Title: The Dare
Theme: #51. Sport
Characters: Fakir, Ahiru
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Princess Tutu does not belong to me, obviously. It belongs to someone else. Someone not me. Yeah.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” there was a small pause, during which only the sound of their breathing could be heard. Then, again, as if the previous words had not been enough to emphasize the hilarity of the situation at hand, Fakir felt the need to repeat himself, “I really can’t believe I’m doing this,” despite the fact the words were terminal in nature, as if he really had submitted to the fact he KNEW he was, in fact, doing ‘this’, there was still a hint of incredulity to them. How in the world had he ended up like this? After yet another pause, the boy frowned, “Why am I letting you do this, again?”

“You promised,” came the almost petulant remark from the girl behind him, her small hands weaving strands of his hair deftly, “And you lost the bet. Stop pouting.”

Right. He’d promised. God damn him and his sense of honor; it was that damned, knightly sense of honor that had not allowed him to backpedal the moment he had realized the deep trench he’d caved himself into. Still frowning, the dark haired boy allowed himself to take a peek over his shoulder, watching the girl braid and play with his hair, her blue eyes trained on the locks, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she worked.

“Stop moving!” no sooner had he peeked over his shoulder, Ahiru forced his head to look forward again, somehow keeping the braid entangled in one hand, while the other was used to aim his face forth, “You’re messing up my work!” this done, she set back to do her so called ‘work’ once more. Somehow, despite the fact he couldn’t see her due to his position, sitting on the field, with his legs crossed while the girl remain in a kneeling position behind him, he was sure her blue eyes were trained on his hair.

God damn those eyes of hers, too. Screw his honor; it was all her eyes’ fault. He’d never had agreed to any of this if it hadn’t been for those eyes; he’d been utterly unable to turn her down the moment she’d aimed those clear blue eyes at him. What was wrong with him? Instantly, his frown turned into a scowl, and Fakir trained his sight on a poor, random boulder that had the misfortune of being positioned in front of his line of vision, trying to (unsuccessfully) disintegrate it from the face of the earth through will power alone. Had the poor rock been able to though, it’d have flinched, cringed, and ducked out of sight, no doubt, for the intensity of his scowl was only deepening as moments flew by.

It’d all started days ago. Ahiru had randomly rushed up to him when she’d encountered him in one of the hallways and had practically demanded to race him. He’d had more than half a mind to refuse said dare (after all, the girl was a natural born klutz; she was bound to somehow to fall down and hurt herself along the way, and he would be damned if he was going to allow that), but the way she’d turned her wide, blue eyes up at him had been lethal (in his honest to God opinion anyhow; those eyes should be banned, illegal and damned to hell). Instead of refusing the dumb dare, he’d inexplicably found himself blinking and nodding for all answer. He was still mentally kicking himself over this, trying to figure out just what the hell was wrong with him. The answer never came.

Later that same day, after he’d had time to think, he figured that one race couldn’t be ALL that bad, and surely the situation would not have catastrophic results.

He’d been wrong.

Apparently, the race Ahiru had wanted to do, was a swimming race. She wanted to race against him in a God damned swimming pool. Which, quite honestly, wouldn’t have been all that bad, had it not been for the bet the girl wanted to partake before they even set foot inside the water. In his defense the revelation that they were meant to race in a pool, with swimming suits, had startled him enough to leave him speechless due to the rather colorful possibilities his mind kept conjuring unbidden and unasked for, making it hard to think. Thus when the dare had cropped up, 90 percent of his mind had been occupied with other thoughts, rather than the here and the now, which meant he had basically not only not heard the extent of the dare and the terms of it, but had also agreed to it without giving it much thought.

And then, she’d won.

Who would have guessed the walking disaster would actually be a good swimmer? But then again, his mind had later thought, it was only natural, for she was a duck, and ducks could swim well enough, which inevitably lead him to kick himself even further, because he was a bloody idiot. The fact he’d kept staring at her during the race had not helped his winning chances much at all either, really. And he had found himself wondering yet again; what, in the name of God, was wrong with him?!

The terms of the dare (which he had hardly heard in the first place anyhow), dictated that if he were to lose the race, Ahiru would be allowed to braid his hair and he’d have to wear the stupid ‘do to school the following day. He couldn’t even remember what HE would have gotten if he’d won the damn bet, which needless to say, was bloody pathetic on his part, but then again, in his defense, his mind HAD been mostly occupied on other… things that day.

In fact, recalling back, most of the day was rather fuzzy, and all he could remember clearly was the damned race, and Gods, he was bad, bad, bad for thinking about it and it was wrong, wrong, wong, yet for some reason beyond him, he couldn't keep his mind out of it. It was all rather vexing, that's for sure, “Are you done yet?” the words were hissed through gritted teeth, the fact his thoughts were swirling in rather colorful ways somehow masked in his voice; granted, he sounded annoyed, but at least the redhead wouldn’t be able to tell WHY he was annoyed, “This sitting position is uncomfortable,” he added as an after thought.

The girl in question seemed rather unaffected by the gruff attitude, “Yup!” she chirped, then, she placed the ribbon she’d been holding on her lap, in his hair before patting his back, “All done!” this said, she stood, and managed to contemplate her work from her standing position for a moment before he followed suit. Pleased, Ahiru smiled up at him.

He frowned his response, “Why?” it was a strange question coming from him; he usually never questioned much at all (except himself, and that was done silently). However, he felt curiosity burn within him, for he could simply not understand why she had done any of this; there was some ulterior motive, there had to be.

Instead of answering right away, the girl twirled once, took one step back away from him and clasped her hands behind her back, “Because you always look sour,” she told him, earning herself another scowl from the obviously disgruntled boy, “But I know you’re not nearly as sour as you make yourself to be,” the boy’s scowl melted into confusion at this point, “I wanted to find out if your hair was soft, or rough,” and this said, the girl turned from him and began to walk away, looking happily pleased, as if she’d somehow figured out the truths of the world thanks to their little session. Having walked only a few paces, she turned to glance over her shoulder at him, still watching his face, which was, amusingly enough, fluctuating from annoyed to confused and back again, “It’s soft; just like I though it would be,” and then, she walked away, looking much like a child that had found her way to the cookie jar.

Something told Fakir that she wasn’t quite talking about his hair anymore, and that the words had an underlying meaning he could not quite discern at face’s value. Somehow, he wasn’t even all that annoyed about losing the dare anymore.