c h e r r y . . .
She was an odd, quirky sort of girl. Well, it was almost silly to expect otherwise; she was an artist, after all. Temperamental and messy and forgetful and all that good stuff moulded into the shape of a little girl and later on labelled Naminé. Driven by her muses and fuelled with coffee she was twitchy little thing that constantly showed up to school with unhealthy-looking bags under her eyes and energy sources severly depleted. The kindling to her fire, the source of the problem was simple; she was in love with drawing and wouldn't ever stop.
To her mother her room, filled with pictures and sketches and scattered with crayons (looking, searching, asking 'where's the blue gone?') was merely clutter. To Naminé it was 'creative clutter'.
To the headmistress her behaviour at school (blinking, zombie-like, asking 'did I really fall asleep in Maths again?') was simply disdain to the establishment and bad attitude. To Naminé it was 'artistic difference'.
To Riku red was simply red and there was no two ways about it (sighing, shaking her head, asking 'Riku, how could you be so ignorant?') but to Naminé it was 'cherry' thankyouverymuch.
But just because artists don't normally see eye-to-eye with you doesn't necessarily mean you always see eye-to-eye with them.
To Naminé her and Riku's relationship was friendship, nothing more (subtle hinting, frowning, asking 'God, haven't you got it yet, Nam?') but to Riku... To Riku it was not.
And really now, he couldn't be expected to keep it all in when she was going on about cherry and her lips were so red and then, one minute into her lecture, he had her pinned against a wall and was kissing her passionately because 'your muses aren't the only ones that can make you to do stuff, Nam. There's been a 'muse' in my head telling me to do that for a long time. A long, long time.'
When they broke apart she blushed deeply and darkly; cherry and red all at once, and Riku still couldn't tell the difference and couldn't understand why she'd been making such a fuss in the first place. But then again, she was an artist and it was silly to expect otherwise. Just like he was in love and it was silly to keep denying it when it had always been solidly, immovably there just like the cherry-red blush on her face.
. . . r e d.