Day 10

The sky was overcast, but no less captivating. Finn and a pleasant young woman comprised of fire sat in a salvaged antique boat, which he and Jake had reconfigured into a veranda of sorts. They had left the umbrella up, just in case.

"I like the rain," Flame Princess said.

"Mmmm," Was Finn's reply, his attention somewhat divided at the moment.

"I mean, sure it hurts a whole lot, and if I stayed out in it long enough it'd probably kill me…but, don't you just love the sound it makes on your roof when you sleep at night?"

"Uh-huh."

She turned to look at him, curious to see what was so engaging.

"What are you writing?"

"Just some lyrics for a song. Marceline's been teaching me how to rap."

"Oh, wow!" Her hair burned just the slightest bit brighter and her face swelled with luminescence. "Could I hear some, maybe?"

"It's not finished yet. Sorry."

She frowned and turned back towards the horizon. She held her head in her hands and sighed. "You know, you talk a lot about her. She seems really nice."

"…Who?" Finn bit the end of his already thoroughly gnawed pencil and scribbled purposefully in his thin bound notebook.

"Marceline. I mean, she must have seen so much."

"Oh. Yeah, she's cool."

"…Will I get a chance to meet her one of these days?"

"Sure."

Leaning over the edge of the boat, FP noticed a small, modestly populated birds nest protruding from a fracture in its wooden hull. She observed the tiny, fragile creatures from a safe distance and smiled.

(Transition)

"Come on Finn, you need to breathe," Marceline said, a hand on either side of her forehead, trapping stray threads of hair beneath tensing fingers. "Everyone does—well, except for me I suppose, but you know what I mean."

Finn had wheezed out his last two lines and was now sprawled on the floor, gasping for medical attention. She had had him reciting lyrics from long dead rappers to see how his actual form was.

"And your rhythm is all wrong. Remember what I said about syllables? Well that goes for pronunciation as well."

His eyes—the only part of his body capable of motion for the time being—trundled about to her position.

"Look: 'All be—cause this fool was har—ass—ing them; Try—na play the boy like he's sac—char—ine.' Hear where I'm putting the stress? Not just on the beat but on specific syllables."

"I…think so."

Marceline expelled hot air from her nostrils and maintained her regular breathing pattern.

"Do you want to try again?"

"I…have a question."

"Yes?"

"How am I supposed to breathe without stopping? I mean, it's not like I don't believe you, but I didn't hear that guy breathe once."

At this she grinned, mischief creeping into her tone, in spite of herself.

"That's right. You didn't hear him. Bit of a trade secret, I suppose. But no, all rappers actually do breathe. Only they're short, quiet breaths, usually at the beginning of a line. If you write a verse correctly, you will have space to take a breath, every so often. It also helps to take a deep one before you start rapping, just to give yourself plenty of air to work with."

"Ohhhhhhhh," Finn said. "That makes a lot of sense…Marceline?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think I can do this?"

"Well…I don't see how you're different than anyone else, Finn. If I can do it, I'm pretty sure you can."

"Thanks," He said, still immobile. "I think I needed to hear that."

She offered a hand to help him up and then took a seat herself. "Alright, now: you stand and rap, while I sit in this comfortable chair."

Finn muttered and grumbled irritably, which was met by cackling of a somewhat maniacal nature. Marceline put the foot rest up and reclined. Perhaps the thing that people didn't realize was, while she was perfectly capable of staying off the ground indefinitely, that option didn't hold nearly the same type of sensory appeal.

Day 11

After about a week and a half's worth of lessons supplemented by various homework assignments and irregular practice, Finn and Marceline had gotten to a noteworthy place. Her student was nowhere near the last messiah of a dying art form, but he had gained competency quicker than one could reasonably suspect. Thankfully, his almost obsessive drive and his passion for tackling new challenges made the process all that much easier on her. He had been dedicated to the work—after a few initial bumps and divergences, of course—and he had even given her ideas along the way about how to help him learn. Whenever she had felt like quitting, he had always motivated her, in some small way, to keep going.

"Good job, Finn!" The praise was coming a bit more frequently these days. "That's the first time I've heard you get through Wild Wild West without any mistakes."

"Thanks," Finn replied, more than a little tired. "Any damsel that's in distress…"

"Be outta that dress," Marceline contributed.

"—When she meet Jim West." Finn finished, completing possibly the single greatest line in rap history and sharing a genuine moment of camaraderie even as they broke into simultaneous hysterical fits of laughter. And then, there was a silence. Not an unpleasant or anxious silence, but one born of contentment. It was only quiet because everything that needed to be said already had been. It was one of those rare, irretrievable moments where two people were such in the same mind that they shared an almost psychic connection.

"So…" He said. "PB is having another talent show soon. It's open to the whole kingdom, should be outdoors if everything goes as planned…I'm not sure if it'll be any good, but I've been writing something recently, and I think I'm gonna share it there…would you like to come watch me?"

"I'd love to. When is it?"

"…It's this weekend. Sorry about the short notice. I meant to tell you before, but I guess I just never got around to it."

"That's alright," Marceline said, before donning a calculating face. "Of course, you realize what this means: …if you'd like, we have two and a half more days to prepare."

"That sounds awesome," Finn replied, eager for sixty straight hours of rigorous psychosomatic vocal training. "…But maybe riiiight after some Super Guts Punch."