By The Chichi Slaughter House
Warnings: Original characters, shoujo ai, one-shot.
I want to kiss her.
As I watch her lips move – forming words that I am meant to be listening to – a shudder races through me and I get a tingling in my spine as I imagine for the billionth time what it would be like to press our lips together, just for a second, wondering how warm her lips are. I can imagine my hands running through her beautifully thick blonde hair; the strands flowing over her shoulders and down her back as our tongues would tangle and her soft gentle hands would grab at my arms as if she desired more.
But I can imagine a lot of things, and this shall sadly just stay a fantasy.
I am here, at school, looking up into her blue eyes as she looks down at me, telling me how her newest boyfriend had only been using her for sex, then had dumped her. She’s speaking of how much she loved him and how betrayed she is feeling as she is sat on my desk, whispering what has happened in detail to me when only two things are going through my head.
What a prick her ‘love’ had been since I had met him, and, of course, how much I want to kiss her lips and tell her that I’ll protect her from that scum.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking. It’s so obvious from the expression on your face. You think I have a one-track mind. Well, guess what? You’re wrong! I’m also sort-of thinking about my art project too, but we both know that that’s boring and that you’d rather think about us kissing. I know I do.
So, anyway, I do not have a one-track mind!
It’s just that everything else seems so boring when she’s around, like, she lights up any room she walks into, excusing how corny and cheesy that sounds. It’s like everything’s in black and white and she’s there in blues, reds and blonde, and I can’t help but think about her. She’s my best friend, and I’ve always loved her to bits, no matter how poor her taste in boys is. Though I never realised just how much I loved her til a few months ago when we had a sleepover and I felt my heart race as we got changed and talked for so long that she fell asleep next to me. I didn’t sleep that night; I just watched the way her chest moved as she breathed softly, brushing her gorgeous hair from her face with my hand whenever it blocked my view.
It was so obvious after that night how I truly felt, and I spent weeks trying to convince myself it wasn’t true.
After all, in a town like ours, being gay is as offensive as walking around naked and screaming disgusting things at strangers. Plus, word gets around so fast in my school that everyone would know within an hour if I showed it, even the tiniest little bit.
But anyway, it’s hard to not think about kissing someone when you can see straight down their shirt and feel their hair brushing your neck, their soft breath on your ear as they whisper…
“Mel, are you even listening?”
Oops, well I was kind-of paying attention…she’s still talking about him, so I guess it’s okay to insult him without insulting her taste…
“God, he was such a wanker.”
And that was all I really needed to say. As soon as she heard it, she looked so happy, nodding feverishly at me and continuing about how she’d never trust a man again. Funny how this is the third time this has happened, the third time she’s said that, and the third time I’ve thought cheekily that she should trust women instead. But I know that as she rants on and on about this guy that it’s going to happen again and again.
And it’s a shame, really, that I’m not a guy.