Treasured

19)

Wren

I watched Cedar worriedly. Lately he seemed different - more extreme than he used to be. If he was happy, he was nearly hysterical; If he was sad, he was depressive. I bit my lip, wondering if I was the only one who noticed.

"What are you thinking about?" June asked, heavy and solid behind me.

After my episode the other day at the picnic, everyone had been overcautious and careful around me. They worried a little too much, and I could tell it bothered the older ones the most. Cedar felt hurt that I wouldn't tell him, but I just...

"Wren?" June sounded a bit more concerned.

I'm thinking about a lot of things. Mainly Cedar. Is he alright?

June relaxed, kissing the crown of my head sweetly.

"Yeah, he's a bit...shaken this month. I think his sister's visit upset him, and then...well, he gets this way sometimes."

I nodded, watching as Cedar pulled out his painting supplies, grabbing a canvas, laying out his paint and brushes. Surprisingly he advanced toward us for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face.

"May I paint you, Wren?" He inquired nervously.

I was astonished. Me? Thin, ill, pitiful me? I felt shocked, but I must've given him an affirmation because he ended up behind his canvas, a happy smile on his face as he began his work.

The afternoon sped by after that, and I found myself feeling serene and calm. I snuggled into June's chest, listening to him as he read some Keats to me. Cedar hummed to himself as he stroked the canvas with quick flicks of his brush.

Cedar looked more alive than I had ever seen him before. His eyes were focused, and shining that weird gold color. His hair flopped in his face a little which resulted in some paint flecks being scattered through his tresses. His clothing was untouched, but his hands were coated in paint and other things. His cheeks were a faint pink, and his lips were bitten and plump from the constant pressure of his work.

Like watching a dancer move, or seeing a writer recite a passage, or a huntsman return with his kill, observing Cedar with his brush was fascinating. Seeing him completely immersed in his own world was like finding a secret passage or door. His defenses had lowered, letting me see behind his walls and things.

~

"Don't forget, dinner is in half an hour," Fletcher reminded us, peeking in to see what we were up to.

"I'm keeping an eye out," June calmly assured him, dropping a kiss in my hair.

I could feel my cheeks heating up, and I shyly peeked up at him, using my hair as a sort of curtain. He seemed just like normal, kind and dependable. He smiled at me, eyes glinting as I bit my lip.

Slowly, I leaned up toward him, returning his affection by pecking his cheek. June positively beamed as I settled back against him.

"Can I have one?" Fletcher teased.

He crossed the room in long strides, kneeling beside the sofa as he cheekily grinned at me, pinching a flushed cheek with amusement.

I cupped his face with one of my hands, getting used to the feeling of his smooth skin and the warmth that bled into my fingers. His eyes widened as I slowly tipped forward. I felt a comforting sense of ease with Fletcher.

He reminded me of the brook my parents used to bring me to as a child. Playful, cool, and transparent...that was Fletcher.

But it wasn't right. Not yet. I didn't want to kiss him like that yet. He meant more than a flippant kiss on the mouth. No, I had to wait until the right time.