CHAPTER 62: 62: THE STRANGER RETURNS IV

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Fizz floated forward with a handspan and put on his best voice of sensible authority. "Before you speak, please understand the depth of my sacrifice. Water has opinions. Fire has opinions. Making them shake hands inside a wooden bucket requires both diplomacy and personal charisma. Fortunately, I possess both. Now, kindly hop in before the charisma evaporates."

John stood. "No."

Fizz blinked. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. He tried again. "No did not sound like thank you. Let me check my ears. Hello ears, are you working." He wiggled both ears. "Yes. They are working. Therefore, your answer is wrong. Try again."

"No."

Fizz floated in a small circle, one paw on his forehead as if he had been struck by a tragic sonnet. He pointed at the tub, at John, at the tub again, and then at the ceiling in case the ceiling could be shamed into intervening.

"Do you know how much mana I used. A mountain of mana. A whole hill of it. Perhaps a respectable mound. The point is that I used a lot. I did it for you. For your pores. For the happiness of those pores. They have written me letters of gratitude in my mind."

"I appreciate the effort," John said. "No."

Fizz gasped so hard he rolled backward a little. "You appreciate me and yet you reject me. This is a complex emotion and I do not like it. I am a simple cute fur. I enjoy food, naps, explosions, and being adored for my good ideas. You are injuring my soul."

John stepped to the side. Fizz slid neatly into the way like a tiny gate that refused toll payments.

"Out of the way," John said.

"If I move, your destiny will take one step closer to smelling like a tree that hugged another tree for too long," Fizz said. "I will not be an accomplice. I have standards."

John folded his arms. "I am not getting in that tub."

Fizz dropped the act for one heartbeat, just long enough for his ears to dip and his glow to dim. Then the theater returned, larger than before, like a stage play that needed to be seen in the last row.

"You do not care about me," he said, and he put so much tragedy into it that the cat outside paused and looked at the door. "You left with me for fifteen days with no good food but my charm and an empty snack bowl. Did I complain? Only a little. Did I curse your doom ball that hums at your hand like a smug beetle? Perhaps. Did I stand by you when you vanished my cute fur? Yes. I only bite you once for that suffering. And now I produce a bath with my own two metaphorical hands, and you tell me no as if no is not a knife that you are thrusting into my soft and trusting fluff."

John closed his eyes. "Fizz."

"I should leave," Fizz said, turning slowly as if delivering a farewell speech to a crowd of tens of thousands of worshipers. "I should go out into the wide world and find someone who truly appreciates me. Someone who will say thank you Fizz every time I breathe. Someone who will feed me good food on a small golden plate. Someone who will brush my fur in the evening and say your fur is a national treasure. Someone who does not smell like bark."

John opened his eyes. The ridiculous picture made the corner of his mouth twitch, but the little drop in Fizz’s glow had not returned. For all the jokes and funny songs, something in the tiny elemental’s voice had been honest. He floated closer to the tub and the steam made him look smaller, as if pride leaked out with the heat.

"Fizz," John said again, softer now. "I am not refusing because I am stubborn. I am refusing because there is a reason."

Fizz stilled on the spot. His ears lifted. He did not interrupt.

John sat back on the bench and rested his hands on his knees. He looked at the tub and then away from it. He kept his gaze on the knot in the plank floor between his boots. It was easier to speak when the knot did not remind him of water. "Something happened to me when I was twelve years old..."

"After that day," he said, and he did not add which day because Fizz would know in a moment, "I avoided baths. I did not stop cleaning. I am not a swamp creature. I use cloths. I warm water and I wipe down and I take my time. I pour a little through my hair. It is a routine, and it works for me. It is not laziness. It is a way to finish the task without starting a fight inside my own ribs."

Fizz floated closer by slow degrees. He did not crack a joke. He did not flap his arms. He hovered there with the intent look of a sparrow considering whether a hand was safe.

"When I try to sit in a tub," John continued, "my chest decides that water is an enemy. It is not a thought. It is not a choice. It happens before I have finished telling myself that everything is fine. My lungs get tight. My hands start to claw for an edge that I know is there. I hear noises that are not in the room. My breath goes from steady to hard. It feels like the air has been stolen and I am supposed to pretend I do not mind. I can stand beside a river. I can cross a stream. I can drink from a cup. But if the water pushes up against my ribs, the world narrows to something I do not want to live through again."

Fizz’s ears had flattened again, but not with petulance. With sympathy. His glow brightened a little and softened at the same time.