Current mood:	cranky
Current music:	Lothlorien by Enya

This is a Kiss

Author: Mushroom
Rating: R
Random drabble
Dedicated to Bobby the Fanboy who salivates over muscular-but-sorta-skinny men like whoa. Cheers to you!


Notes: Doncha worry guys, I will STILL continue Pallida Rigida Nudula, but for now it's on hiatus. You're saying that I'm busy and depressed? OMG HOW DID YOU KNOW? -_-'




I tell Winter, “Oh god, you have that weird lovey-thing going on in your eyes again, stay away from me” and he grasps my flailing arms with gentle fists and pulls me towards him…then wham, you know? (Ouch, that hurts.) My senses go insane and scatter their attention in other directions; my ears hear mumbling, my fingers feel air. I feel so defenseless so I thrash about, but my nerves ignore me. It’s difficult to push him away. It's scary. He always follows me around, not much like a dog, but far from human. He sends me things. He describes things I care less about.

He breathes very oddly through his nostrils and it tickles me, so I shiver and giggle for a few seconds. His body remains stiff and concentrated—nerves, maybe. I hear the pattern in Winter’s breath, one-two-one-two-ooooone-twoooo, like the sound of wind blowing against your window, delighting at the chaos that came after; flying paperwork and a slamming door. My eyes blink open and I wait for my mouth to regain its ability to speak, but Winter won’t budge.

Winter’s always like that. I recall seeing him in our classroom, earlier than the rest, writing nonsense on the blackboard. I watched him word his emotions in ease; every passionate, hurried loop of trained writing was another discovery. It was four-thirty that time.

I glance at the wall clock. Four-thirty! What am I supposed to do during four-thirtys? I hastily search my memories for my daily habits…ahh yes, there’s this TV show I’m supposed to watch during four-thirtys, but that’s only on weekdays. Drat it, why is today a Sunday? I should be doing productive things during Sunday. I feel Winter’s fingers snake around my waist, forcing me to step forward and press my chest against his. Our heartbeats are crazy. I am supposed to be doing something during Sundays. If only I can remember…

Soon my eyes open yet again, desperately looking for something that can help me think rationally. They land on the paperwork. Oh yes! I need to finish my term paper in Philosophy. But the paper is due next week, and I’m not sure if the requirements I jotted down are correct. Nevertheless, the papers! They’re strewn all over the place. My foot takes a step backward, but damn, his fingers are pretty stern. My foot decides to go back to its rightful place; my toes press against Winter’s, which wiggle a bit in enthusiasm.

There’s music. Downstairs. People! There's a party taking place in the room right below us, below our touching feet! What are they doing, I wonder? Why wasn’t I given an invitation? ...That’s right! I’m supposed to be jamming in a bash, talking to new people and making new friends, during four-thirtys and Sundays. But I wasn’t given an invitation. (That isn’t fair.) Winter moves his hands slowly upward; his fingers trail teasingly on my spine and my neck and my lips are—he pushes deeper like a stubborn fool—and his other hand strays…somewhere down there. Who knows what he’s doing…fuck, I can’t answer that. All I know is that they expect me in that party, everybody invites me…

Do the people downstairs know? How can they have a party without me, when we have a philosophy term paper to finish? Anyway, the music rages on, louder this time. Surround sound. Surrounding us both. Oh lord, do they know that we’re the only ones here? The window is open, and the breeze comes straight in. The wind is an uninvited guest, but it still blew my things away. Can the people downstairs hear Winter breathing funnily through his nose? It seems so loud—I turn deaf for a few seconds. Stubborn fool. I laugh a bit, and he prods my lips to form a round O, just round enough to fit his slick tongue.

If the people enjoying the party downstairs see me like this…oh, they’ll laugh. They’ll tell. Will my friends complain if they see me like this? See me so vulnerable; right now Winter's lips are making all those strange smacking noises that are meant to be erotic. My friends might leave me. I won’t have any friends. Winter is my only friend. What will he think if he…oh, he is my only friend, at least in an honest basis. That explains everything. OH GOD RIGHT THERE—I quickly scan my bedroom. My parents are smiling from this photo I keep with me in my diary. My diary—such a girlie thing—is one of my secret thought-outlet that Winter reads for fun. They’re smiling from my journal, unaware of what’s happening to me right this moment. Unaware of the desecration brought about by Winter to their only son. What would they say? “Torin dear, you’re behaving like a bad boy.” It’s unlikely, though. They know me—my preferences, my feelings toward love and other sins. They’ve known Winter for many years, and they trust him. This is expected. Yet—

My ears perk. Now they’re playing Vivaldi! Why on earth would they play Vivaldi? A Sunday party, at four-thirty in the afternoon, Vivaldi…they don’t make sense at all, even if you place them together. Winter’s tongue leaves my mouth, but the taste is still there. His lips kiss my jaw line, moving about insistently. “Wait” I say, but his hands conquer me; I could only listen to Vivaldi. It is getting quite warm. He devours my neck and shoulders, wetting my skin. I sweat profusely. Is it really this hot during Sundays?

If the people downstairs are listening to Vivaldi, then they’re not having a party after all. Everything makes sense. Wait—they could be having a tea party! This means that they should’ve invited me still. Why didn’t they? It’s too hot in here; I need escape from this heat. Winter holds my waist. The tips of his fingers tiptoe along my hips, touching them at leisurely intervals. Then he pushes my lips apart again—this time swiftly, and so I gasp—oh god, I can’t, I can’t…not now, there is a party and the window is open and they'll hear us…

He speaks against my mouth; “Pay more attention to me.” I feel his p’s form puckering lips, tongues rolling with his r’s, o’s swallowing my tongue, t’s touching my teeth. His letters bruise my now slowly-dissipating rationality; god, they feel wonderful.

“This is real. Focus.”

I moan so loudly that my knees break, and we grind against each other in sensual strokes...losing our composure completely. In minutes, in seconds, in moments of hitching breathing and smiles...

My senses return. My eyes leave the study table—the paperwork? Winter and I can work on it later; he writes well, especially on blackboards. And they close; there is light in between black and red. It is soothing. My hands discontinue drifting amongst uncertain air by placing themselves on Winter’s heaving chest. My fingers strategically caress his shirt buttons...to tease, to make him breathe. At that moment of comfort my ears close themselves from Vivaldi; instead, they listen to the familiar pattern of Winter’s breathing. One-two-oooone-twooooo. He smells nice, too.

I concentrate on The Important.

Fire sparks and skin contacts skin...he just removed our clothes with those impatient hands of his. The bed is near, so we both fall almost instantly to drown in the sheets and our own wanting.

There are Sundays, four-thirty afternoons, philosophy papers, parties, parents, people.

Then there is this.



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END

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