There were many things that Sylvester couldn't understand: how quickly the ocean could turn tides, or why hot days would suddenly turn cold with rain. And they certainly didn't understand why their mind was dead set in reminding them about Kay. Even years after going their separate ways, their last days together had left behind an open wound in Sylvester's mind. That is to say, normally they ran away from the thought of him. Now, as they picked up a broom to push glass shards around the room, they couldn't help but muse on the fact that Kay Watson seemed determined to return to their thoughts.

The last time they'd spoken... hadn't been great. Neither had the one before that, if they thought about it.

Sylvester shook their head as their chest pulsed with restless energy, resembling a metaphorical fireplace. They set the broom against the wall and sighed as they looked at the messy room. There would be time to be upset about the windows and walls later. Sylvester picked up their comm to check if anyone had seen their opening for commissions, but the inbox remained empty. The constant spark inside roared again, and Sylvester growled, throwing the comm at the wall. They didn't expect it to break, and were surprised when white dust began to fall to the ground, the device firmly stuck in the plaster.

"Great," Sylvester moaned, hanging their head against their chest and letting some stubborn strands of silver hair fall against their forehead. "They will totally charge me for that too."

Just as they felt a headache bloom in their head, they heard a couple of bangs against the door. The sound worsened the growing pain in their head.

"I'm not home!"

Sylvester heard the knocking grow louder.

"Seriously," they mumbled, wincing in pain. "Go away!"

"Sylvester Steele?" they heard a soft voice.

"I said I'm not here!"

"I'm looking for Sylvester Steele," they ignored Sylvester's cries. "The artist?"

Biting down a curse, Sylvester decided that ignoring their unexpected visitor would be worse than answering, so they rubbed their head in soothing circular motions before marching to the door and almost pulling it off the hinges from how strongly they opened it.

"What!" They spat out.

The person on the other side didn't seem to mind much, only moving with a minuscule wince as the door crashed against the wall. Sylvester allowed themselves a moment to get used to both the outside and the overwhelming amount of sunlight. And then, as the colors burst into brightness again, they studied the stranger: the person was very petite, probably early twenties. Their hair was cut short around their jaw in small brown ringlets. They wore a gentle smile, and Sylvester noticed dried up clay messing up the tidiness of their clothes.

"Sylvester Steele?" They asked again, and that's when Sylvester noticed something more.

Though the person's features were kind and gentle, ugly bruising surrounded their eyes, casting out the skin around them in angry red indentations, the whole scar thick and amorphous on their face. Sylvester's first thought was worry, how painful it must be --- and they were no stranger to the uglyness of burns. Finally, they realized the other's eyes were closed shut.

"Hello?" The stranger wondered, head tilting to the side in confusion. "Are you Sylvester?"

"Er--" Sylvester spluttered in shock. "Yes, that's me?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't sound sure," the stranger commented, mouth turning upside down into a frown.

"Well, har, har," Sylvester scoffed. "Unluckily, I am indeed, Sylvester Steele."

In a mere instant, the stranger's face radiated with excitement. It was almost painful for someone who had been stuck inside for a long, long time. Sylvester almost had to turn away. Almost.

"Great!" The person smiled, wide and strangely familiar. "That's... that's awesome."

The artist leaned back against the door frame, and felt oddly out-of-olace. "Can I help you, kid? I don't want any cookies."

"You can!" The stranger's lips twitched with a smile. "Help me, that is! I have been wanting to meet you for --- wait, you don't want cookies?"

"Er ---," Sylvester stumbled. "No?"

"How can you not want cookies? Who doesn't like cookies?"

"I meant ---," they cut themselves with a weary sigh. What was up with that kid? "Nevermind that. Who the hell are you? And why are you here? Outside my house. At Zoite-knows-what-hour-in-the-morning?"

The stranger didn't turn bashfull at all, breaking Sylvester's expectations. Rather, they smiled even more brightly. Sylvester would always wonder how it was possible.

"I'm Marisol Martinez -- pronouns she and her," she introduced herself. "I am a student at NMU, in the sculpture arts program."

"Good for you?"

NMU, also known as New Mahr University, had been where Sylvester had studied once upon a time, and it was hard not to let the casual mention of the past break through their already wobbly mental walls. Kay had also studied there. In fact, that was where they had met for the first time --- and if Sylvester's info was correct, he also worked there nowadays.

Kay, the celebrated art professor.

Fucking great for him, then.

Sylvester shook their head, pulling themselves out of their thoughts and turning their attention back to Marisol with a force that left them dizzy.

"I..." she hesitated, scratching her head. "I actually met you one."

The artist scratched their head, blinking twice in slow-motion, but the memory eluded them. "When?"

"It was during one of your exhibitions, about four years ago," she explained, her hand gripping tightly a white stick -- probably a pencil -- in her hand. "I think that you were still in university. I was fourteen. You talked about your art, and it was really meaningful to me."

Feeling the headache coming back in full, Sylvester almost let out a curse. Great. The last thing they wanted was to have a reminder of what had once been thrown out at their face. Just fantastic.

"I'm glad," they muttered, looking away from the student.

For a couple of minutes, they both stood still. The shadow of the studio's inside fiving Sylvester an unsteady lifeline, yet contrasting deeply with the sunlight. Birds chirpeed in happiness over them, and they almost wanted to yell at them to shut the hell up.

The fire inside remained constant. There was no way to turn it off these days, no water strong enough to douse them off.

"I was there," Marisol burst out, breaking the silence. Sylvester couldn't decide if it was for the best.

"You were---"

"At the gallery," she interrupted. They felt their throat dry out instantly. "The 'Forgotten Past' exhibition. Your exhibition."

"You were there," Sylvester repeated, almost voiceless.

Their eyes reached back to look at hers, the way they were stuck shut with angry burns. As if she could feel their gaze, she lifted a steady hand to her burnt eyes, as if she was not a living and breathing reminder of Sylvester's own failings.

"Why are you here?"

There was no way this could be anythinng other than another repudiation. She had seeked them out so she could tell them to their face how everything had been their fault. How their paintings had been the reason for so much --no. There was no way she'd found them to say anything less than that. After all, it wouldn't be the first time, and Sylvester was used to the feeling of breathlessness, the almost physical ache that seemed to permeate their limbs, the itchy and painful feeling of their own scars on their legs -- insignificant in the sight of worse suffering ---

"I really admire you," she said instead.

Sylvester felt no relief. There was no world in which their blame could be laid to rest. The fire would never die, there was no water -- no matter how powerful -- enough to put it out.

"And I want to learn from you."

There was a beat of silence. A full rest of a second in which Sylvester allowed themselves to picture it -- how they'd always wanted something like that. Someone thay could guide, so that they could share the burden together. They let themselves imagine just how meaningful it would be...

"No," they answered, finally.

"No?" Marisol repeated, and for the first time Sylvester saw something other than the sun in her smile. "Why not?"

"Just no!" The artist exclaimed, feeling shame creep up their neck like fuel to the flames.

"No, give me a reason why you're saying no," she demanded.

"I don't owe you a reason! I -- will --- not -- teach -- you," they said, punctuating every word.

Just as she was about to open her mouth to argue with them, Sylvester stepped back into the familiar darkness and closed the door in her face.

"And please, go away!" They yelled, as if they were a child.

They locked the door and huddled back against the coarse texture of the couch. Next to them, the wall slowly became greasy with a dark-looking substance, and as Sylvester turned to look at it, they found themselves staring into the red embers of the scarlet haunting.