A/N: A quite write to remind me that there is a world outside of a book, and that summer's coming whether I'm ready or not.
Books. Dust. Smell of old paper, a hint of rotting. Water damage from an old patched up leak threatened his hard leather-bound collection of classic tomes. British for the most part, the rest of other European origin. In the last few decades his master added American drivel, the kind that came in floppy, colorful paperbacks and often proudly advertised "Now a major motion picture" in bold font. The library further degenerated with his sister's contribution of old fashion magazines, claiming Prada and Chanel Spring 2004 had as much right to be placed alongside Elfriede Jelinek.
Once a day during the hours in which the sunlight was brightest, he took a stroll in his master's garden. The white blinding face of the sun radiated down on him with what seemed like a directed fury. It fed his soul, through the pores beneath the thick fur, filling his being with autotrophic energy. Plants would wilt with this heat, but he only grew stronger. No amount would be deemed harmful, but an excess bothered him. It was wasteful. He was a cat of modest, even humble photon needs. A book, a sturdy chair with a firm seat, incandescent 60-watt lighting, and relative low decibel levels were all part of the perfect life for the second generation of sun guardians.
He thought of his previous version. This is where his humility ended. But truth was truth, regardless of how boastful it made him sound. The Cerberus beast was haphazardly created by a young Clow Reed, that went without saying. Along with the pale moon guardian, they were rough drafts of the masterpieces his reincarnation would eventually create. They were juvenile attempts, like the moronic scrawling on paper by schoolchildren who did not know any better but to pass them as "art" to their parents.
Undeniably he was the better of the two sun guardians.
As for the moon guardians, the discrepancy in competence and power was more questionable. His temperament was more suited to the quiet one, Yue, and in another life, they may have made better magical siblings. They would have conversed at length, intellectual exchanges regarding politics, philosophy, literature, science, magic, battle tactics, among other topics for which Ruby showed disdain or ignorance (probably both).
The sibling he was borne with was a teenage nightmare. Vain. Sneaky. Bipolar. Unpredictable. She had him plotting alternative pathways in the old mansion to avoid catching her eye, as she was so quick to attach herself to him and ruining his focus. She was the perfect counterpart to the first generation and second-rate sun guardian.
However, Ruby Moon was his sister in this reality and, fortunately, was not completely useless. She was easily manipulated by playing upon her emotions. Riling up jealousy was as easy as bringing up Eriol's reincarnation's fondness for Yue. It was entertaining to disrupt her narcissism with a bout of self-doubt. Intellectually vacant but always cheerful, Ruby filled their home with the noise that gave it life.
Spinel Sun had no time for this. He perched himself atop his hardcover copy of Infinite Jest. He prepared himself for one of the most complex human usages of language - fiction.
He scoffed at the challenge.
He'd read War and Peace in hours, several, even few, and other pieces of similar breadth in lesser time.
This was a perfect Sunday to spend dissecting alleged literature.
Then his master, Eriol, decided it was a good as day as any for a beach day, a family outing with no magic to make it worse. Sand, saltwater, seashells, all impervious to paper, ink, him.
Under a large parasol, Kaho smiled in her pastel sundress and wide-brimmed hat next to Eriol in plain shorts and white cotton shirt. The sun would be unforgiving on their fair complexion and both had unfinished work projects; the nature and timing of the locale was baffling to the guardian.
Ruby Moon as Nakuru twirled in her bathing suit, a blue two-piece ensemble he remembered from a glossy sheet in an old issue of Cosmo.
Boredom was settling around him with the humid air. The backdrop of classical music or silence replaced by seagull cawing and whooshing of sea on the shore. He had to say something, the present was dooming into human territory."Wouldn't trunks be more appropriate?"
She ignored him, blissful in the sunshine. Like the moon, she shone with a borrowed light, reflecting the glory of his sign. Spinel tested her hearing once more. "If you're not going to fill out your top naturally, then stuffing would be a good alternative."
"You can't ruin this for me," she sang. "Besides, most runway models are shapeless and much, much skinnier. I'm practically curvy by the fashion industry's standards."
"You catwalk like a drunk penguin. No, penguins have figures. You move about like a walking stick, blind, and with a missing appendage."
"Hush, brother." Her brown locks rained down on the crisp pages, while her lips pressed softly on the small cat's forehead. When she pulled away, the book followed.
His mouth remained partially open, two sharp tiny canines peeking out, as the moon guardian flung Infinite Jest into the water.
"I only brought one book!" Spinel exclaimed. "Eriol, that was a first edition, signed. American, but still valuable. She cannot get away with this!"
The sorcerer yawned and readjusted his prescription sunglasses. "Ruby," he admonished, "what took you so long?"
"I gave you a chance to play on your terms, brother," she explained. "Now it's time for you to play on mine."
Spinel growled. "I'm not building sandcastles or collecting shells. I rather die than eat those disgusting fish tacos from that biohazardous shack."
"No, no. Those are much too easy tasks for the likes of you. I'm a firm believer in throwing 'em in the deep end."
The smooth, finely groomed dark fur on his body stood on its ends, processing the meaning of her words sooner than his brain. His back arched, ears flattened back and pupils filled out the sea-foam green of his eyes.
Nakuru nabbed him by the scruff of his neck. A furry hindleg twitched and he hissed obscenities in three languages, from varying time periods, and some new ones produced from unimaginable terror.
He thought of an old quote he read from a world leader wanting to drown his troubles, but being unsuccessful at getting his wife to swim. Another one on keeping his head above water, a third and fourth where this moment was also a metaphor.
None of his books would save him.