Muse [a short story] — Happy Birthday Phoebe/Phoenix (Patreon)

Muse [a short story]

⇢ the beginning of a relationship with P: their emotions, insecurities, and sprinkles of love in between. 

Happy birthday to my favourite magical being! As usual, here’s a drabble that I hope you’ll enjoy! Let me know your thoughts.

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You’re sure that if you could delve into P’s mind, it would look exactly like their apartment. Open space, sunlight streaming in at all angles, scented candles flickering alongside flowers perfectly placed in vases. The puppy and kitten they have sleep peacefully in the corner of their living room, and if you were to ask P what they want the rest of their days to look like, what brings them peace and happiness in their life — it would be moments like this, right here.

The comfort of their apartment, their pets, and you.

Though, the latter is what sparks worry within P. Your relationship with the magical being is somewhat new, a few months in at most, and the addition of a person they have come to adore is something else entirely.

Whilst a somewhat difficult topic of conversation in the past, relationships are something that P would commend themselves on. But the past came with failures, the same failures that left P with heartbreak and questioning the elements of the concept of love. What it is, what it truly feels like, whether it’s something they’ll be able to experience with you.

The latter is what they’re hoping for, and maybe they’re leaning towards it already without realising. After all, you spent the night at P’s place and there were no complaints from either of you.

“I’m taking you out,” you utter, clutching a mug of the hot drink P made you.

The blonde arches an eyebrow. They’re standing in the kitchen directly opposite you, a few feet away with their own mug clutched between their hands, and you see them in an element you haven’t before.

P doesn’t have to be your significant other for you to know that their regular appearance is crisp and clean, all wrinkles in their attire ironed out properly, their hair fresh and neatly styled, and a few bits of thin jewellery scattered around their fingers and wrists.

Now, you’re witnessing something slightly different, and you can tell it’s because you’re more than a mere friend to them. P hasn’t too long come out of the shower, they’re bare-faced, half-dressed, and have a few droplets of water running down their hair.

It’s utterly simple, nothing to write home about… but you begin to notice that it’s a sight that you’d regularly love to see. The person who is the embodiment of the calm before, during, and after a storm.

“Oh?” P questions, the corner of their mouth quirking upwards as they take a sip of their drink. “You are?”

You nod. “Hm, a date.”

“A date,” P repeats, as though they’re testing the words as they let a smile break out onto their lips. It’s something you can’t help but beam at as a date is a concept that wasn’t uttered by either of you for so long. It was something you and P danced around for various reasons: it wasn’t the right time to date, the circumstances in the supernatural and human world would make a relationship too difficult, the two of you weren’t one hundred percent sure the other felt the same.

“So, if you’re willing to accept…” you murmur.

P tilts their head. “I suppose you’re worth emptying my diary for.”

You let out a humorous scoff. “Ah, thank you for giving me the time of day,” you say, continuing the joke as you take a few steps towards P. “I’m incredibly lucky.” Your final step takes you directly in front of them, less than a few inches apart.

Your hand slowly clutches P’s mug, you take it out of their hands and place it on the counter. It’s a small, maybe meaningless gesture, but P watches your every move intently until your eyes are flitting over their features.

A silence washes over you both, and instead, P’s sure they are the one with the luck of a four leaf clover. You watch as their pupils dilate, and if even possible, the blue of their eyes intensifies a tad bit more.

“Where, exactly?” they ask, their melodic voice breaking through the silence. “Where are we going?”

You smile. “Don’t be impatient.”

“I’d say ‘eager’ is more the word.”

“Really?” you ask.

“Of course,” P mumbles. “I…” The rest of the words they were going to say get stuck in their throat, begging and scratching at their vocal chords to be said, but P swallows them — but you notice.

You take one of P’s hands in yours. Your fingers slowly and gently intertwine before P brushes their thumb over one of your knuckles. “What were you going to say?” you question in a whisper.

P shakes their head slightly, as though they’re simply trying to enjoy this moment without having to let worries creep into their mind. “Nothing important.”

“Everything you say is important,” you reply, which only gets P’s heartbeat racing that much faster. If your hand was over their chest, you’d feel it thumping. If you had the power to delve into their mind you’d see that P’s in a constant battle with themselves.

Their heart over head, emotive look on life has burned them before, and they’re praying that this isn’t one of those times where their emotions will get the better of them and ruin their relationship with you. P has a strategy: don’t let their feelings get the better of them, no matter how quickly they feel they’re falling for you.

Granted, it’s a strategy P’s finding hard to stick to. Especially when you stayed the night and shared a bed with them, even more so when they can think of nothing more than leaning in and kissing you now.

“I do need to ask you one question though,” you mention, pulling P out of their thoughts about you and forcing them to concentrate on the words coming out of your mouth instead of kissing it.

“And what’s that?” the magical being mutters.

“Would you rather we go to a restaurant or—” You tilt your head to the side as you interrupt your sentence abruptly, your eyes land on something behind P that you’re pretty sure is a canvas. What surprises you is the sketch that’s on it. “P, is that me?”

P’s right eyebrow, the one with the two styled slits, raises in confusion until they follow your eyeline. Your gaze most definitely did land on a canvas, and the beginning of P’s pencil sketch is most definitely you — well, it’s you, their three friends, and an assortment of flowers dotted around. It’s the same kind art P wouldn’t really mind sharing… but this particular piece of work is one they’d rather keep to themselves.

Which causes P’s answer to tumble out of them. “Noo.”

A light smirk curls over your lips as you take a step back and move to exit the kitchen. “I beg to differ,” you say as you go to take a closer look. But, P’s between you and the canvas in a flash, blocking you from gaining confirmation.

They clear their throat lightly. “It’s just a few random drawings.” It’s a lie, you and P both know that, and they’re pretty much kicking themselves because of it. But, the best way emotions don’t come spilling out of them through words is by getting them down in the form of art.

And, as you’re someone who makes P feel so deeply, of course there’s always been a high chance you’d end up in their thoughts and sketches.

It’s the first time you’ve seen P nervous and flustered. It’s something that you’re finding pretty adorable, that they’ve run their fingers through their now dirty blonde hair so many times that it looks disheveled, and they want nothing more than to steer you away from the living room.

“Restaurant,” P blurts out. “We can go to a restaurant.”

“Don’t change the subject. You haven’t shown me your art yet.”

“Hm, that’s because it’s not finished yet.”

Your eyes flit over them. “So I can see it when it’s finished?”

A chuckle escapes P. “Absolutely not.”

They’re not sure whether it’s so your mind will be occupied on something else, or whether they can’t bear to let another moment slip by without it, but after the words tumble out of their mouth, P gently places a finger under your chin and captures your lips with their own.

You savour each touch and taste as the two of you continue kissing. P’s lips are soft and a little chapped, they taste of honey, and hot tea, and strawberries. And you indulge in the sweet sensation so much that your fingertips delicately run up and down the exposed bits of skin on their torso, your touch being the key to draw a satisfied sigh out of P.

You pull away for a moment. Your eyes are still shut, you lean in again and your lips brush against P’s. You can feel their lips part, and you know they’re waiting for your cue to continue what you just finished.

But you decide to tease them instead.

“You and I both know that’s a sketch of me, P,” you say against their mouth before you take a step back.

They refrain from rolling their eyes before reaching over to a nearby chair and slipping on a mint green sweater. P then shrugs their shoulders. “Maybe,” they give in.

You slip your hand in theirs and pull them towards the front door. “You can tell me all about how I’m your muse on the way to our date.”

P almost laughs at that statement, because, especially after today, they’re sure they could talk about you for an eternity.