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Aqua Love Bubbles
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She sits up, then, and leans forward a little. “See, like, most of the talking on dates is like — I don’t know, it’s kind of like small talk. But we’ve known each other for five years now, so that seems kind of stupid.”
Lamb nods. It does seem stupid.
“Sometimes you talk about why you’re on the date. Like, what you like about the other person.”
“I like your hair,” Lamb offers, since her mind had conveniently just wandered there.
“Thanks,” Strip says, cheerfully. “I do it myself.”
“I know that already.”
“Well, see, that’s where the five years thing gets in the way.” Strip lays her legs over Lamb’s lap, and Lamb likes that a lot. She works on not just staring down at their crossed thighs as Strip continues. “But I bet you didn’t know that I like yours, too.”
Lamb glances up, briefly. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Didn’t suit you, when you joined up. Like, just the ponytail, or whatever.” She reaches out and catches one of the hanging strands between her fingers, lifting it. “This is cool.”
“Oh.” Somehow, this is heating Lamb’s face just as quickly as the proximity is.
“It’s also cool how you’re keeping up with us, even though you’re stuck on Capri Sun,” Strip adds. Lamb grimaces a little. That’s Strip’s pet name for blood donation bags. “It’s cool how when somebody gets you started on witch-blades you just, like, lose your shit, you know, like you can talk about them for an hour straight.”
Lamb wishes she had something to focus on but there’s nothing to count out here. Just grains of sand and dirt and their four legs, arranged into a cross on the ground. She tilts her head back, looking up at the sky, but the stars aren’t any easier to count than the sand is. “Are you making this up?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“People are annoyed by that,” Lamb counters flatly. “When I talk that much about witch-blades.”
Strip scoots forward, the backs of her thighs pressing into Lamb’s hip. “What ‘people,’ dude? Who else do you talk to? ‘Cause I’m not. Sirloin and Rack aren’t. I know for a fact the General’s proud of you for it, and Mignon thinks it’s impressive, too.”
Lamb shrugs, again, loosely. She keeps her eyes up.
“I’m being dead serious right now,” Strip insists. He slings one arm around Lamb’s shoulders. “Like, talk about it. Tell me something about witch-blades.”
“I don’t know,” Lamb mumbles. “I’ve probably said it all already.”
“I have a shit memory.” Lamb can tell Strip’s looking at her, though she won’t turn her head to meet his gaze. “Listen, okay, tell me about forging. Like, we’ve learned stuff about the blades themselves, but not a lot about witches. How long’s it take to learn how to make one?”
“...It depends.” Her eyes drift back down — not to Strip, but to her own free hand, now laid lightly over Strip’s knees. “Everything depends, when it comes to witchcraft. Some could get it after a few months of trying — I mean, not that it would be good, but that they’d manage to forge an object out of an intention. Some witches might try their whole lives and never be able to do it with anything, let alone a blade. But I think, normally, it would be a case of… maybe a year to be able to forge at all… and then maybe ten, fifteen years of study to stabilize it and make them well enough to start selling them? And this is only if a witch who has already mastered it is instructing. But…”
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