It was a good night to be out and about, really. Valentine wasn't much in the mood for crowded common rooms tonight, or even a trek through the preserve to scope out prime Fandom Chicken set pieces in the woods
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She tossed the sketchbook down again with a lightly breathed "damn." Why even have pencils and crayons and paper if it was all going to rebel on her and refuse to ...
"Something not cooperating?" He stepped up to her and took a seat not far from the girl there in the sand. "That's a shame. It felt like a good night, otherwise."
Naminé frowned at the sketchbook a few feet away from her, eyes narrowed. "Everything isn't cooperating. It's never like this. I feel all out of sorts so I came out here to draw and it's like I've never held a pencil before in my life. I can't ..."
She shook her head, cutting herself off as abruptly as she'd begun. She didn't understand any of this. And she didn't like it much.
"You can't...?" Valentine tilted his head at her curiously, unable to make heads or tails of her expression, but at the moment, her tone just about said it all. "Perhaps you just need to take a break for a while. Take a breath, look out at the water." He turned his gaze out toward the ocean thoughtfully. "Just take it all in?"
Valentine kept his gaze out on the water, made certain to keep his voice even. Yeah, he understood anger. "It's just the natural way to be, if things haven't been working out well," he reasoned. "What's been going wrong?"
"Nothing," Naminé said softly. "I'm ... happy here. I'm even starting to believe that maybe here is somewhere safe, and that I could really be --"
She had turned to Valentine while talking and felt strangely like she was forgetting something, only remembering mid-sentence with a gasp. "The mask. I completely forgot, I'm so sorry." She scrambled for her sketchbook, flipping through for where she had placed it.
"There's nothing to be apologetic about," he said with a shake of his head. "People forget. And you did remember eventually, didn't you?" He watched her with a bit of a pleasant smile on his lips. "So! You're happy and you're safe. You're just having a bad night, then?"
"Everyone has the right to be angry," came the smooth reply as he offered her now rather understandable visage a smile. "Reason or not. It's perfectly normal-- perfectly acceptable. And you'll get over it, I'm sure."
Naminé looked back over the water again. "I feel like snapping all of my crayons and pencils into pieces, and tearing out all the pages in that horrible sketchbook, and throwing all of it into the ocean. Possibly while saying every rude word I know."
Valentine frowned a little. "I think that perhaps that might be something of an overreaction. I know I'm no artist in the crayons-to-paper sense of the word, but I'm pretty certain that you'd be even more angry if you did that." He ran his fingers through the sand, looking back out at the waves. "Rude words are one thing, but damaging your art? That would be a shame."
"I don't think any of it means anything," she said, staring at the sketchbook again as if she hated it. "I can draw light and pretty things, I can draw sad memories and amusing moments. None of it matters. They're just scribblings. They aren't real. They can't change what is."
She rested her chin on her knees. "I've never felt this ... restless. I suppose I'm being horribly rude to you right now and I can't even bring myself to apologize."
"I'm not much of a fan of needless apologies anyhow," Valentine assured her, looking back in her direction and once again offering a smile. "I'm not much of an artist, but I can appreciate what art is," he continued. "You wouldn't do it if it didn't mean at least the slightest something to you, I imagine. I wouldn't juggle if it was just something that wasn't real, you understand? It makes things there and tangible and comprehensible all in that moment, even if it's as simple as throwing things in the air and catching them again."
"Why can't I draw how I feel now?" she asked softly. "Every time I try, it turns into slashes and streaks and I ripped the paper clean through the last time. If art can make things make sense, why ... isn't it working for me now?"
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She looked up suddenly. "Valentine?"
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She shook her head, cutting herself off as abruptly as she'd begun. She didn't understand any of this. And she didn't like it much.
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She shook her head quickly. "Why do I feel so ... so angry?"
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"It's just the natural way to be, if things haven't been working out well," he reasoned. "What's been going wrong?"
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She had turned to Valentine while talking and felt strangely like she was forgetting something, only remembering mid-sentence with a gasp. "The mask. I completely forgot, I'm so sorry." She scrambled for her sketchbook, flipping through for where she had placed it.
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Her voice trailed off. "It feels wrong. I'm angry, which is ludicrous. I have no reason to be. No right to be."
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"I think that perhaps that might be something of an overreaction. I know I'm no artist in the crayons-to-paper sense of the word, but I'm pretty certain that you'd be even more angry if you did that." He ran his fingers through the sand, looking back out at the waves. "Rude words are one thing, but damaging your art? That would be a shame."
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She rested her chin on her knees. "I've never felt this ... restless. I suppose I'm being horribly rude to you right now and I can't even bring myself to apologize."
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