with all the colors of the wind

Micah Sunrise Lykoi · 08-24-2011, 12:12 AM

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Can we never stop threading with these two? Please? ;_; I love this thread.

She touched his arm, and at that slightest touch his heart melted as if her fingers could reach it as well. A weakness striking his knees, the boy turned chocolate eyes elsewhere, honored yet confused still by her reassurance and earnest understanding and encouragement even despite his rampant modesty (or was it just self-deprecating foolishness, really?). Giselle didn't seem to fully understand the mechanics of the spray paint bottle — he wondered if he might impress her should he swing his arm a few times and dance colors upon a stray wall, and momentarily his chest fluttered at the thought — but the coyote chose not to go into details, lest he interest her further in his horrible artwork and bring her to request to see it more demandingly. He hated to disappoint, after all, and potentially ruin what little friendship he had forged with her, all because what he saw as a slight talent was in actuality, a monstrous hobby none could appreciate but he... though, it probably was the truth...

"No," he mumbled, searching for images of Slade's face in his banks of memories. None came to mind; the two had not even seen each other since that initial meeting. Inevitable, really, since both struggled with shyness and were just as unlikely to go out of their way to see or speak with one another. Most conversations with Micah started just as it had with Giselle — accidental, with the Lykoi boy flustered and mumbling apologies, and the stranger pointing excessive sympathies in his direction that he could only apologize more and more for. "I-I haven't really seen him. I-I-I don't think he likes me." Not that I blame him... nobody should.

His idiocy only turned the conversation sour, and when her face paled and hesitance and fog clouded her eyes, the salt-and-pepper Lykoi dropped his jaw and gaped in horror. What have I done?! Oh God, oh damn, God, I messed up, no... "N-No, I-I, i-i-it's not that, I-I just, I-I-I—" Wracked with spiking anxiety, he set immediately to bopping himself in the forehead with a fist, eyes shut tight as he mumbled "stupid, stupid, stupid" again and again beneath his breath.

Between taps, the strained boy managed a few choked words: "I-I just really like you," he blurted between 'stupids,' "I-I-I just don't want you to find reason to hate me. I w-won't blame you if you d-do. It's okay... I-I'd hate me too, f-for saying stupid st-stuff like that and this and... stupid, stupid, stupid..."

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