Another Taste, a sky high fanfic

To understand this clearly, you should read First Taste, first.

Anyway. Hope you like. I wrote it a little differently than I usually do in my stories.

I've always liked him. Even when he laughed evilly, holding me down against the table or a bed - even when he'd put forth strength in a kiss. It was all just for a taste.

Of course, I was just as bad. Usually it would be in the backyard that was separated from mine by a wooden fence. Sometimes it was in his living room. Or the car. The bus! Damn, even the school library. For just a taste. Can you believe this?

I think it was fate, really, for Mum to move us to Maxville. If she hadn't needed me to go to daycare, I wouldn't have been able to meet him. But the again, there was always school - but I didn't see him quite as often.

When we realized that we lived so close to each other, nothing but the stupid fence could keep us apart. Luckily, his dog was always digging holes underneath the wood, so he always managed a way to me. I would smile, wave, and he'd do the same, coming forward and nearly laughing, dipping his face a little for a tasteful kiss. I loved it, as twisted as it could ever sound to anyone. I loved the little force he pushed, because whenever he would find the taste, I'd find his. It was like an adventure with him sometimes, always trying to wonder what would come next. A mystery.

Our first kiss was when I was five. (He used to always remind me and say, 'five an' a half'.) He was six, and his residence after school was the daycare on Front Street. His sister, Fiona, was 18 at the time, hassling him to behave. But of course, being him, he wouldn't. He was mean, and cruel. He got his way, too, sometimes, but that was only when she wasn't breathing down his neck. Despite the fact that not a lot of people can remember anything before the age of maybe, 7 or 8, I remember the kiss. I remember his anger eyes, the fear of having a kid not be afraid of him, scaring him. I remember the vanilla ice cream, the spoon, the cold sensation dripping down my face.

And I remember fighting back. Did you really think I'd let anyone, even him, a boy I developed a crush on the instant I walked through the door, attack me with a spoonful of dairy? Ha, no.

So anyway. I fought back. And we got into this big fight, screaming at each other and rolling on the floor. I wouldn't have said so then, but I liked it. He made me feel weird, with a tingly feeling in my stomach, and butterflies floating up towards my mouth. And despite the screaming and tumbling and rolling around with it on our faces, I think, beyond his anger and annoyance for my love of chocolate, he liked it too, no matter how long he's denied it.

And then it happened. I dunno what came over me, but I just, kissed him. He was above me, his body squishing the butterflies in my throat to fly around my own body. And he looked so cute, being so angry with chocolate on his face, lips sputtering away the melting sugary treat. It was like instinct, really, when I did it - when I reached up and kissed him. No one's ever done something like that before, and I couldn't stop raving about how good he tasted. I remember him licking his lips, his eyes widening with something I couldn't place (He laughed at me once while I remember telling this story to someone - he said it was instant love. I tasted like vanilla - I was new, and he just fell for me. I laughed then, because I knew he'd only said that to make me smile) - and then he kissed me. I swear, I couldn't stop smiling - even then, I didn't know what was to become of us. I was five ('five and a half!', he'd call), alright? Back then I'd never worry about anything but what we were having for dinner.

Nowadays, we still laugh at how crazy we are ('about each other', he'd mock me, causing me to take a whack at him and feel his arms around my waist, dipping his face into my neck.). Sometimes we'll sit across from each other at the table and eat most of the chocolate and vanilla ice cream, but then our eyes would meet, and he'd be scrambling across it, his shoes scuffing yet another table, just to kiss me. He'd sit on top of my legs, enjoying the uncontrollable urge to do so. I'd laugh, and he'd try to shush me with a push of his mouth on mine, my head bending back from the push. I loved irritating him, only because it brought more force, making me smile.

You see, this is the part where I'd - ('what are you going to say?' he'd question, grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling, knowing full well how I'd react, how I felt. I'd gasp, but shake my head anyway) grab his hips to pull him closer, biting his mouth.

We like force, and a bit of pain. But most of all, we love the taste. And a lot of each other. Can you believe we've been like this for nearly twelve years? His sister Fiona almost had to chain him up whenever I would enter the daycare center. We were probably insane, but we managed to run away into the kitchen and laugh, kissing for taste, and getting food to share during a movie. And I remember the first time we slept together! It was when I turned seven, and it was naptime. We pulled our sleeping bags close together, zipped them tight, and when Fiona wasn't looking, I pecked him on the cheek before his arms had held me close. I think we were in love even way back then.

But I didn't understand what it meant. I thought love was like loving my Mum or a favorite teddy. But he told me it was different. That Fiona knew what it was and she told him what it was. I remember blushing, and he pulled me into a hug, whispering the three words I've only seen being said (I liked how my body tickled all over when he said 'I love you').

When we were younger, much more around the ages of nine and ten, our parents kept calling it puppy love. What was puppy love, compared to what me and him had? Puppies were puppies. Those little romances passed and they grew older. But this was different. Our love was not puppy love. And when they realized this, one night at the dinner table, the two families were shocked to see us together on the couch in the living room after dessert. What else, but chocolate and vanilla ice cream? You can imagine what they thought of us now. ('Together', he had whispered as he was pulled away from me.) I remember my mother shouting, his father yelling over her at us. Once they started their own argument, me and him had scattered up to his room and held hands, giggling and blushing over the fact that we were caught red handed (or should he have suggested, 'red lipped'). But our parents couldn't keep us apart. Even a few hours, mere days were torture. We'd see each other at the others' window, wishing and reaching for one another in utter hopelessness. Only when they realized that we were never splitting up any time soon, they gave up, but set some ground rules. Something about no touching.

We grew older, and interests came and went. For him, girls nearly shoved by each other just to stand next to him, to smile and giggle and try to flirt. I'd stand far away, him in my sight, and watch him pull out his cellphone. My breath held a second, I remember, as the other girls whipped out theirs, expecting his number to scroll on down their phonebooks. But I would giggle once my phone would ring, his eyes searching the area for me ('I love you,' he'd say clearly, smirking once he'd find me). The pile of girls were disappointed, but I was left smiling, his arms stretching at me and closing in tight before he'd come to me, reaching for another taste.

For me, though, he went insane, almost never leaving my side when and interest came around to be publicly known. ('He doesn't and couldn't ever be -' 'Like you. I know.' ' I wasn't gunna say tha -' And I'd laugh, poking fun at the interest. He was always going to me mine.) And he made it clear that I was always going to be his. People were shocked at how long we've been together, as well. ('Twelve years? What?') No one understood why, and sometimes, we wouldn't either. But that one little taste, one kiss, and we'd remember how and why.

Of course, there's been bumps along the way. Not a whole lot, but still. Most of it was family related. Like how his dad got in trouble when me and him found his Mum on the kitchen floor, beaten close to death when we were 14. Sad story said short, he spent the night with me, the image of her behind our eyelids making me cry more tears than him (he chuckled at this, saying how it should be the other way around, and having me kiss away the pain, instead of him staying under control about it all. It made me sob a laugh, and we fell asleep in each other's arms).

That same year, my Mum started dating again. A few months after that, she became a new wife, happy and content. But I was pissed. I wanted it to just be the two of us again. Like it has been since my dad died back when I was three. But he kept me in check. ('Don't you think your mom should be happy, like you are with me?' He had asked. 'Then be happy that she is - she's happy for us, you know'). I was so spoiled.

We had our own arguments, but they never lasted more than a few hours, the most ('we can't be mad - we're crazy in love'. It made me giggle, and go in for yet another taste. We're terrible. Almost an old married couple, sometimes. The comparison makes him laugh often). The ones that did, though, shook me. But he would always come through, holding me down and saying his sorries, kissing tears away. Sometimes when he sounded desperate for my response, I couldn't help but smirk a bit, thinking I was in a movie of some sort ('Now that wasn't funny', he'd scold. I'd shut him up with a kiss, making him chuckle. 'Then why are you laughing? Are my kisses humorous?').

From grade four to right about now, him and me have been jumping out windows, scaling houses, getting scratches in the bushes, and mud spots on our jeans. And you wonder why? The adventure, of course! Gosh. He used to wait until a Friday night, and climb the fence in our backyards to then climb up to my second floor window. Very complicated. But when we got regular use of our powers, things were a little easier. Yet when we first started out, when I first started out, I fell. I remember reaching his window, second floor, only to slip and fall to his mom's rosebush. I damn near looked like a brown headed rag doll ('But a very cute rag doll', he'd chuckle, shaking his head). I remember him practically shooting out of his own window to reach me, kissing the cuts on my face and the bruises on my legs. Then we'd lay there like morons, looking at the stars from the rosebush. I remember crying - not from pain, but from how beautiful he made me feel. Cuts and bruises and all.

When he started climbing, he had it a bit easier, but still complicated. There was a tree outside my window. The age of it, was more likely three times my own now. But he climbed it to a third story before leaning down to get back to my window, headfirst. It was stupid, the way he came to me, but he mentioned it was easier than having to climb the height of my window, take my mother's balcony and then chance a jump into my own bushes beneath us. So I accepted his way in.

Up until we got rare training of our powers, like I said, things were complicated. Now that we knew our weak spots, our strong spots, and our tickle spots (he laughed. 'I already knew yours!' 'Oh shut up, you're so mean'. It made him laugh harder), we started using our powers to see each other in the night. He would open his window, and if I weren't watching for him, he'd knock on it - from his room - and wait for me to open it. He would reach his entire body, as lean and sexy as it turned out to be, and latch himself onto the windowsill. And after all this time, he'd still scramble inside. Sometimes, his urgency to hold me kept me smiling; sometimes I'd torture him with the window shut, dancing around in my underwear. It would be scary to see, but he would manage to get his fingers beneath the glass, pushing his way through. And when he'd get in, he'd push me into the bed and climb atop me, smirking as his arms wrapped around my body. He always liked to dip his face into my neck and make me laugh with breath on my skin. I loved it. And he knew I loved it. He knew I loved him.

It was the summer that we were turning 16 ('No, you were 15 and a half', he'd interrupt with), that we lost our virginity. It was everything I'd imagine it would be - painful, but amazing. Even if it was awkward and we were both shaking. Are you kidding me? We had no idea what to do! We felt like complete idiots! But we got through it. I remember the warmth of the two of us, the soft pillows beneath our heads after it happened. I remember giggling through my nervousness, telling him not to cheat. I didn't want him to stretch - any part of him. I wanted to feel everything that was supposed to be amazing about this.

I remember jumping out my window and concentrating, keeping level the entire way before I would reach his sill. It wasn't planned, but I was more than ready for it. He reached out and helped me inside, and all I could do was look at him, bare chest and flannel pants. I remember reaching for his cheek, and kissing him soft, tasting chocolate to make me smile. It was then that I had climbed into his bed, practically shaking and nervous, weak as he followed me in. I'm positive that he didn't know what I was thinking ('I could. It was almost written on your face', he'd say. 'I'd like to think you nervous as I, thanks', I'd counter back), but we got there, oddly enough. Through a numerous amount of hands fumbling, missed kisses, unbuttoning, and catches of breath, we finally lay there, completely vulnerable and petrified ('You sure?' he'd ask, swallowing nervously. I could only nod, because my speech was to be very high - scared), until he took the strength and we lost it.

After confiding in a friend about the experience, she warned me about how he would only be after that, now and forever. I shook my head. He wasn't going to - I knew him too well. And he knew not to push anything on me. After, I smile because I knew my friend was wrong. It's just this generation that's fucked up. That doesn't know anything anymore. Sex shouldn't be the base of a relationship, as many around me are today. But him and me? We've gone and just decided that this was supposed to happen, us meeting way far back ('Our souls were meant for each other', he'd melt me with. I'd try to play it off with a shake of my head, but he knew. He knew I agreed). Mom calls it fate, too, for us to have met so early in life. To be so in love.

It's dark now, in his room. I can feel his warm hand around me, pulling me in close by my ribs. Closing my eyes, my senses are heightened, and I car hear his quiet breath upon my neck, the soft hum of the radiator across the room. I can feel anything to pass - air, dust, the spine-tingling feeling he gives me whenever he touches me. I can taste the chocolate of his lips still upon mine, even after we shared a kiss only ten minutes ago. He was tired, I knew, but he wouldn't rest until I had. Breathing in deeply, I said my last goodnight until morning ('I love you, Lash'). He responded only with soft kisses trailing up and down my neck. And then he said it ('Crystal? I gotta ask you something...').

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