justify]