A/N: My first, and probably last, ISWAK (It Started with a Kiss) story. I was always bothered by how unromantic and forced the first kiss was in the TV series, especially with the cheesy music playing in the background, so this is my attempt at an explanation, though I think some things might have been lost in translation. This is also my first attempt at artsy, symbolic writing. You know, the kind that has at least 4 different voices speaking at once with way too much punctuation and italics. Though, in my defence, I didn't use the bold feature once. Enjoy!
She's imagined it happening so many different ways, different times: all beautiful, all loving in their own way, even if some are filled with sorrow or anger. And all not real. Dreamlike, fantastical, but unattainable.
When it finally does happen, it's almost too real. Too much. The victory, sweet with her giddiness at showing off in front of others, not just her class – the F class – but the A class too – future doctors, lawyers, geniuses, with him still the best, the highest – and bitter in the face of his anger – the only way she can catch his notice, now or ever – his disbelief and embarrassment. It's fading now, this bittersweet courage and the victory that led to it, fading as fast as the building full of bright lights and swimming faces fades behind them as he tugs her along.
His grip is too tight, too brittle, and she's almost more afraid to break it than to let her wrist be bruised, her bones grinding against each other just as surely as his teeth are clenching together behind his white lips.
By the time they reach the tunnel, as white and tiled as sterility itself, his anger is still burning – as slow building as an ember bursting into flame – but her courage is long gone – it only ever comes in brief flashes anyway – and her fear finally becomes real panic, enough to overcome herself and tear her wrist from his grasp, falling back like a frightened cat, scared but too stubborn to run.
Her shrill demand lacks any of the righteous indignation she imagined – it seems her fate that reality and dreams never match up completely – and only seems to add a new source of aggravation for him.
It echoes here in the tunnel – it's the first thing she notices – so that when he turns and demands something he should already know, it sounds as though there's a dozen Zhi Shus screaming at her, popping out of the walls farther down the tunnel to berate her. She's reminded of all the times this has happened and almost feels guilty – this is the only way, doesn't he know? (he can't know) – but she wills the indignation back again, forces the righteousness up her throat. It feels – burns – like vomit, but she has to keep it going, can't stand by and take it anymore.
It happens when she least expects it. She's been backed against the wall – too distracted (focused?) to notice until too late – and he's shouting directly into her face – why does he always get so close, too close – but she won't be intimidated again, she won't back down, she won't—
And just like that, her words stop – her heart stops – and his lips are on hers. Some part of her brain – her heart? – insists this is a kiss, he's kissing her, but everything else revolts against this idea. It's too much, too real, she can feel the cold shininess of the tiles at her back, the bite of her nails in her palms and it's too much – not enough – it was supposed to be dreamy and breath-taking and perfect, but it's not, it can't be – nothing ever is – not when he's pushing against her like that but she still wants more, it's not enough, it's too much...
His lips are pressed against her, pushing her head back to the wall – so much, too much? not enough... – and maybe it has to be this way, maybe it should...because this can't possibly last, it has to be real and now and always...
When he tears his head away, his lips sticking to hers for a brief second – because of the pressure, it's real – his eyes are blown wide, as wide as hers have been for minutes now – have they really been open all this time? - and his pupils have grown – bigger, thicker – and for a moment all she can see is the inky blackness of fear.
Then he blinks and turns and she can breathe again, can feel the stiff dryness of her lips, the dull ache of her frozen shoulders against the unforgiving tunnel, the sting of air in her nostrils – cold and heavy with broken promises and confusion – and she has time to see the sterile tunnel again, anew – it was just another place before, just another fight too close for comfort – before he turns and surprises her into familiar hurt – he can still do that? of course he can – and she's alone in the tunnel, the tunnel that could've – should've (still does?) – meant so much more, watching the last of his three shadows fade away into the night.