My bare feet swing back and forth in the air, as I lay sprawled out on my stomach, comfortably resting in the sunken slope of the mattress, having long since been indented to the silhouette of the boy who used to occupy this space for years.
"Come on, hurry up, I want to hit a few balls before it gets too dark," I exasperatedly spit out at him, a small grin peeking out across my mouth to show I'm only half serious. "Who assigns homework over the holidays anyway?"
He looks up from his homework and stares back at me from the floor, his cornflower eyes slightly flicking to my lips, before settling on my swinging legs, as he launches a pen at me.
"Hey!" I screech, as I quickly vacate my position for a sitting one, grabbing the pen that had bounced off my legs and contemplate throwing it back at him.
"Are you gonna throw it back?" he asks with a tilt of his head. "It's kind of hard to finish without a pen to write with," he argues with a teasing smirk.
"No can do, lo siento," I taunt back. "That means, 'I'm sorry,' by the way. Feel free to credit me to your fancy professors with that answer, if you find something else to write with."
"Oh, you're gonna be sorry, alright," he threatens with a glint in his eye. Stalking over to the bed, my heart rate picks up the closer he gets. My position changing again, as my head hits the wall his bed is pushed up against, my legs extended out towards him, ready to protect what's now mine.
His hulking figure hovers above my lithe, slender one, his hands easily finding purchase on my sides, despite my feet digging into his chest, attempting to keep him at a distance.
"Give me the pen, Bird." Busting out the childhood nickname that's reserved for his use and his use only. Clever. But I know it's his way of counting to five before he carries out his threat.
I shake my head, scrunching up my nose before a resounding "nope" comes out of my mouth with a pop.
His hands are everywhere before I can even take a breath. Howling laughter erupts from deep in my gut, as I curl into a ball, attempting to make myself smaller, my defensive position long since forgotten. My t-shirt has quickly inched up my torso in the struggle, leaving his hands to swiftly blaze a trail of heat on my bare skin with every touch. My laughter dies down, my breathing more shallow, gasping for more. I peek at him through hooded lids, and I know he notices, evidenced by the grunt of realization on his part.
Quickly pulling his hands away, like he'd just touched hot coals instead of my heated stomach, he stands up to full height. Slowly backing away, his head now turned down, while his right hand rests on the back of his neck, slowly rubbing, a nervous habit he's had since he was a kid that's turned far more endearing as the years have passed.
I sit up, ducking my head in embarrassment, black tendrils covering the faint blush creeping its way across my cheeks. Lately that had been happening a lot. The looks that lasted just a little too long, light brushes against each other that seemed on accident, but happened so frequently that it couldn't be anything but purposeful, each time sending electricity from the point of contact straight to my core. And each time, I found myself drawn closer and closer to him, and he seemed to pull further away after every encounter.
We'd been friends as far back as my memory would allow. Every picture, every story, every scar, every moment of my life was somehow intertwined with his, right down to this moment, tinged with an awkward blurry line.
We were inseparable, always had been. When we were younger, the older kids would often pick on him, teasing him about not only hanging out with a baby, but a girl, nonetheless. I always half expected him to ditch me altogether to hang out with someone his own age, instead of a scrawny girl with no business tagging along with someone so much older. He never did though.
I remember the the first day of school without him, my mother had dressed me in a maroon dress, much to my dismay. I'd have much rather preferred jeans and a t-shirt, my usual attire even to this day. But she'd insisted that the first day of school was cause to dress up and look your best. So I trudged off to school by myself, he having left earlier, because he was in middle school now, a fact not made unknown to the bullies who always found it amusing to tease me about my "boyfriend." Looking back, it was probably because they all had a crush on him. Not surprising, the same still held true to this day. You'd be hard pressed to find a girl who hadn't written Mrs. in front of their name with his name attached at the end. At recess, one of the older girls came up behind me, pulling my braid, teasing me that he'd finally grown a brain and ditched me. When I dared to state otherwise, she'd pushed me. Hard. My knee had been scraped, my dress torn. And while it hurt, I was more upset about the possibility that maybe she was right. Maybe he had been glad to have finally rid himself of me. I couldn't tell him what happened. I didn't want to find out that he didn't really want me around.
That was the first time I ever lied to him.
"I should, umm, finish this, you know, because I have, uhh...things to do," he murmurs, motioning to his abandoned homework on the floor.
Vacating the bed, my bare feet slap the floor as I walk towards him, while he continues to step back, refusing to even look at me. My hand reaches out like I'm searching for a lifeline in the dark, making contact with my anchor, my rock. Only, he jerks away like he's been struck by me.
It's my turn to flinch back now. Worrying my lip, my face contorts into one reflecting confusion and hurt. Never, in all the years we've known each other, has he so blatantly rejected me.
I thought things had been going well this past week. He'd come home from college for the holidays, surprising us all. I'd been helping his sister decorate the tree, my mother having planned to work through Christmas, leaving me to be pawned off on the neighbors, who'd become more like family over the years more than anything. From the moment he walked through the door, we'd fallen right back into old habits. Attached at the hip or whatever cheesy description everyone was always spitting at us.
He'd made me hot tea, always convinced that someday I would eventually grow to like the taste. My face scrunched up in distaste enough times until he dumped it out, conceding to making me the hot chocolate with marshmallows that I'd originally wanted, and then he'd pretended to be annoyed when I stole some right out of his cup.
Or when he'd insisted on driving when we'd gone to hang out with other friends, because despite my protests that I was a much better driver than him, he'd insisted that he didn't get to drive all that often at school and missed it. Whatever. I think he just liked to not so subtly watch me squirm with worry at having to ride in the passenger seat. My need for control ever present. And when I'd grabbed onto his leg when he'd gone over a pothole, his head had whipped to me with a heated look, his blue eyes almost black in the dim of the lights overhead, that I'd held my hand precariously on him longer than necessary, before slowly extricating myself from him. He'd remained silent the rest of the drive, and had carefully made it so we hadn't been alone together that whole night.
As I stood staring at my feet, my lip stinging from having bitten it too hard, I couldn't help but think this was it. This is how it ends, isn't it? That fear I'd had all those years ago of him eventually abandoning me had finally come to fruition. He was in college, he had his choice of friends, of girlfriends, and they didn't have to include a childhood neighbor that had been nothing but his annoying shadow for the better part of his life.
"Hey," he whispers with a tinge of worry in his voice. Lifting my chin up with his finger, tilting my head until my eyes meet his. I only realize I've been crying when his hands then move to grip the sides of my face, the pads of his thumbs lightly brushing away my escaped tears.
I stare up at him like I'm waiting for a sentencing - likely banished to spend the holiday in my vacant house with nothing but memories and what-ifs, while he spends it with his family, happy to have rid himself of me.
It's what I deserve.
It's what I've come to expect.
Everyone abandons me eventually. My father having left us when I was a baby, wanting more from life than the burdens I brought to him. My mother, stuck with a mortgage and a growing, precocious girl, forced to work non-stop to support us. And although her abandonment was out of necessity, it was still present. The feeling of never being good enough, of feeling like at any given moment, I was going to wake up, alone, confused, with nothing but questions of how I could've possibly ended up here, swirling just below consciousness every morning. But then there was him. The boy who kept me sane, kept me safe, kept me grounded to reality when the stress of everything bubbled to a boiling point.
And now he was going to leave me too.
I look at him through glistening eyes, really look at him. His blue eyes twinkle back at me, like they're holding a secret, his slight stubble peeking through, and his bottom lip, which seems to be taunting me, not unlike the time I'd busted it open on accident by batting a toy straight at his mouth. My hands start to wander, as he stares silently at me, waiting for my next move. They trail up his t-shirt, mapping the planes of his chest, until my hand rests squarely over his heart, feeling the gentle thumping of his heart, steady, solid. There.
My lips are on his before I can talk myself out of doing what I've been thinking about since he got home, even longer if I'm being honest with myself.
Any hesitation on his part is lost as soon as it began, as he immediately responds, pulling my body flush against his.
He tastes of cinnamon, a thought that only causes me to take his bottom lip and suck on it. His hands slowly climbing from the sides of my face, to tangling in my black tresses. And I can't help but moan into his open mouth, causing him to grunt his approval right back.
With little experience in this particular field, what started as an spontaneous act on my part, falls to him to navigate where to go, as I stiffen in embarrassment. And as I attempt to pull away to save face, he halts me, taking my top lip for one last last kiss, felt with silent grin, and I back away slowly, keeping my eyes closed, as if he'll disappear much like sweet dream if I open them too quickly.
His gentle laugh is what has me blinking back up to him.
"What was that?" He asks with complete bemusement.
I feel drugged, foggy, and I just gaze back at him, my hand still resting over his chest. I dip my head to rest on my hand, completely embarrassed. So I say the only thing I can think of.
"Lo siento."
The laugh he lets out echoes through the house; the boyish smile spreading across his whole face causing my own smile to sneak out, as he dips down to capture my lips again.
Only to be interrupted by the slamming of the door opening, ricocheting off the wall, causing a crack to ring out.
We jump apart as if we were caught in a far more compromising position. The blush creeping up my whole body, as his sister gawks at the two of us with a knowing smirk.
"It's about damn time," she rings out.
AN: Thank you to anyone who actually took the time to read this! This is my first attempt at writing anything for Blindspot and only my second attempt at writing a fic...ever. I've been so drawn to the character of Jane and her relationship with Kurt since the pilot aired. I couldn't help but wonder what would their relationship have been like if Jane was Taylor and had never been taken. This is something that just popped into my head late one night. I tried to post it before the midseason finale, but apparently you have to wait 24 hours after creating an account to actually the post the story. So I ended up altering the ending a bit to go along with their actual first kiss. I hope you enjoyed...at the very least didn't hate it too much. Please, leave a review, let me know what you thought. And again, thank you so much for reading!