Tutu

Each step sent blackness rippling around Fakir's feet, much like water. Like water. As he stared down, he could not find more than a simile of liquid below him. He had no idea what it actually was, and he didn't want to keep walking on it, because he had no way of knowing if the surface would continue supporting him. It was plain that he was not being given a choice in his path, however, and he had to fight a not-entirely-irrational fear that he would sink into a fate worse than drowning.

“Oh, well, isn't this so exciting?” A drawl stretched over the plink of footsteps. Fakir stopped, that voice chilled him to the heart, but only annoyance was obvious on his face. Annoyance and pain, as though he was listening to nails on a chalkboard.

“What?” As Fakir said the word, it was a cutting demand for information, but he couldn't say for sure if that was how Drosselmeyer heard it. The echoes of  the boy's voice were too loud, warped into fear and thrown back at him.

“Why, dear boy, I can tell what it is you attempt to do. You know...” Drosselmeyer grew into view, gaining color along with form. “Now that I'm here, I may as well-”

“You may as well leave,” Fakir almost snarled. “Now. I'm not doing anything that would interest you.” It was an honest answer, as far as he was concerned. He had no intention of writing the kind of story that would capture Drosselmeyer's attention, and if there was anything he had less intention of than that, it was allowing the author to lurk over his shoulder as he worked.

Drosselmeyer blinked, rather taken aback by that. Then he burst out laughing, and the edges of his flat white teeth in that purely amused smile were more threatening than any hunter's grin. Fakir knew that the author would stain any manuscript he could get his ink-drenched hands on, even if only in an attempt to read it. “Why would you think I would offer you anything?” He sighed like the indulgent uncle who'd had one request too many made of him. “I'm only here to watch. It's only fitting for you to spin the beautiful story that I could not. I suppose that the older generation must yield to the fresh and fit youth, eventually.”

Fakir eyed Drosselmeyer, anger boiling paradoxically in his cold tone. “Do I have to tell you again? Leave. You aren't going to get anymore entertainment out of us.”

“Hmm? Us? What's this 'us?' You mean you and that duck, don't you? She's the only other one without a story to return to, especially with you trying to make your own story. You'll wander into it, become lost in your own creation's power. It will leave her all alone, won't it? But don't tell me there's nothing to see, because I've already seen it.” Drosselmeyer leaned forward, hands clasped behind his back, and suddenly he was towering over Fakir. He plucked a fist out from behind his back, opening it directly before the boy's face. A pair of gears caught in each other there, their motion continuing smoothly regardless of gravity as they hovered above Drosselmeyer's palm. Fakir stared back with a face set like an oak carving, an art form beyond Drosselmeyer's skills to effect. He ignored the gears, speaking through gritted teeth, “I'm writing a story for people to read. It's not your toy or mine, and if you can't separate stories from reality, then you shouldn't be writing.”

“Why not? Isn't it better to treat the world you spin as real? To give the people in it some properly deserved respect? They can do so much for you, if you just make them do it,” The words skipped from Drosselmeyer, and if his voice hadn't been so deep, one might have said they were carefree enough to trill. Fakir hesitated, taking a step back, seemingly in some hope that the distance would help him decide what to do with this argument. The liquid beneath him rocked with waves and solidified, cracking under his weight, as if that brief pause alone had been enough to cost him all solidity in his head. Light silently spilled in from below, and then he found himself in darkness once again. This darkness was different, not utterly black but diluted with the sun peeking under the curtains.