It was early in the morning, though hard to tell because a thick mist clouded the sky. A short figure, dressed in a t-shirt coming down to his knees, dragged a stick along a cobblestone path. He came to a beach, what he'd been headed towards, and descended from the path to the stretch of sand, silence broken by the steady crashing of waves breaking on the shore. The boy went halfway down the shore and knelt down with a soft thump, taking the stick he'd carried and, clumsily dragging it through the wet sand, started to draw.
He drew the hive complex he lived in, with his lusus chained to the top. He added himself next to his lusus, carefully indicating where his horns should be. The boy started on details, showing a few bees flitting in and out of windows. He smiled down at his work, not noticing the footsteps building up behind him until the sound was almost coming from right next to him. He looked up at the source of sound.
A rather posh boy of his age stood over him, hands planted on his hips. "What d'you think you're doing to the beach?"
The one kneeling in the sand blinked, taking in the sight of this boy. He had never seen someone dressed so elaborately, used to the simple attire of those who shared his complex. The boy wore a thick sweater and scarf, his thick curls of wavy hair spilling out in corkscrews down to his chin. The one in the sand placed his hand to his own hair, thick, coarse, and spiky.
"Well?" The boy standing over him tapped his foot, giving a disapproving frown.
"I'm drawing a picture." The one in the sand said simply, gesturing to the picture before him.
"You're hurting the beach." The posh boy looked away, his hair tossing to the side.
The kneeling boy blinked. Was the other serious? It was a beach. It wasn't as if he was cutting into something.
"Stupid land dwellers are always hurting the beach," the posh boy continued. The kneeling boy hadn't a clue what he was talking about. He had just come to draw in the sand.
"It will just be washed away," the kneeling boy said.
"That's what they all say. It will just be washed away. And then they forget that it has to go somewhere, and, oh my day, we have to deal with all your rubbish messing up the ocean."
"...what? It's a drawing."
The posh boy simply sighed. "They never understand. I don't need to argue with some boy with a silly voice and more horns than he should have."
The kneeling boy frowned. "What's wrong with my voice? It's you that has the weird accent."
The posh boy tossed his head again. "Whatever. I don't need to deal with you." With that, he walked away towards the ocean.
The other never saw him again. Or so he thought.