Art Block

Daybreak looked down at the scratch stick pinched between his titanium digits and almost imagined he could feel the wood grain between his fingerpads. In the grand scheme of things, giving his arm to save the world felt…menial. Especially since he could still do recreational things like paint.

But at the moment, the word “could” was doing a lot of heavy lifting. He frowned at the canvas. Its bare white expanse reflected his thoughts.

He had no ideas. In concept, creating an art piece for the two people he cared most about should be easy. But the moment he tried to put sketch to canvas, every thought he might have had flew out of his mind as though on the wings of Ñæ.

A family portrait, maybe. Callie had recently welcomed Dawn and Dusk into the world. Five people in a portrait didn’t seem like an odd choice. But the longer he peered at the five sketched circles, the more contrived it looked, until he ended up clearing the canvas and starting over.

Maybe he could start with the background and add the figures in later. He began to do just that; scribbling in the shapes of the canyon walls, spinning a circle in the sky–

His lips turned down, ears twisted back, and he looked at it again. Now, should he set the scene for the lavender tones of night, or the rose-and-gold tinctures of daytime? Should he have their backs to the canyon, or flip the perspective around so that the distant ocean was behind them? Did he have to draw the canyon, or should he stage the scene somewhere they’d never been?

He groaned, tail jerking in annoyance, and grabbed the blotting putty to start over again. The circle that might have been the sun of Wau or the moon of Rau turned to strings of gray, and he put the putty down and sat down.

“Art is hard,” he grumbled to himself, glaring despondently up at the easel.

“I mean, you’d know better than me.”

Daybreak’s hair stood on end, and he leapt to his feet, spinning to face who’d just spoken. Then he relaxed. His sibling Guavato leaned against the doorframe, silver hair hanging in their golden eyes as they smirked at him.

“Wau, you’re jumpy,” they said, though their tone suggested they didn’t blame him. They pursed their lips to point at the canvas. “Art block?”

“Yeah.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m trying to surprise Callistar and Zefur, but nothing’s coming. You’d think they’d be the easiest people in Waumærr to paint for.”

“Hm.” They came into the room. Daybreak narrowed his eyes suspiciously at their feet, but despite the automotive grease that covered every article of clothing Guavato owned, the dusty blue carpet remained spotless, if not a little scuffed by the new footprints. They stopped in front of the canvas, tapped a claw on their chin, then shrugged.

“Yeah, I’ve got nothin’.” They glanced at him. “You busy?”

He gave them a flat look. They chuckled.

“You need a break, dude. Maybe a step away from the painting supplies would clear your head.”

“Not like there’s much to clear, anyway. Nothing’s coming to mind.”

“Oh, there’s plenty in there. The problem is it’s all clogged up.”

“It’s not clogged, there’s nothing–” He blinked, then pursed his lips to suppress a smile. “You’re trying to get me to go out with you, aren’t you?”

They grinned at him. “Took you a minute. Zefur offered to babysit so I could take you out. He said you’ve been pretty gloomy lately.”

“Where would we even go? You live at the scrapyard now.” Still, he slipped the scratch stick and putty into their box, and strode to the doorway to slip on his loafers. The scrapyard had been Guavato’s favorite place to go “shopping”, before the old molly Rracheun had died–it had taken them years to realize that she’d left them the property in her will, though honestly, the legal department might be forgiven that oversight considering there had been a short war to fight in the time between.

“Yeah, and Figarro’s there now, going on about his cryptids and his ‘theories’ about alien races attacking the planet now that the Sciftans are here.” They rolled their eyes. “I needed to get outta the house. Couldn’t leave Feulin there, either; I don’t want him pickin’ up on the old geezer’s tall tales.”

Daybreak grimaced in sympathy. “Okay, yeah, I don’t blame you. You could kick him out, you know. It’s your house.”

“Hey, maybe bein’ outta his bunker will help his sanity. As long as he doesn’t touch my garage.” They looked around the room, their eyes lingering on a particular painting amongst the forest of display easels. An unreadable expression crossed their eyes, then they turned back to Daybreak. “I was thinking we could go eat first, then figure out how we feel from there.”

Daybreak’s brow raised, and he tried to follow where their eyes had been. He frowned when he saw what must have caught their attention.

One of the first paintings he was proud of after the loss of his arm stood in the center of the disorganized mess. Cobalt blue and burnt orange swirls and tongues of painted flame surrounded the silhouette of a single Ortuxan, her tail flowing behind her, ears pricked and an orb of flame in her outstretched hand. It was the painting he’d done in memory of their mother, killed at the end of the Sciftan War. The memory was still painful to Guavato, he knew, and he’d rather not kill the mood by bringing it up.

“Callie said something about a new Fikan restaurant near the citadel,” he said. “Maybe they offer veteran’s discounts.”

“Maybe?” Guavato scoffed. “I think it’s against the law not to. But I was thinking the same thing. Did you know their main source of protein is lizards?”

“Fikan? But Fiku’s up north–with the snow.”

“Yeah, I know! And apparently it tastes like kikifeu.”

Like chicken, as Dad would say, Daybreak thought with a smirk. It was useless trying to remind his father that Earth chickens were different from Ortuxan kikifeu. Still, everything “tasted like chicken” to Owen, and he refused to be corrected.

“You’ll have to show me, then.”

It had been a few months since they’d seen each other, so most of the audhe ride to the restaurant resonated with the thrum of pleasant conversation. Guavato congratulated him on the birth of his two children, then followed up with gratitude that they didn’t have to deal with the awkward newborn phase of kit rearing–having adopted Feulin after his mother had died in The Falling. Daybreak questioned them on how their mechanic business was going.

Despite their carefree attitude now, he could see ticks in their body language that betrayed their underlying anxiety. The twitch in their purple-striped tail, the tension in their shoulders, the curl to their lip. Once in a while they’d drift off, and flinch when he spoke again. If it was his husband Zefur, or his wife Callie, he could reach out and squeeze their shoulder, but he knew if he tried that with Guavato he was liable to have his face clawed off before they realized what he was doing.

Before long they were pulling their hover-vehicle into the parking lot beside a strange building. The red stones were stacked as if to mimic the igloos of the Fikan north. The lettering on the sign, rather than the sharp lines and angles Daybreak was used to, were instead curved and a bit harder to read. Eventually, though, he made it out:

“Merrmerr Pauto’s Fikan Cuisine”.

“‘Merrmerr Pauto’?” Guavato raised a brow.

“I think it’s some kinda franchise name.” Daybreak headed in. The inside was similarly decorated to what he knew of Fikan architecture, though he supposed this was more for show than structural integrity. The walls were of a stucco finish, probably meant to seal in cracks so the cold air didn’t break in. The tables and chairs were fashioned of the same processed cactus wood that most wooden things were made of here, when it wasn’t imported from places with actual trees, but painted in the whites and cyans of an artistically presented “ice”. Daybreak appreciated the attention to detail from an aesthetic standpoint. His cybernetic eye began giving him temperature readings of the place–as it usually did when he entered a new place–and he tapped twice on his temple to turn the notifications off.

“Welcome, welcome! Party of two?” A familiar voice hailed them as a burly figure approached. Daybreak blinked, startled. He exchanged a look with Guavato, who looked similarly surprised.

The figure who now approached them was a dead ringer for their current sovereign. Dad had called him a “Pallas cat” at the coronation all those cycles ago, though he’d mentioned that Pallas cats tended to live in colder regions. As this one approached them, he realized that this was not the Sovereign, but a queen, and rather than the violet stripes of nobility her darker stripes were of a dark crimson. She seemed to understand their expressions as she came closer, menu boards tucked under one massive arm, and gave them an apologetic look.

Though, whatever she had to be apologetic about, Daybreak wasn’t sure.

“I know that look. No, we’re not related–I mean, technically, we are, but me and Manul–uh, Sovereign Manul–we’re second cousins through marriage. Anyway, hi! Can I get you a seat in a booth? You look like a corner dweller,” she said, nodding her head at Guavato.

Guavato nodded curtly, while Daybreak gave her a smile.

“Corner booth works for us, yeah,” he said.

Her smile brightened into something less professional and more genuine as she looked at him. “You’re that artist!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been to your gallery! Hey, do you offer classes? Oh–sorry.” She cleared her throat, whiskers twitching in embarrassment. “Follow me.”

She turned, her tail raised in excitement. Daybreak blinked, then looked at Guavato, who shrugged.

“You’re kind of obvious,” they pointed out.

Indeed, Daybreak didn’t look like your average Ortuxan; rather, he looked like his Earthan father, with some Ortuxan attributes. Once, his appearance had been a source of internal contention, but several cycles in a happy marriage had helped assuage that dysmorphia. It also helped that he was something of a war hero, so even if others had problems with how he looked, no one said anything.

He didn’t often get strangers reacting like this waitress, though. And their first reaction wasn’t usually about his art.

The two of them followed her into the bustling restaurant. Her bulk barely brushed the patrons as she passed with practiced ease, and she placed the menus on a table, gesturing for them to sit. “Can I get you two anything to drink? We have water, nepeta soda, cactus blossom tea, or if you want to go authentic Fikan we have the Rre Special.”

“Yeah, I’ll go authentic,” Daybreak said, sliding into the seat. He cocked his head at Guavato.

“Tea for me,” Guavato said, sitting across from him. He could tell from the twitch in their tail that the crowd was already getting to them.

She wrote into a small notepad and gave them both a cheery smile. “I’ll be right back with those. There’s a little button there if you need help before that,” she added, gesturing at a small rosy light in the center of the table. Then she was off, heading for the kitchen with a bounce in her step.

“I’m not gonna get used to that,” Daybreak said. He looked over the menu at his sibling. “You okay?”

“Hm?” They looked up, brow whiskers twitching curiously. “Yeah, I’m rose-golden.”

“Hey, we don’t have to stay here if you’re uncomfortable. We can ask for takeout and eat it at the park or something.”

“I’m okay. Trust me, if I was uncomfortable, I’d say something.”

“Okay, good.” He looked around. “You were right, I needed the break. I just remembered I haven’t eaten since Færwau.”

“Since noon? It’s eight in the evening,” Guavato said incredulously.

“I was in the zone! Or, well, trying to be.” Daybreak looked over the menu. “So, the sovereign is from Fiku?”

“Looks like it. Unless bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed over there is a local, too.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“About what?” Guavato returned to their menu.

“Politics at the table.”

“...Yeah. No, I’m kinda over that.” They shrugged. “He might have bribed his way onto the throne, but he took the aftermath of the war way better than I think a lot of previous sovereigns would have. Still don’t like him, but he did have insane odds stacked against him.”

Daybreak chuckled. “That’s fair.”

When the waitress, whose nametag declared her as Otula, returned with their drinks, she handed something to Daybreak. He blinked at it. Familiar lines of paint, bright periwinkle eyes peering up at him from the stylized visage of Rau. It had been printed on a bookmark, with his name and a short “about the artist” blurb on the back.

“Sorry if this is too forward,” she said. “Can you sign this?”

He raised a brow. “It already has my signature on it,” he said, pointing.

Her face fell, and he inwardly kicked himself. Obviously she didn’t want his signature because he painted it; she wanted it to prove she’d met him. Again, not exactly the reaction he got from most people he interacted with, but somehow he saw his old self in her sheepish ernestness.

“Kidding,” he said, smiling wryly. “Sorry, I’m bad at joking. Do you have a pen?”

She brightened again and handed him a marker, which he used to sign his name with perhaps a bit more of a flourish than necessary. He smiled up at her as he handed it back.

“I’m surprised you like that piece. Rau isn’t a popular god,” he pointed out.

She held the bookmark to her chest. “No, He’s not,” she agreed. “It makes me happy when I see other people paying tribute to Him. I’m…” She glanced around, then leaned in close. “I’m a Rauchiæ too.”

He blinked in surprise. Shadow magic users were supposed to be rare, yet now he knew three–himself, Figarro, and now Otula.

She took their orders and their menus, and gave him one more thankful dip of the head before turning to deal with her other tables. He leaned back, catching Guavato’s eye.

“Didn’t you paint that for yourself?” they asked.

“Yeah. I don’t know how it got into the gallery, let alone into the print order. Guess I’m just that disorganized.”

“Well, clearly it was supposed to go out, whether you meant it or not,” they pointed out. “That’s the cool part about being an artist. Not the popular crap. The part where someone sees your work, and sees themself. Could be you just have to paint for yourself, without worrying about whether someone will like it. Someone always will.”

He thought about that, staring at the resin-coated faux ice of the tabletop. His nail etched lightly in the hard surface in languid, invisible patterns.

“I think you might be onto something, Guav.”

The next morning, Daybreak pulled into his driveway, adjusting the strap of his art bag as he got off his bike. He was greeted at the door by a wall of black-and-white fluff, which wrapped around him while kisses planted themselves in his hair. He didn’t even have time to squeak in shock before he was pulled inside.

“Daybreak, you hellion, you weren’t supposed to stay out all night,” he heard Callie’s voice say, muffled through the blanket of Zefur’s pelt. “Do I need to ground you?”

He laughed, pushing Zefur off of him–no small feat, considering the big soul was twice his size. “Sorry. I fell asleep mid-stroke. Woke up with paint on my face, too.”

“Wait, you did?” Zefur looked down at himself.

“I cleaned it off, geez.” He strode across the living room to kiss Callie’s brow–he might have hugged her, but for the twins currently feeding at her chest. Their little ears twitched with each swallow, and he had to suppress a squeal of adoration. “Sorry you had to deal with them all night.”

“I had help,” she assured him, leaning over to kiss his cheek as he sat beside her. “Inspiration struck while you were out with Guavato?”

“Yeah. I had an idea for something to hang here over the mantle,” he said, laying his bag in his lap.

Zefur sat on the floor in front of him, curious, the two of them listening as he spoke about his interaction with the Fikan waitress. He pulled out a plastic case, meant to shield the canvas within from being bumped around in the inside of his bag, and unclipped the latches.

“So I decided to just paint what you guys mean to me,” he finished as he flipped the case open.

Zefur made a soft “awww” sound as he peered over the lid of the case, and Callie gave him a careful punch in the arm.

“You sentimental tom,” she said fondly.

“Kind of on the nose, isn’t it?” Zefur chuckled, carefully lifting the canvas out of the case.

Three spheres danced on the starry backdrop of a dark field; the red dwarf sun, the periwinkle face of the moon, and a planet with five continents and shards of ocean. In the center, the continent of Waumærr, with the shape of a heart over where their city of Tsaurre sat on the coastline.

“What do we mean to you, Day?” Callie asked cheekily as she stroked behind little Dawn’s ear.

“Do I have to spell it out?” he asked.

Zefur took the painting to the fireplace and hung it carefully. “I think we wanna hear ya say it, babe.”

Daybreak’s eyes slowly blinked in a smile as he looked at his family. “You four mean the world to me.”