Oneshot (probably) set after Tuesday's episode. Amy goes home but there is still some lingering angst in the air...
The English language is rubbish. One word devoted to so many things. We should be more like that Eskimo language, with all its words for snow. Sy told me the other day that that's just a myth, but I bet they still do better than us. Kiss. One word, four measly little letters and a thousand different meanings. That welcoming peck on the cheek from the friend you see every day, the brush of crepe paper lips against your head from the moustachioed great aunt at Christmas, the teenagers breathlessly making out at the bus stop, deaf to the catcalls echoing around, the wedding couple promising their future with the meeting of lips. Close-mouthed, marauding tongues, on cheeks, on foreheads, on lips, on bodies, in public, in private, furtively, brazenly, routinely, rarely, casually, intensely, pledging a vow, betraying a trust. How can one solitary bloody word mean so much and so little? Or maybe I've got it all wrong again, maybe it's a good thing, a reminder to the more stupid of us that that which is the most beautiful can also be the most pointless, and that the greatest feeling on earth can also be what causes your heart to shatter into thousands of painful shards.
I'm standing in the kitchen, washing up the debris from our dinner, letting my troubled mind shift through the mess of images that barely constitute as thoughts. We are quiet again, now the searing heat of our argument is all but embers and the chuckles of childish glee have gone dancing out the door and down the street. I used to hate the quiet, the way it forced you to think and rethink about things that clogged up your mind. I appreciate it more with Sy, the way it gives him time to think and speak to me of what exists deep within, the way it offers me a chance to just be with him. But at times like this I remember why I hated it. And the traditional and time honoured tactic of going out and getting hammered until my brain can barely remember which way it faces let alone anything else, well that is definitely out for reasons that are all too obvious and depressing and shameful. I wash and I dry, slowly and carefully, hoping that by the time I finish my mind will be as clean and clear as the now gleaming crockery in front of me. Eventually however I concede defeat, and leave the semi sanctuary of the kitchen, returning to my Syed. He is standing in front of the CDs, his dark hair falling helplessly into his eyes as he picks up each case with an over-casual air. Time to stop thinking, I decide, pacing determinedly towards him and turning him round into my arms. But as I lean in to kiss him, to let the angst and the pain finally melt away, he pulls back, pulls away from me and leaves me standing helpless and empty. It's been a long long time since he last pulled away from me and even though I guess I deserve it, it still hurts like hell. I thought we were okay now, I thought... But I don't know anything.
"Sy-" I begin, but break off when his outstretched finger finds my wanting lips.
"Shut up." His hands run down my arms, pinning them to my side. "And don't move either."
My body shakes under the steely gaze that seems to penetrate right through me, leaving me exposed and aching, but that avoids meeting my eyes. His fingers find their way to me, grasping the fabric of my shirt, smoothing the rumpled checks and tantalisingly prising each stiff button through their holes. I dare not move, holding my breath in eager anticipation as he reaches my jeans, but he merely tugs at the shirt, pulling it fully out and finishing his work. Pushing the sleeves down my arms I watch him watch me, his eyes drinking in my body, following the muscular curves in my arms. But his eyes are not merely darkened with their customary desire, but shrouded instead, hidden in a world I am currently excluded from. I remain still, the blood pulsing through my veins, throbbing to the swish of the second hand as it makes its way round the clock, the combination of Syed's fingerlight hot touch and ice cool demeanour messing even more with my stupid fucked up brain. And as those talented fingers reach to my jeans, breaking open the button and ripping down the zip with determined slowness, the electricity in my brain short-circuits, sending needing impulses to my cock. He kneels in front of me, glancing up once at me, and I know he knows exactly what lust-filled thoughts his position causes to flood through what remains of my conscious mind. His strong lean hands tug patiently at the rough denim, allowing the material to drag over my rigid flesh and craven desire. I clench my fist, feeling the imprint of half-moons grow in my palm as I urge my body to maintain a kind of restraint I barely knew I had. The tight material of my boxers is now straining, begging for attention, for release, for a touch, wordlessly calling for all that my muted mouth can only long to plead for. Yet still he continues his silent, near sombre ministrations, returning to my crotch, lightly, firmly hooking the waistband over his thumbs as he lowers the boxers to the ground, eliciting a barrel of desperate, breathless gasps to fall unheeded from my suddenly dry mouth.
Moremoremore touchmetouchme ohfuckjusttouchme pleasepleaseplease runs the silent refrain of my hushed mouth. So far his touch has still refused to find my shivering flesh except by accident, preferring to linger on my now discarded clothes and allowing me only the briefest of longed for and much needed contact. But now, as I stand naked and suddenly, strangely, vulnerable in front of him, he concedes to my pleas, running a single nail idly down the taut muscles and goose-bumped skin of my stomach, scratching lightly over sensitive spots, teasing tufts of hair under his blunt nail. I hear the sound of muffled keening sobs and only vaguely recognise it as my own voice. I am on the edge of collapse from a single touch and he is still fully clothed. Shit. I'm not sure if this is a game, or a test, or something else. I barely know my own name right now. All I know is that I trust him. And I want him in any way he can give me.
A single stride and he moves so close to me I feel dizzy from the waves of his warmth washing over me. He leans nearer, his lips nearly brushing mine and my body dares to inch just that little bit closer as I continue to wait so so fucking patiently for him to kiss me, finally finally kiss me.
"I thought I told you not to move," he murmurs. "Shut your eyes and make sure you keep still." I hear the slight tremble in his voice, the tell-tale sign of what I do to him and I cling to it keenly, his body could never lie, he is still mine. A tinge of relief joins the cocktail of feelings, as frustration mingles with anticipation, all tangled with the lust that pools heavily in my groin from his teasing touches and unyielding restraint. I follow his orders, eyes closing, body stilled, obedient to a fault. I wait, and with my eyes shut my other senses seem more alert, constantly aware of Syed's presence and my need. I smell the distinctive, tempting earthy scent of his hair, his body, wafting slowly from under my nose. I listen to the quiet pad of his bare feet on the carpet, walking around behind me. I feel his heated breath moving down my sensitised back, blowing lightly on the exposed skin of my arse and my thighs. Talented trained lean fingers work their way up the tensed muscles of my legs, kneading and stroking, threatening to tip me over into a boneless mass of molten lust. Strong hands turn to blunt nails, lightly scratching around the contours of my back. The hot tip of his tongue traces a line up my spine, slick wetness smoothing over the grazing of sharp stubble and the tickle of tousled locks. His clothes are chafing against my bare flesh, the rough material of that bloody kilt rubs harshly against me, pressing into me, forcing every aching trembling expanse of skin to contract. I shiver as he reaches my neck, a shiver that turns to a gasp when the soft pressure of his mouth changes suddenly, sucking hard, his teeth biting, his lips pressing so hard I know I will feel the imprint for days. And then, nothing. He pulls away. Dampened skin quivers. Taut muscles throb. Muffled vocal chords stifle a sob.
My eyes fly open when I finally realise that he is in front of me, and I watch as he leans forward, his tongue lapping gently at the hollow of my throat. A mouth that moments ago was possessing, marking, owning, is now tenderly caressing in a gesture so loving that it causes unheralded tears to spring at the corner of my eyes.
"Sy, I am so so sorry." I whisper painfully.
He leans back from me, finding my gaze and staring deep into my eyes. "Yeah. I know."
"I'm a stupid twat."
"Yeah," he assents, but then his voice softens. "Sometimes."
Realisation hits me hard in the gut. "You're too good for me."
"Maybe. But maybe not." His hands run gently down the side of my face, and I turn to kiss his thumb as it passes by my lips, catching sight of the brief flash that this sparks in his eyes.
"I love you," I tell him, honestly, sincerely.
He doesn't reply, merely leans back further from me, his hand falling back to his side, bringing me back to the present; here I am exposed, naked in front of his concealed presence. It hasn't been this way for a long time and I feel an old familiar stab of pain twist into my gut. I look down, away from those unfathomable depths partially obscured by the shade of dark lashes, until his hand reaches out, gripping my chin, forcing our eyes to meet again.
"It will never happen again." His forceful voice states.
"I promise."
He edges close to me, so close I can feel the damp warmth of his breath hit my face as he speaks. "The only man you kiss, is me. The only man you sleep with, is me. The only man you come home to each night, is me."
"You're all I need, Sy. You're all I want."
He smiles, a real, complete enchanting smile that finally reaches his eyes, that lets the sunlight back into the gloom, that lets the fireworks start to explode in my heart. "Show me," he murmurs into my mouth, his hand sneaking round the back of my neck and pulling me into the kiss that I would wait a lifetime for. The kiss that starts to heal the pain.
Some kisses would be meaningless, if it wasn't for the fact that they threaten to rob your life of all its meaning. Yet others are of such significance that man has never created enough words to describe them.
He kisses me, and I am redeemed.