Author's Note: I've been working on this story for AGES, and it's finally, at long last, completed. Hurrah. And hey, it's the longest oneshot I've ever written (to date). Anyway, it's a cheerleader-tastic femslash. I felt like I owed it to Paige from being mean to my own characterization of her in my story Kyrie Eleison. I tried to get to know her better with this story. Sure hope it worked.
Feedback is greatly appreciated, as usual. Don't hold back those reviews :]
and I own nothing.
You decided to put her in charge of picking out music for the routines. She's good on Spirit Squad, she's been doing it for a while and fits well. Might as well give her something to do, you know? Even if it's empty, a placebo of sorts; everything's going to come down to your decision anyway, but giving the girl a job makes you feel accomplished. Your power only means something when you can dole it out it to other people. You're pretty sure it is. Being in charge of the entire squad feels most meaningful when you can give other girls trivial duties.
So you're expecting some bubblegum. Same-old same-old cheerleading style music. It doesn't bug you that it's always the same; you know it's crap, but hey, that's Spirit Squad music. It is what it is. Pussycat Dolls, Lady Gaga, maybe some old-school Britney for a splash of creativity. You expect that when she gives you a burned CD after practice, rummaging through her duffel bag and handing it over before she runs out the door for her ride.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she says. Her messy bun is slipping out, and your calculating eye kind of likes that. You're going to try it for yourself when you get home (but it probably won't look as good in your mirror, sloppy never really looks sexy for you, you're high-maintenance after all). She hands it over and goes. You pop it in your CD player on your way home, knowing you'll never remember to listen to the thing unless you do so now.
It's Freezepop. The name comes to you instantly out of nowhere, from the deep recesses of your memory. It's one of those house music types, one that Dylan used to listen to. He would always mix CDs with rave and club music, full of synth and pulsing bass. You recognize this song, it's one of the ones Dylan had you listen to. And you're surprised that it would go pretty fucking well with a routine, that you had never thought to use this kind of stuff, and that Darcy Edwards of all people would pick it out.
The handsprings and flip-flops are blossoming in your mind, all the possibilities that would be perfect for this.
The next day you decide not to wait until practice. You find her in the hallway, approaching her as unthreateningly as possible (because sometimes, most of the time, you tend to get in peoples' faces and demand your questions). She's at her locker, pulling out books delicately. She's very pretty, calm and unfocused like that.
"This CD you made," you state bluntly, and she looks up with cool curiosity.
"What do you think?" she asks, and you're glad she does so, because you wouldn't have known what else to follow up with if she had just stood and waited for you to talk more.
"It's… really good."
She giggles, which is strange to you since it's a familiar sort of reaction and you're hardly even acquaintances. "Don't sound so shocked."
You're thinking of mentioning Dylan, saying more about it, maybe smiling, but that's the part where she's done pulling out her books and she shuts her locker door and turns to look at you. You hadn't planned on sticking around this long, chatting. Her brown eyes and smile are easy, waiting for a reply. You'd really better get to class.
"I'll see you later at practice," you say shortly, in that tone of voice that says "maybe we can continue this conversation then, if you're lucky and I remember." She just waves while you turn on your heel. You probably won't remember to bring it up later. She might, because it's her job, but as long as you don't approach her first it'll be fine. It's all about that balance of power, you know. That's what you tell yourself.
She does talk to you first. "Hey Paige," she pipes up from behind you, while the other Junior Varsity members of the squad roll up the mats and the other girls go to get changed.
"What?" you snap automatically. It was a really fucking bad day; you got back two bombed tests and practice sucked (probably because you were already pissed about the tests). And now your ponytail is slipping out too; messy does not suit you.
But… oh, you turn around and it's her, the picture of teenage vitality in her tight Panthers t-shirt and short Soffee shorts, her bright eyes caught off guard by the bite in your voice. She hesitates.
"Oh," you deflate, passing the back of your hand over your forehead. "Sorry."
Her smile comes back slowly. You wonder if she ever frowns (but she does, you've seen it before, just that she hasn't when talking to you). "It's fine," she says smoothly. "So when do you want to go over the music for the routine?"
You pause, opening your mouth and then closing it. Since when has this placebo turned into a real job? Since when have you let it? You just shrug. "Whenever," you reply lamely.
"Do you want to do it today?" she continues matter-of-factly, "Because I don't really have any other time this week besides, like, now."
This time you're ready and you actively don't hesitate. "Okay," you answer firmly. "Sure." You probably would have said the same even if she had asked to talk about changing the uniforms to chicken suits. Anything to sound authoritative like the squad captain you are; anything to not hesitate.
The first time she comes over is that day. You don't say much on the drive there or on the way up to your room; for some reason, your mind is a map that is all about getting where you need to be. For some reason you're all business, and all vacancy, and all distraction.
But Darcy doesn't seem to care. She follows you quietly, contentedly. When you bring her to your room she stands looking at your assortment of picture frames, smiling, while you boot up the computer.
"These are cute," she says sincerely, her brown eyes smiling crescents.
"Thanks," you reply, looking up for a second. You're glad her back is to you, so she can't see the hesitation on your face. Why is there hesitation even to thank her? Why is there surprise at every action?
"This one's my favorite," she comments a few seconds later. "You guys look so happy together."
Your heart skips a beat, and you instantly think Alex. But then you remember you removed that picture weeks ago. You look over at the frame she's picked up, and see that it's the shot of you and Dylan on his graduation day. It's your favorite too; your arm is slung around his high robe-clad shoulder, and he's smiling with the easy charm of simple, sunny joy.
He's just off at college, but it all feels like he's died. You sure miss him that much. Having a big brother like him was perfect… is perfect, damn it, because he's not gone, he's only gone. You could talk to him about anything, back when he was just one room away, especially the important stuff. The scary stuff. The stuff he understood with painful recognition before you ever sat on his bed that night and broke down, sobbing, in his arms. You cried more before you ever started dating Alex than you did when you split up. Dylan was the only one who understood how fucking scary it was. He went through it first.
"You miss him, don't you?" Darcy asks thoughtfully, rousing you from your thoughts.
"A lot," you admit.
The next time she comes over is nearly a week later, several days before the competition. You hadn't got anything done the last time (what was there even to be done?), since Darcy suddenly remembered a doctor's appointment, swore, and had to leave in a hurry, so you meet up again, on a Wednesday after practice. Again, it's at her prompting. Although, she'd made a mashup of the songs just to have something to practice the routine to. There isn't much you needed to be going over for this empty job anyway. But it's actually kind of nice having someone else truly taking care of one of your Spirit Squad duties. And not just for the sake of your power.
You both sit at your computer that Wednesday afternoon, browsing your iTunes library. Everything's on there, all the good music and hundreds more songs like the ones on Darcy's burned CD. She leans into the screen, absorbed, her eyes glowing and mouth smiling at all the familiar names.
"Look at all the MSTRKRFT you have!" she exclaims. "Easylove, I never put that one on the CD, but I was thinking about it."
For some reason you'd gone through all of Dylan's stacks of CDs in his closet a few days ago. You uploaded them to your computer last night.
"Don't you love that song?" you blurt, unconsciously shifting in your chair and leaning closer to the screen.
Darcy double-clicks. "Whenever you want me," she sings along faintly, "whenever you need me. If you wanna love me, baby I'm easy."
You smile slightly. "It's such a slutty song."
Darcy laughs aloud. You end up putting Easylove after the Freezepop song, Stakeout, for the routine.
It was a job after all, for her. You underestimated this girl. And after the planning is all over and the competition is coming up, you still feel a little dazed by the curious quickness with which she had stepped up.
You think about calling Dylan and telling him all about it, but you don't want to hear him making the connections you know he's going to make. He doesn't know what he's talking about. Fuck, he knows you far too well.
Besides, your head's wrapped up in the competition. It has to be. In the few days leading up to it you snap like a piranha at everyone. You fail another test. You put your hair up messy when you get home, but it's not really even on purpose and you hate how it looks. You push the girls on the squad so hard at practice and borderline bully them, but for the most part their heads are in this too. Still, they hate you like this, even more than they usually hate you. The younger girls especially – they call you a bitch behind your back. They like to complain after practice and roll their eyes during. Freezepop pulses in the gym and you snap at them, do it again. Spread-eagle, spread-eagle. Handspring.
Darcy screws up the least out of all of them. You guess it's because she likes the music so much.
The squad does a good job at the competition. Stakeout (biding my time, yeah I know that you'll soon be mine) speeds smoothly into Easylove (whenever you want me, need me, love me, feed me), amazingly remixed for you as a special favor from Jimmy. And the last move is sweat and adrenaline and huge fake grins and bright lights and an overwhelming white noise of cheering and applause. You all bound off the mats and behind the scenes, happy and excited for yourselves, and then scatter for Gatorade and phones and the bathroom and god knows what. It's a madhouse in there. Girls in different colors from different schools zoom by every which way in packs, everyone has to shout to be heard over the music from other routines out there and directions being yelled.
You watch from a dim backstage nook just off the side of the western-most set of mats, among a huge pile of some squad's duffel bags, while some green and gold team does a decent job to that new pop song you kind of hate. You chew your nails absently, calculating how well this squad is doing compared to Degrassi. Degrassi's better, you decide, but you always figure Degrassi's better. There's always vain optimism to beat those other schools. You always hold your breath and pray the others do poorly.
"Hey." Darcy jogs through, breathless, and catches your arm. "Paige, have you seen Manny?" she shouts. You shake your head no and she looks around the small space. "I'm supposed to give her her phone," she explains, leaning in close to you ear and yelling like you're deaf (though the music's so loud, there's really no choice). She indicates the device in her hand by waving it in the air.
"Have you tried the lobby?" you yell, tilting forward near her hair. The music roars.
"What?"
"Check the lobby!"
Darcy's laughing into your ear as she has to shout it again, the crease of her smile reaching her eyes. "What?" You're still gripping each other's elbows.
You lean and press your mouth against hers.
It's done in a way that's like a hook on a line, the way you move on impulse like that. Together you press warmly, hair swishing like curtains, like the curtains that close you off from the mats and the hallways teeming with girls. Darcy pulls back from the firm, thoughtless push in two seconds and you're looking at the hem of her uniform. You're more hypnotized in confusion than she is, her eyes narrowed and puzzled. Yours are blank and puzzled. It's like someone else did it.
Her lips form the P of your name once before she speaks, breathing deep once, then "Paige?" The word is raspy and cloudy. You're mute.
Then you're not. "I'm sorry," you say, frowning, using the same conviction with which you'd agreed to have her come over more than a week ago. Firmness is an easy, automatic response; it blocks out seeing her face. So does turning on your heel and leaving. That's why you do it. It's like the instant after that first time Alex had ever kissed you; when you faltered, said right, then, and left without a moment's thought. But now Dylan's room is an hour away (by bus), and he wouldn't even be there for you to drop in with your questions.
He never prepared you for feelings for girls who don't even like girls. He never prepared you to recognize it in time to stop it.
You march down the brightly lit hallways of the conference center, boisterous crowds of cheerleaders everywhere you look. Soon you run into Hazel and a few others, sophomores, you think, who ask if you've seen Manny. No, you haven't. And you're gone within seconds, wanting water, wanting some squad captain duties to busy yourself with. You don't want to think about Darcy, and you don't want to think about the other teams out there doing well. Because Degrassi is the best because it's your squad, because you had the most original song track even if the judges don't notice; you noticed. That's all that matters.
And you're already on to using trivial things (that really mean a lot to you anyway) to distract yourself. And so you move on to the hellish following week.
If not for the fact that you're who you are, squad captain, imperious and generally not giving a fuck, this awkwardness would be torture. But you're good at ignoring this kind of thing and plowing onward with determination. It's that right then and leaving the room.
You really try not to even look at or speak to Darcy, but that doesn't do enough because you think about her. You keep your back to her in practice, your proud chin tilted away, or your voice loud and betraying nothing at all; it's one hell of a defense mechanism to avoid freaking out, but it's not completely fail proof. You still notice the way she bites her nails more often than she used to. You still notice the way she never casts her eyes anywhere near you when you're facing her. But you wonder at her eyes maybe being on you when your back is turned. Maybe they're tinged with distaste. You're sure they are.
But it was like that, those repelled and judging eyes, times a thousand when you'd first started publicly dating Alex anyway. You've weathered that before.
Still, where a lot of reassurance was needed back then, maybe a little reassurance is needed now.
"Dylan, I need to talk to you."
His voice comes through the receiver, tiny and cheerful. "Sure, Paige, what's up?"
You cast a hesitant look around your room, at the lamp and throw pillows, like at any moment they're going to come to life and discourage you from saying this. Because if you say it, if you ask for advice, that makes it finally, ultimately, real. You had been so good about it all so far, too – besides the whole kissing slip-up at the competition. But you'd done so well at ignoring those troublesome feelings that you hadn't even fully realized they were there. Maybe you figured it out when you kissed her… figured it out beforehand, and that's why you did it? Or maybe your body just went and did it and when your lips met that's when you realized that awful truth? Either way, you went back to ignoring it after the fact (just forget you even took those tests, let alone failed them, it's in the past and keeping it there where it belongs will make you feel better). But now… now you're doing the unthinkable.
You tilt your eyes up to the ceiling like you'll find your resolve there, lips tense.
"I think I like a girl," you finally admit. "Again."
"Okay," he says patiently, in that rubbing-hands-together-in-anticipation voice. "After Alex that's not so much of a personal problem for you anymore, though, is it?"
"That doesn't make it much easier," you protest stiffly. "I'm still not used to this." The way you speak is as though you can't believe this information is being dragged from you. You've got your pride, you know; and lots of it.
"Yeah, I know," Dylan's condensed voice chides from the receiver. "But I also know you pretty well, sis, and I know you're tough enough to handle any insecurity you might have over your sexuality, and not give a shit about what anyone else thinks. So tell me, what's the real problem?"
As much as you hate to admit it, he's right. Initially you were scared to death of liking girls and maybe being gay, but now you know it's who you are and if anyone has a problem with it they can suck it. "She's straight," you blurt.
There's silence on the other end for a moment. "Ahh sis," Dylan begins uneasily, "I hate to break it to you, but it's futile with heteros. Things never-"
"I kissed her."
This time the silence is longer. "…Shit, Paige." He sounds worried, gloomy, and slightly impressed.
"I know."
"Why the hell did you do that?"
"Because I wanted to," you respond stubbornly, your inherent obstinance surfacing.
"Well, that was a mistake," Dylan sighs. "Straight girls will break your heart, Paige. It never works out."
"But how can you know that for sure?" you demand, exhaling hotly through your nostrils. You never meant for the conversation to take this turn; all you wanted was to know how to suck it up and get over it. Now you're arguing as though you're scavenging for some hope about Darcy or something.
"I just do!" Dylan exclaims, exasperated.
"Yeah, I wonder if anyone ever gave Alex that advice."
The line goes quiet, and you know Dylan is over on his dorm room searching for an answer to that one. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his head through the receiver.
"That was different," he says finally. He doesn't sound too entirely convinced himself.
"How so?" you ask impatiently.
"Because…" He flounders for a moment. "Because you don't just go gay 'cause of one person, it doesn't work that way. You were always gay, sis; it's, like, in genetics."
Now that you've found a loophole you're clinging to it. "I was straight before, I dated and liked guys for years up until that point. Maybe the gayness was hibernating or something, but it didn't seem like it. It was like a one-eighty turnaround."
You grasped at your straws and you projected. You never came right out and said you were projecting your mind-shattering philosophy on your hopefulness towards Darcy, but Dylan isn't stupid. And you've never really been subtle, either. When it comes to getting the information you want, you've never really had the shame to coax it out inauspiciously. Sure, you might halfheartedly play the part of coyness, but it's just for the sake of delicacy and civility most of the time. You tend to be pretty bald and in-your-face about extracting information, though, and that's probably because you have little to no shame.
In a good way, though, you like to think. Not like Manny Santos shameless.
So the following day you disregard your pride (yet still clutch it tight, your voice will hold testament to that) and screw up your courage (though you're actually terrified, but the fear's channeled all the way down to your toes, curled stiffly in your flats, and there's no other chinks in your armor). You forget about steeling yourself to be unthreatening, and instead stalk right up to Darcy's locker. Again.
"Hey." You announce your presence breathlessly. She turns to you, surprise on her mouth and eyes.
"Hi," she greets slowly, in a strange voice like she's learning the basics of English. And, peculiarly, a fragile smile tugs at her lips, just like every other time you've spoken to her. It's probably automatic. Her lips haven't caught up yet to the condition of awkwardness.
And that's when you realize you had never thought so far ahead as to exactly what you would say to her. But hesitation will be the death of you, really, even if it's only in the insecurity of your own mind where you have to be on top of things and have to have something to say. That compulsion is just part of who you are. It kind of makes you.
"Will you come over today to go over music for the halftime show on Friday?"
She cocks her head and furrows her brow, confused at your invitation. It's not what she was expecting. In fact, she's probably surprised that you're breaking the silence and talking to her in the first place. Still, she plays it off relatively quickly.
"Sure," she agrees. "Okay."
"Cool," you confirm firmly, nodding your head once like an exclamation point. "See you at practice." And again you turn on your heel and march away. It's another twenty minutes before you finally unclench your jaw.
So the third time she comes over is on that Wednesday, after a particularly long and grueling practice. You're in a sour temper, but once you get up to your room you're in a better mood because you've cooled down during the car ride. Darcy just sat placidly beside you the entire way, looking out the window and toying with her messy bun.
"I like your hair like that," you mumble while you throw your bag on a chair. You wince at your tone, sounding grudging and like you're only saying it because you're obliged to for some sake of manners. In that split second before she says anything, you scowl at the wicker of your chair and pray that she knows you never say anything nice just for the sake of being nice. Or something like that.
"Thanks," she replies with a small smile. And instead of dropping into a chair in front of the computer, like she had the last two times like she lived here or something, she stands and fidgets with the hair ties on her wrist.
You clear your throat. "So for Friday it doesn't have to be anywhere near as complex as the competition," you begin, crossing the room in several strides and busying yourself on the computer. "But I liked the kind of stuff we used for that so I figured we could use some of the same songs again." You stare at the screen forcefully. "Unless you have any other ideas."
Darcy sits down next to you. "No," she answers thoughtfully, tucking her long, coltish legs underneath her. "I figure this is a good theme to stick with."
"Right then," you say rather stupidly. This whole agree-with-everything-to-seem-judicious thing is getting a bit tired. "So… let's put something together." You realize as you click aimlessly, face burning, feeling self-conscious, that you don't know what your aim was in having Darcy over. You don't know what your plan was, if you ever had one (which you totally didn't), and the whole thing is really seeming like a mistake right now.
Soon you get to browsing your playlist again, though, and that almost makes everything better. Darcy's eyes light up at the music she likes, and she eagerly points to the screen at some song and artist titles. You get caught up in it, too. It's like having Dylan back, enthused over some song he'd heard at a party over the weekend, making you listen to it. Only Dylan never smelled like strawberry bubble gum. And only Dylan never made your heart pound.
"But we've gotta put Freezepop in there again," Darcy insists.
"Yeah?" You smirk.
"Yeah." She giggles, and the sound surprises and thrills you.
"Oh, is that so," you challenge. You don't even realize at the time that you're flirting; it just happens, stemming out like ink from a broken pen.
She laughs again and leans over you, playfully going for the mouse. You reach for it at the same time, and oh fuck if it isn't so cliché that you both freeze when your fingers touch. Suddenly it's like the temperature has dropped ten degrees. Or risen fifteen. But you can't help it because unlike in the movies, this time it's for real, there's no denying the tangible spark between your skin and hers. And you know in a split second what you're going to do (but no, conscious action has nothing to do with it), what's going to happen. You're going to go back in time and you're going to be Alex, and she's going to be Paige.
You make it about Alex too often, though. You're still Paige.
You lean in slow and torturous, as though you're giving yourself time to change your mind and stop, as though you're sensing the way her bubble gum smell gets stronger with every centimeter you lean nearer. Both. All you notice before your eyes fall shut is that Darcy's half-lidded eyes are on your lips and that she's breathing loud and shallow.
Too scared to say no, too uncomfortable to move, heart drumming like a rabbit's?
It's possible, it's likely, but god you pray for the slim chance that it's not.
You don't know who closes the gap first, but the gap is closed, pressing wet electricity to your already-quaking heart.
Contact.
Darcy's mouth is warm and sweet, like a baking oven, and her lips are slick against yours from her pink lip gloss. You press together softly, tentatively, slowly testing and tasting; it's the first toe in the shallow end of the pool. Your mind races through imagery and metaphor so quickly because you don't know what this really is. And you can't think, either, because this kiss is just absolutely mindless submission. Impulse. Instinct. Autopilot.
Blank for everything but comets and warmth.
And, in some kind of perfect synchrony, you pull apart at the same time. Like the spell has broken. As you eyelids pull apart too, slow like Velcro, you find yourself afraid of what you'll see. You wonder if you were making a mistake again, and Dylan's warning flashes through your mind. And your lips feel cold.
"Wait," Darcy says in the instant you open your mouth to apologize. Her brow is furrowed, her eyes clouded with thoughts running a mile a minute, and she looks at your lap.
"I don't want you to say anything yet," she continues in a low, thoughtful voice.
You're confused but you keep silent. Puzzlement pulses through; she's telling you what to do. It's alien. Then again, so is everything else in this entire moment. So you bite your lip and try to figure out where to cast your eyes.
Finally, after several quiet moments, she meets your gaze. "I don't want you to apologize again," she says firmly. For the first time since you can remember lately, she's not smiling as she speaks to you. "I don't want you to run away from me again. I don't want you to shut me out again."
You open your mouth but all you can do is frown, perplexed. Your brain can't process what she's saying.
Darcy's eyes bore into yours, searchingly. "How do you feel about me?"
Your heart pounds like an anvil. You had never thought it would come to this. You didn't know what would happen when you pressed in and kissed her, but you had some idea that it would be the same mistake and the same retreat all over again.
And it's harder than ever to force that decisiveness. But it's you, and you have to. If you don't you will positively die.
"I'm attracted to you," you admit grudgingly.
Darcy exhales at your confession, her lips trembling ever so slightly. "I can understand a kiss," she says slowly, "but the silent treatment is a strange way of showing it."
Your resolve has fizzled. Now you really can do nothing but stare stupidly.
Darcy sighs again and fixes you with a gentler gaze. "I've figured you liked me for a while now, from the way you've been acting funny. It was kind of cute." At this, Darcy's lips curl into a reluctant smile. She then looks down and fidgets with the hem of her shorts. Swipes of loose hair from her messy bun fall (adorably) into her eyes.
"I'd never kissed a girl before," she says abruptly, looking back up. "Before you, on Saturday. I've liked girls before, but I've never… I really like you too, Paige." The last sentence is a jumbled, blushing statement, spoken after her eyes have returned to her lap. Still, her voice is even and unrepentant.
You open your mouth once, twice, furrowing your brow in disbelief. This isn't Darcy. This has to be a dream. There's no way that she could actually be saying this, feeling this; you may have argued for the hopes that Darcy wasn't straight, but you doubt that you had ever really believed it. You're far too much of a cynic and pessimist to fully convince yourself of hopes like that. For a cruel split second you think this might be a joke of some kind, but the red warmth slowly blooming in your chest tells you otherwise. Her confession was far too vulnerable.
"Really?" you squeak. Such a far cry from your usual self-assured dominance.
"Yeah." Darcy bites her lip as she smiles weakly at you. "If I hadn't got so frustrated, I probably never would have come right out and said it."
"You're really brave," you admit, offering a weak smile of your own.
"I don't know," she says modestly.
"Yeah," you continue. "You're more brave with your feelings than I was, and you're not even out. Everyone knows I like girls, and still…" You trail off, unable to find words that accurately express what had accounted for your inhibitions. "… But you really like me?"
Darcy flushes slightly pink. She bites her lip again, in a nervous and sheepish smile, and nods. You're dumbfounded. Here you were thinking she was too pretty to for you to ever have a shot with her. Here you were assuming that she was disgusted that you had kissed her back on Saturday. But that was just your insecurity, you being jaded, that made you just assume these things. But now that your misconceptions are shattered, so much more gushes out. You realize, without the tight glove of insecurity choking you (but that hasn't erased nervousness, your heart is still pounding), that you like her and you've liked her all along. It's instantaneous.
"That's…" You speak shakily, and the air is tight in your chest as your posture is drawn up in its characteristic rigidity. "That's cool." And you nod, businesslike, as you had when Darcy agreed to come over today. Understatement, in verbal and body language, is your unintentional forte. That stiffness surfaces, paradoxically enough, when you're feeling out of your element and yet it's you being most you.
"Oh yeah?" Darcy giggles, leaning in ever so slightly. "Is it cool?"
"Mhmm," you hum, unable to help yourself from grinning impishly.
"Really?" Her right hand rests on the seat of your chair, pushing against your thigh.
"Really really."
"You need to quit clamming up like that," she says, her voice lilting with concealed laughter as she takes your other hand and guides it through the air distractedly. "It's too cute."
She leans over the chair and above you, bending close the rest of the way to meet your lips. Wisps from her messy bun tickle your forehead.
"… all nervous and stuff," she whispers disjointedly as she pulls back a fraction of an inch from your lips. You feel her smile into you and your mouth moves the same way, contagiously. Your body relaxes like melting ice.
"Well," you murmur, pulling back again yourself. "I like you too." And even though it was kind of a given, confessing it is still like a leap from the high dive of the pool. You don't know how you ended up here, from crippling awkwardness to the sweetest kiss you've ever tasted. It all happened rather fast. You'd keep on thinking it's a dream, but it's all just too sharp to be denied. The pounding of your heart, the shaking of your hands and sweating of your palms, the small sound of Freezepop pulsing from your desktop speakers;
and oh you get inside my head,
I want you in my bed.
… the taste and smell of strawberry bubblegum. Bubblegum isn't so bad after all.