#daltoneering

Winnie stomps one of her feet, making the wide leg of her orange pants thwap almost as loudly as her white sneaker hitting the pavement. “June.”

She’s pouting now, and—shit—she’s whining, and June is so weak when Winnie says her name like this, full of want and frustration. Her throat goes dry and her tongue turns thick in her mouth, entirely contrary to speaking, but something in June’s face must give her away, because Winnie’s pout turns into a smirk as she sidles up to June’s side, resting part of the plush’s weight on June’s shoulder.

Without thinking about it, June takes the plush, relieving Winnie of her soft—and surprisingly heavy—burden.

“June,” Winnie says again, almost a purr in June’s ear. “What’re you thinking?”

“Nothing,” June says, and it’s not entirely a lie. Her mind fuzzes out more than it used to now, even moreso with Winnie around. Only some of June’s struggle can be explained away with the magical trauma she put herself through; the rest belongs only to Winnie and the whims of fate.

“Right,” Winnie says, and she sounds… disappointed, almost.

June frowns. Why is Winnie disappointed?

Before June gets the chance to ask, a blast of wind drags the music of the carnival toward them. Winnie’s face lights up at the sound of it and she dances to June’s side, hugs her through the plush, and tries to drag her toward the source. June, knowing full damn well what will happen if she gets too close to the music, stays put.

“Junie,” Winnie whines, torn between the heavy thump of the bass and the woman she loves. “Come on.”

“I’ll stay here,” June says, offering Winnie a wan smile. She wishes she could go with her and be swallowed up by the hypnotic thrall of neon lights and strange lanterns, but June knows better, knows that it will all dull and die the moment she ventures in. But shit, does June want this.

Winnie’s fingers dance along June’s skin, gentle and scalding all at once—yet again, June wonders if this is a side effect of their magic or if it’s something natural, and, as always, she finds no answers. Just Winnie tucking herself under June’s arm, laying a fond kiss to her shoulder, and whispering, “You’re lucky you’re cute, because your taste in music is awful.”

Scoffing, June tries to get a good look at Winnie so she can properly engage in this next bit of flirting, but she forgets about physics. And, you know, the limbs of the maybe-bear plush.

“Winnie!” June calls as she wrestles the plush into submission, trying to see where her partner (in crime; in life; in love) has disappeared off to.

Predictably enough, June spies Winnie’s lovely poof of hair disappearing among the crowd, slipping into the carnival. June cranes her head to see Winnie laugh with delight, head tilted back as she stares at the string of rainbow lightbulbs hanging over the walkway, and a soft warmth fills June’s chest, makes her feel sure and solid, like she could do anything if only she put her mind to it.

Hell, she probably could, things being what they are.

Knowing that Winnie can still hear her, that Winnie is still so attuned to her, June cups one hand around her mouth and shouts, “Bring me kettle corn!”