A/N: I wrote this a few days before Fakiru Week, but since I didn't finish my other entries (or even start some of them) in time, I wasn't planning to upload it. However, I changed my mind, so here it is.

Disclaimer: I do not own Princess Tutu.

Senses

"Now, now, back to your seats, everyone," said Miss Engel. "Come now, hurry. Charlotte dear, don't stare out the window so much – you'll miss out on all the fun activities. Bobby, sweetheart, please don't stick your finger up your nose – I'm sure your mother wouldn't approve. Back to your seats now, run along."

At length the children sat down in their allocated seats and a hush fell over the little classroom. Bright-eyed, flushed faces were turned expectantly towards Miss Engel, who had more or less earned the respect and trust of all the five-year-olds who sat before her.

"Let us start with the usual greeting," she began. "Learning good manners is best done early. Good morning, everyone!"

"Goooood mooooorrning, Miiiisss Eeeengeel!" a chorus of voices drawled.

However, there was one little boy in the back corner who did not open his mouth or look the tiniest bit interested. He was hunched over in his seat, pen in hand, a mop of untidy back hair falling over his face, bright green eyes focused on the wobbly letters the pen formed, one by one, on the sheet of paper in front of him.

"Today we will be learning about senses," said Miss Engel cheerfully. "Does anyone know how many senses there are?"

"Four?" called out a girl at the front. She had long red hair in a plait and large, round blue eyes that matched the colour of the clear sky outside. Her hair had a charming unruliness to it – clumps of red stuck up stubbornly about the crown of her head, and there was one which was longer than all the rest, right in the middle.

"Almost," said Miss Engel encouragingly. "Add one."

"Four plus one is . . ." the girl puckered up her forehead, "it's . . . it's . . . five!"

"That's right, dear."

The boy in the back corner, who had paid the class no attention until now, looked up in the girl's general direction and gave a tiny, disapproving click with his tongue. Hearing him, the girl spun around, puffed out her cheeks, frowned, and turned back to face the teacher with a renewed smile.

Miss Engel proceeded to introduce and explain the five senses with the help of some illustrated cards – an eye for sight, an ear for hearing and so forth.

"Say, Fakir, wasn't today really very interesting?" asked Duck, swinging her legs as she sat atop the bright red slide in the playground. The sun was melting into the horizon like a big yellow scoop of ice cream.

"Not really," said Fakir, who stood with his back turned to Duck, his hands in his pockets. They were the only ones left in the playground. Everyone else had gone home.

"That's 'cause you weren't listening." Duck pouted, a reproachful look in her blue eyes. "I bet you don't know what the five senses are."

That did it, whether it was intentional or not. Fakir swivelled around, scowling. And Fakir's scowls were enough to make a bear tremble in fright – but then again, Duck must have been tougher than a bear, because she appeared utterly unfazed.

"I do too," said Fakir, his eyes flashing..

"Oh, sorry, sorry," Duck amended quickly, with a dismissive flick or her plait. "Of course you do. But you should be a good boy and listen to the teacher."

"I don't care."

"Hmm. Well, what were you doing, Fakir? Writing stories again?" Duck probed him. When he didn't deny it, she rambled on in her usual friendly, unassuming way. "I don't get how you can write stories. I can't even write sentences. Do you draw pictures too, Fakir? I like books with lots of pictures in them."

"That's stupid."

"Hey!" Infuriated, Duck made to stand up, lost her footing and tumbled headfirst down the slide. "Ahh! Ow – ow – ow!" She landed at the bottom in a tangled heap of hair and the frilly material which made up her dress.

Alarmed, Fakir broke into a run and knelt down beside her. "Duck –"

"I'm okay, I'm okay." Duck's head popped up, and she was beaming from ear to ear despite having acquired a layer of dirt on her face. She took Fakir's outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet. They stood there for a while, Duck awkwardly bending over and trying to remove dirt from her dress and Fakir gazing into the distance with maturity beyond his years. The sun had almost vanished from sight now.

"Fakir," said Duck, giving up her efforts and dropping the hem of her dress, "what do you write about? Do you write about the senses? You knew about them before everyone else, right? You're so smart, Fakir." There was a pause. "You know, Fakir, I want to write a story too. But I can't write it. I'm going to say it out aloud. I'm going to use the senses. Okay? Fakir, how do you start a story?"

"With 'Once upon a time'."

"Oh! Okay." Duck clapped her hands and shifted from one foot to the other, evidently thinking hard. "Once upon a time, there was a boy called Fakir. He . . . looked very grumpy and mean . . . and when he talked he sounded like . . . um . . ." She began to skip in circles around him, her plait bouncing about.

Right now Fakir looked even grumpier and meaner than usual. His thick black eyebrows were drawn, making his forehead crinkle up like cardboard.

"Well, he sounded grumpy and mean most of the time," Duck continued. "But sometimes he could sound very nice. He smelled like . . . what do you smell like, Fakir?" Without waiting for an invitation, she dived at him and buried her nose in his chest.

"What are you –"

She hopped back, beaming up at his flushed face. "He smelled like sawdust and metal because Charon's shop was full of it. But he also smelled like fresh grass and flowers because he was outside so much. What's the next one? Oh! He tasted like . . ."

"No, you're not licking me!" yelled Fakir in alarm, taking a few steps back.

Duck blinked, her blue eyes wide and innocent. "Okay. I'm going to close my eyes and imagine what you taste like." There was a moment's pause. "I think you taste like ink and paper and . . . and stories and magic and . . . what's that big word I learnt yesterday? I-ma-gi-na-tion. There! That's what you taste like, Fakir."

"Idiot. How is a person supposed to taste like imagination?"

Try as he might, Fakir could not get Duck to listen to him. She was jumping up and down, attempting to recall the last of the five senses. At last she remembered. Her movements slowed as she turned to face him, her small figure bathed in the waning light of dusk. "And he felt like . . ." She wrapped her chubby arms around him before he could resist.

"Hey! Stop it!" Fakir wriggled about, albeit with a rather half-hearted effort.

He stopped after a while, and there was a long silence. Longer than one would expect two young children to be able to maintain. Then Duck let go of him, laughed and said, "I can't finish this story. I don't know how. You finish it."

In spite of himself, Fakir didn't try to mask the smile beginning to play across his lips. "No. It can stay like this."

"Aww, but why?"

"Hmph. Don't you know that some stories don't have to be finished, stupid?"

Fakir took off across the playground. Charon was waving at them from the end of a little winding path that led deep into a cluster of trees. Duck ran after him, towards home – towards a story that they would create together.