4 - Syianne

When we reach Art's house, his bad mood suddenly vanishes. He chatters amiably for a while with Nita telling her about the game before he steps into the shower. I sit at the kitchen table, my mouth watering from the smell of Nita's cooking and continue to brood.

I want everything to stay still and steady and stop moving all the time. There's only one thing I wish I could change. If I could have, I would remove the Jewel from my forehead. I don't mind if that would make me someone other than myself, but it marks the fate that has been forced upon me.

Nita lets me be, and I'm grateful for that. I enjoy watching her cook, sweeping so gracefully through the kitchen, doing twelve different things at once. My own mom is a terrible cook; we usually eat frozen microwave meals.

Artus comes out of the shower, his blond hair dripping onto his faded blue T-shirt. He smiles at me and nods in the direction of his room. Silently, I pad after him.

His room is small, with a bed and a desk and just enough standing space to squeeze into the chair in front of the desk. I sit on the rug with my back against the bed and the huge toad doll propped between my knees. This exact spot on the floor and this doll have been mine for the past ten years. Art, like always, is lying on his stomach on the bed solving math problems we got for homework. I used to be a good student, but I don't bother anymore, it's not like I'll ever be able to go to college anyway.

I feel unshakeably content; I close my eyes and lean my head back.

"I had that strange dream again," he says. "With that place with all the grey buildings and rubble and flashing lights."

"Aren't all dreams strange?" I muse.

"But this time you were there," he continues, ignoring my comment. "You were walking straight on, wearing this long black raincoat and black boots and everyone was following you. The stone on your forehead was also black, and so were your eyes. It was scary, because I could tell it was you but then you looked at me and didn't seem to know who I was."

I open my eyes and stare at him; he's leaning towards me gazing at me with intensity. "I wonder what your subconscious is trying to tell you," I say dryly.

He smirks and ruffles my hair. "Maybe that you're under my skin."

That squeezes a smile out of me; I feel the weakness inside me begin to flutter again, small ripples of desire pulsing through me. He suddenly slides off the bed and his shoulder is touching mine. "Sy," he says looking wistfully at me.

I feel like I've swallowed a cat and it's thrashing about in my throat. I try to laugh this feeling off, shaking my head. "Art," I reply somewhat coldly.

"Don't be mad at me." It's not a request; he uses that commanding tone I sometimes use with him. The effect it has on me is outrageous; I suddenly can barely fight the urge to be irreversibly reckless.

And neither can he. He turns to me and grasps my face in both his hands, I grab handfuls of his T-shirt, trying to remember whether I need to pull him or push him. He presses his forehead against mine, his warm breath tickling my face.

It smells like toothpaste.

The bastard, he had been planning this all along.

My hands tighten over the fabric of his shirt, my breath is caught inside my chest.

I pull him toward me, my head turned toward his, my chin jutting upwards, my lips ready -

Nita knocks on the door; we both jump away from each other before she opens it, Art bangs his head against the wall when he leaps onto the bed. She's not dumb though, we're both flushed and out of breath, she takes a moment to look from him to me. Her smile is far too knowing, "Karnus is home," she says cheerfully, "let's eat."

I'm good at hiding my dizziness throughout dinner; I can't say the same thing about Art. He sneaks his hand to caress my knee underneath the table; I have to glare at him to make him stop. Karnus and Nita pretend they don't notice, but I know they know. To any other girl, this would be the most awkward moment of her life, but I'm simply worried.

Why aren't they bothered by the inevitable heartache that Art's going to have? I know the answer already - because, part of being the sort of people who are accepting, they'll never interfere, they'll let it run its course.

After all, isn't being heartbroken part of being young?

As I eat, I debate whether or not to confront Art about it later tonight and firmly put an end to this - but I don't trust myself. I know that an even greater part of me wants to have a private moment with him and continue where we left off.

I resolve instead to be extra careful. It's the sweetest trap in the world; every little thing will just make me want more, until I'll go insane with wanting what I can never really have.

But Art has other plans. At the end of dinner he leans in, "I need to talk to you," he whispers in my ear, his breath tickling the side of my neck. I stare at him in reply, he smiles.

I slip away to take a shower after dinner, taking my time under the hot water, trying to fix my mental shield. I'm stronger than this, I remind myself. It's been a while since Art suddenly became a source of endless temptation to me, and I've been holding out quite well.

I put on the pyjamas I always wear when I come here - they're Art's from when he was twelve or something. Physically, I'm a rather small person, but I guess I don't perceive myself as small because it's not something that's really ever bothered me. I don't care that I'm almost sixteen but look like I'm twelve, I don't feel twelve.

I brush my teeth for another four minutes. I stare at my face in the mirror, looking myself right in the eye. When I think I have a firm grip on things, I nod and leave the bathroom, crossing straight toward Art's room.

He looks up eagerly when I come in. I slip into the chair in front of the desk and turn to face him, keeping the safest distance that his bedroom can offer. He looks at me and laughs - how the hell could he be this cheerful? I have an urge to jump on him and scratch his face - or just jump on him and join in on his cheerfulness.

But I'm not that sort of person. I stay put. "So, what's up?"

His smile is plastered on his face. "Sy," he says looking, for some reason, smug. "I've been keeping secrets from you."

"And now you feel guilty about it?" I ask. I don't mind secrets, I have some of my own, things I know that I've never told anybody - but then a thought crosses my mind and I'm suddenly angry. Did I miss something? Did some other girl catch his attention? I feel cheated even though I have no right to be, my face, for once, showing how distasteful this conversation suddenly became.

"No, I simply needed to be sure before I told you."

"Sure about what?" I ask sharply.

"I've tried out for the Nationals," he says, smiling hugely.

I'm surprised by the wave of relief that washes over me, surprised and ashamed. "And?" I ask quietly.

"And I'm going to the training camp in Rockdem in three weeks. I'll be training and going to school there until the summer and then maybe I'll get drafted into one of the clubs."

My lips part, he stares at me, waiting for it to sink in. My birthday, after which I will be leaving to Rockdem, is in exactly three weeks. "Art," I whisper, slipping from the chair down into the rug. I don't know why, but my hands are shaking like crazy.

He's suddenly on his knees, on the floor right in from of me, his arms are holding me, trapping me against him, his lips brush the side of my face. "Sy, you don't have to go alone," he says. "I'm coming with you."

I can barely breath, I have a terrible urge to weep, but I've gotten so good at suppressing my tears that it's like I don't have any anymore. I know that his logic is somewhat contorted, that even if he'll be drafted into a national team, I'll still be in the Zephyr, doing whatever they do behind those walls, and he'll be traveling the country, training, playing and living his dream.

Even if he comes with me, I'll be leaving him behind.

I'm completely tangled with him, I'm sitting in an awkward and uncomfortable position, but he's holding me and then he kisses me. I'm warm, and bothered and blissful, his lips and tongue are wet and alien, it should be disgusting, but it's too amazing.

I allow myself a silver of optimism, maybe, maybe, maybe we can find somewhere in-between.