Who is the Girl in those Drawings? 【LOOKISM X READER】

dg's memory - #8 christmas.

"Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaames." You call from the kitchen in a singsong voice. "Are you out of cinnamon?" James can beat the loud clanking of the fridge being opened and then rummaged through. He sighs, standing up and taking long strides through the house, his bare feet slapping the hardwood floors of the corridor.

"Hm? Cinnamon?" He croaks, stretching wildly, his joints popping and his mouth yawning. You joke of his tendency to hibernate during Christmas breaks.

"Yes. Cinnamon. Don't tell me you—"

"Don't have it?" He grins, his teeth sharp and mischievous. "'Course I have it. It's Christmas." He says, reaching up to the top of a large, dust coated cabinet that would take you standing on the very top of your tiptoes to reach.

"How could I forget the Christmas cake that we always make?" He jokes, placing the small glass of spice down on the kitchen counter, next to a very weathered toaster— you recall hastily buttering a piece every cold, early morning you sent James off to his 'martial art competitions'. Oh how naïve you are.

You swiftly whip up a cake batter. It's thick with fruits and chocolates, ready to be baked in the oven. Almost ready.

You just needed cinnamon.

So you reach for the small glass jar of the spice, lift it up, and begin to shake it extravagantly into the glass bowl containing the batter, the spice clouding the air. It seemed a great idea until you realise halfway through of you pollenating the cake batter with cinnamon, that his face is right next to the bowl, his pink tongue poking at the thick mix of soon-to-be deliciousness.

He blinks once. Twice.

You scream.

The large, aromatic cloud had drifted right into his eyes, irritating them. James hands go to his eyes immediately, his balled up fists rubbing at them. He lets out an anguished groan and mumbles, one hand now going to his forehead to hide the sight of his now red and blotchy eyes.

"Oh, no, no, no." You say frantically, placing the tiny glass jar down with a high pitched thud and immediately reaching over to James to see his eyes. Your own eyes are red and blotchy, though not for the same reason as James. You're crying.

"Water, now!" You yell, surprising even yourself with your volume. You rush to get a cup from the cupboard and fill it with water, it's the only thing on your mind at the moment. The cup is filled, water everywhere— on the counter, your sleeves and soaking the floorboards of James' traditional home.

You soak his eye on your makeshift eye bath, your breathing haggard and shaky. He assures he's fine but your own tears tell him to be quiet and humour you.

"We— we can't waste time." You cry out, in more pain than he is, though yours is emotional. "Eye injuries, they're really serious." You croak. James breath hitches in his throat. His fists clenched ever so slightly.

"Eye injuries are really serious."