Author's Note:

This scene came to me in a daydream and I was unable to take it out my mind. I just had to write it. No proof-reading, no final draft. This is all the first draft and I don't expect any re-writing in the near future.

The two characters are copyrighted to SEGA. I just write about them. Enjoy.

Sketches

By Debbie (Dai-chan)

He is an artist.

This comes to me as a great surprise when I come in and find him asleep on the tiled floor, papers all around him. I wonder why he's here in the Hidden Palace with just few pencils and a sketchbook present in the first place. One would never think that this guy, my good friend, is an artist. His carefree attitude do not strike anyone as an artist. He is too fast to be standing still, and why he would ever sit and draw in front of a sketchbook is just silly to me.

But he did draw.

As he was doing in the Hidden Palace.

I didn't even know that he was actually here on Angel Island. I usualy know when anyone comes on my island; call it an alarm if you prefer. I just know.

My friend is a tricky one, indeed.

And he was drawing in the Hidden Palace. Why?

My nature is that I would leave everybody alone and watch in silence until a person needs my advice or presence. But now I'm the one who steps in.

The tiles are oddly quiet; one of the marvelous works my ancestors built; footsteps are always silent as one walks on and the silence becomes so loud that it seems to be deafening. I'm used to it, and I'm pretty sure that my friend is too heavy a sleeper to notice my approach.

He looks peaceful, again to my surprise. You could think I'm crazy to study people in sleep, but I never had the chance. I am - was - the only person living on Angel Island and so I never knew what a person looks like while he sleeps.

I'm so used to my friend's impish grin and wildness in his body that this is the very first I see him so still, so quiet.

So peaceful.

His face is so smooth, free of any carefreeness, pain, and even affection. There is no emotion on his face except contentment. He doesn't look like he's dreaming; I think if he is, then emotions would appear on his face. No, he has to be so deep in slumber that no dreams are prancing in his head.

He appears to be laying down on his stomach and slightly at his right side, so he's facing the entrance from where I came in. I can pick up a short, black pencil lingering between his lazy fingers. He doesn't wear gloves this time; he wouldn't draw anything with the baggy gloves on. So it's odd to see long tan fingers, artistic fingers on him, already expert at holding a pencil ready for a sketch.

My hands are nothing alike to his. I was born with short, stubbed fingers. Not artistic fingers, apparently. And the four spiky knuckles on the back of my hands do not help much, for the budging bones forces my fingers to curl up permanently. I cannot straighten them. I cannot stretch them as far as I could. Long, I've been used to this; after all, I was named after my knuckles.

But now, as I see those long fingers on my friend, I feel a pluck of envy. I'd love to try drawing, but I know I can't. My friend can and I never see him doing it. Why would he not show his talent to anyone? Modesty? Sure, yeah, right. My friend LOVES to boast about himself. He would boast about his speed, his agility, and even his hero-ness, as he likes to call it.

My friend is a mystery and I'm very sure that it will take more than my lifetime to figure him out.

What was he sketching, anyway?

Before I could pick up the sketches, I remove my gloves, my habit of respect before I touch things. It is part of my ancestors' tradition - touching things with a personal tough, with no fabric in between. To consider touching a personal thing with gloves on is an insult. My friends didn't know the traditions and so I didn't display it to them, removing my gloves and touching their possessions. I have no desire to touch everything.

My friend does, though. It's different from hugging or caressing, you know. He simply likes to touch things with his fingers - just his fingers, nothing else - and close his eyes as he 'feels' the texture, the designs, the shapes. I've seen him doing that a couple of times here before. For some reason, the sight of him touching the tiled walls with his eyes closed makes me think that he's like a blind hedgehog, relying only on his touch.

That keeps me wondering for years.

I kneel by my friend, careful not to disturb him - even though I know he won't wake up at a single shake on his shoulder - and take a look at the sketchbook. It is open and partly covered by my friend's chest, as if he has fallen forward atop it. I wonder if he catpures the reality of whatever he drew, perfect and neat, or a simple, boring doodle.

What kind of artist would he be? Does he draw faces? Landscapes? Memories? Anything? Or does he just doodle out of boredom, drawing whatever that springs to his mind?

Is he serious about his talent? Would he ever continue to improve it and maybe let people know about it? Or being an engima, he would cleverly hide it with a cocky grin, fooling anyone instantly?

Right now...

I wonder why he IS here and drawing. He could not have done this if he doesn't want me to know about his talent. We are not very intimate, and so it might be understandable to me that he wouldn't show his drawings to me. It just puzzles me that he does know that I'm here and he draws, anyway, knowing that I can find him doing it. I can sneak in too well; he can't hear anybody coming in, not in this place.

I again glance down to the sketchbook, rare curiosity raising in my chest. What was he drawing? Was he drawing the Master Emerald? I take a glance at it. I guess it's hard not to ignore the beauty of the gem. It will take a poet, an artist, and a writer to truly capture the magnificance of the Master Emerald. Maybe it did inspire my friend into drawing it.

I do want to see what he drew...

My stubbed fingers lower to the sketchbook, brushing against the slightly wrinkled pages, then I stop. He's stirring. A slight frown flickers across his face, then it is gone, the peacefulness remaining on his face. It comes very briefly, but I feel another pluck, this time of guilt. Am I invading his privacy? I wouldn't try to provoke his temper; he rarely gets angry, but I wouldn't risk it.

But...

No.

Not yet. I better not be betraying the trust he bestowed on me. I think I understand now. Maybe the fact that he was here, drawing, using a talent that is hidden, shows that he does trust me. I think he trusts me enough that I won't be invading his space. Maybe he feels safe here, knowing that his secrets won't be exposed wrongly. He feels safe here with me. He did fall asleep without thinking about hiding his secret from me. He didn't need to worry about letting me know a bit more about him.

Those are my thoughts, I suppose.

Maybe someday, he will let me see his sketches. Maybe he will trust me a bit more to let me know the enigma he is. And maybe, just one day, he will let me know about his secrets. His reasons of why he's being so secretive. Reasons of his past being so mysterious.

I smile. It is rare for me to smile, indeed. It is one of my secrets. It is also one of my secrets I show to my friend. To let him know that he can trust me. I wonder if he knows the smiling is my secret, but he wouldn't poke it around. He has secrets of his own.

My friend. He is an artist, an artist of hidden pictures. Maybe someday, his pictures will be shown to everyone.

For now...

I will let him sleep. So he can stay an engima to me.

After all, I have my life to figure him out.