"Hey, I thought I'd find you up here," a familiar voice calls. The boy to whom it belongs is my best, and only, friend, has been for as long as I can remember. Kira Yamato. He closes the door and comes over to stand beside me, leaning against the wall to look out at the fields and roads beyond the school gates.
"Lacus-san didn't follow you, did she?" I ask, referring to my cousin.
"No, she was arguing with Cagalli-onee when I left the caf," he replies. I sigh heavily and close my eyes, the warm breeze tossing my hair.
"It's funny how different they are," I say. Cagalli, Kira's slightly older (by a few minutes) twin sister, is my girlfriend, and wears the boys uniform on days when she can get away with it. On the other hand, my cousin Lacus, whose boyfriend is Kira, is very feminine and has a wardrobe consisting entirely of dresses, nothing else.
"Birdee!" a mechanical voice sings from above us. A green and yellow robotic bird swoops down and lands on my shoulder. I stroke its head and it croons happily in response, then hops over onto Kira's head.
"I can't believe that thing still follows you everywhere," I say.
"Of course, because you gave it to me," he smiles genuinely at me, Birdee chirping in agreement.
"We'd better get back to class," I say, stretching my arms above my head with a yawn.
"I told you to stop staying on IM so late! You have to sign off right after Loveline is over!" he says scoldingly as we descend the stairs.
"You were on just as late," I retort, shouldering my heavy backpack.
"Only because you wouldn't stop bugging me!" he says, sounding irritated but smiling the whole time. I return the grin and we run down the hall, a silent declaration of a race, as the school clock strikes one.
Off to the horrible subjects of chemistry and French before baseball practice! Feh, my teachers for both of those classes hate me. My chem teacher only dislikes me because I always blow something up and make a mess. I could be home, building more little robot pets, but my parents make me come to school. If one of us had to be the delinquent, it'd probably be me. Kira's on good terms with most of the faculty and he's smart and cooperative. But I'm constantly bored because I know everything they're lecturing us on so I get yelled at for slacking off. Plus, my is a shade of blue that looks purple in bright sunlight.
All the girls swoon over the two of us. Actually, it's more than swooning, they kind of . . . Attack us. Yeah, I walked into the caf today to buy my lunch, and six crazy prep chicks starting groping me, purring about me screwing them. Yeah right. I'd rather have sex with Kira than one of those bitches . . . Not that I'm gay or anything! I like girls a lot, just not the ones that go to my school. Not enough to get it on with any of them. Except Cagalli. Kira would kill me if he knew. Good times, good times.
The two of us skid into the classroom just before the teacher slams the door in our faces.
"Late again, Mr. Zala, Mr. Yamato? One more tardy and you're both going to detention!" Mrs. Wood snarls as we go to our lab table.
We exchange glances, smirking, as we sit down and I yank my notebook out of the hellish pit inside my backpack. He does the same, turning to a blank page and scrawling a smiley face on it and writing, "heh, we're in trouble now." I glance up at the teacher before writing, "'bout time they took notice." He looks at me briefly before replying: "Do you wanna go to detention?" I push up the lead in my mechanical pencil and write, "it'd be fun, don't you think:)" he sighs, closing the book as Mrs. Wood comes toward our table with a sheet of paper. Another boring experiment. I roll my eyes at the directions on the paper and raise my hand.
"Yes, Athrun?" Mrs. Wood says, knowing what's coming to her.
"We've done this already," I say with a threatening glare, "teach me something I don't know."
All of my classmates give me dirty looks as Mrs. Wood goes up to her desk and removes a book, saying she'll be back with something more difficult. When the door closes everyone starts shouting at me, saying things like "just because you're smart doesn't mean everyone is!" and, "just go to college already!" but I'm used to all their shit. I ignore it and turn to Kira, who's busy sketching Birdee from where it sits on a branch of the cherry blossom tree outside the open window.
See, Kira may be smart and all, but he likes art more than academics. He wants to go to art school, but his parents probably won't be able to afford it, so in order to get a scholarship, he has to get all A's in school, not that he has to try very hard. He's the sentimental type, too kind for his own good, and cries more often than he should, but he's a loyal friend and easy to be around. I guess that's why I've stuck with him for so long. Not that anyone else wants to be my friend. My family is on the better end of the financial scale, while Kira's is average. Why aren't I popular, you ask? Long, but interesting, story. Since this experiment is still too easy for me, I'll explain.
Ever since I was a little kid, I was too smart. My teachers all said I was brilliant and I'd make a wonderful doctor or lawyer someday. I did the typical "smile and nod" clueless response that all children use when they don't understand something an adult says. In third grade, I earned my respect when I started to beat the crap out of anyone who picked on Kira. We went to a private middle school after that, and my reputation followed me. I never tried to change it though. I got the best grades in the whole school, and still protected Kira from all the critical bastards and bitches. Meanwhile, he got the second or third best grades, and went on drawing all over every notebook in his, (or my), possession. I kept all my notebooks from grades 6-8, only because they're full of his amazing artwork, more artwork than schoolwork in them, actually.
That brings us here, to our little high-class college prep school that all the smart, talented, pretty teenagers go to. We strut around in our crisp, clean, and neat uniforms, bragging about our parents' money and pretending everything is alright when it's really not. When we were freshmen, some posses tried to talk me into ditching Kira and becoming "cool," but I refused without a second thought. The idea of leaving him alone in this place was too cruel. That's why I hate everyone here: they're all just faking how they feel, hiding under a mask of make-up and flawless smiles. They pick on the kids who got into this school on brains rather than money because they're insecure about themselves and need to make others miserable so they feel better about themselves and all their issues. I guess I could write it out as an equation.
ME (Athrun Zala) - high class
HIM (Kira Yamato) - low class
ME + HIM + PREP - SCHOOL BAD TIMES
hc + lc + HIGH class - ridicule ÷ 2
hc + lc ÷ Hc - r ÷ 2
So, basically, he gets made fun of for being of lower class than the rest of us kids who were born with silver spoons in our mouths. Anyone stupid enough to keep prodding after I've asked them, in choice words, to cut it out, will be forced to stop whether they like it or not. I may be a rich kid, but I know how to fight, to my parent's disgust.
That took longer than I thought; I thought about this during the rest of chem and all through French, only just finishing now as Kira and I walk out into the outfield with our gloves. We're more than a little early, so we decide to play catch until the coach and the rest of the team arrives.
"This is our last easy year, Kira," I call to him as I toss him the ball. There's the satisfying sound of hard leather meeting worn leather as he catches it.
"I know. We have to get ready for college next year," he sighs, throwing it back.
"Next year will also be . . ." I begin, then I realize it sounds too sappy, "never mind!" I yell as the ball sails into his glove again.
"What? Tell me," he says demandingly.
"You'll laugh!" I say, a light flush stealing across my face.
"No, I won't. Just say it, or I'm not giving it back!"he says, waggling the ball at me.
"It'll be our last year together, Kira," I say quietly, waiting for him to start cracking up. But, surprisingly, he doesn't. He just stands there, staring at the vibrant green grass, his face expressionless. He looks up, his eyes glinting in the afternoon sun, slight tears at the corners of them, and nods sadly. I walk toward him and put my hand on his shoulder and he looks up, our eyes meeting.
"Don't worry about it yet, we have a year," I say encouragingly.
"But they pass so quickly," he sighs, sitting down on the ground. I sit beside him and take off my glove, waiting to hear what he has to say. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a deep breath.
"It's gonna be hard for me because I've never been to any school without you being there with me. It'll be so weird, not having you in my classes, or having lunch on the roof with you. I dunno, you can call me a pussy if you want, but I don't know if I can do it." I smile at him reassuringly and shake my head in disagreement.
"You're not a pussy, never say that. And I'm gonna be sad, too, y'know. It's not like you're just there. You're my best friend, even though I can't see why you hang around me," I say wistfully, untucking my T-shirt from my baseball pants.
"Because you wanted me to, and I like you," he replies, smiling.
"Here already?" a voice calls. We turn to see our friend (oh yes, another! See, I lied), Nicol, standing inside the gate to the field.
"You've been in the music room cutting class again, huh?" I snicker as he joins us in the grass.
"I'm not as smart as you guys, so I have to do something with what talent I have," he says.
"Don't be so self-deprecating, man. You get good grades," I say.
"I don't really care, though. I'm going to be a pianist and that's that," he smiles widely at us like he always does when he talks about music.
He loves his piano. He spends hours writing and playing his own songs, and, when we're lucky, he plays for us on the grand piano that he bought himself. Sure, his parents could afford to buy him three or four, but he insisted on paying for it with is own money, no matter how long it took. I'm musically inept, playing and equipment-wise, but I can at least judge that it cost a bit more than his parents thought he would be willing to earn. But when you love something that much, you go to any length possible for it. Speaking of love . . .
"Athrun, you bastard! You have to stop leaving during lunch! People are gonna start calling you an introvert - among other things - if you spend every day up there on the roof with my brother!" Cagalli yells from the other side of the chain link. Yes, this loud, rude chick is my girlfriend. She's standing there in her favorite camo capris, a tank top, Chuck T's, and my team baseball cap.
"I'm gonna need that back," I say as I walk off the field to lean against the fence beside her.
"Not 'til the game. I'm keeping it for now," she says stubbornly, shoving her hands in her pockets, "plus, you have my necklace." She shoves her hand down my shirt and pulls out the piece of jewelry that hangs around my neck. The creamy pink stone shines in the light and I quickly tuck it back in my shirt, not wanting anyone to see it.
"It's kinda sexy that it rubs against your bare chest all day," she whispers, grinning.
"Oh yeah? Sexy, huh?" I say thoughtfully.
"Stop playing innocent!" she yells.
"Who's innocent? Definitely not you or me," I laugh.
"Of course not, perv! The only thing you like better than touching yourself is touching me," she hisses. I simply smirk, snatching the hat off her head, distracting her by giving her breast a pinch before running back onto the field, laughing.
"YOU HORNY PERVERT!" she screams, shaking her fist at me. I stick out my tongue as I tie back my hair in a ponytail and look from Kira to Nicol.
"Never do that in front of me again," Kira says, his face in his hands, "it grosses me out to think of you doing that with my sister," he shudders and puts his glove on, standing up with me. Nicol gets to his feet as well and the rest of the team joins on th grass, followed by our coach.
"You know what to do, boys," Coach La Flaga says, running a hand through his blonde hair.
Some of the girls gathered on the bleachers swoon at our good-looking coach, who is the object of many school girl crushes. I roll my eyes and wink at Cagalli before starting the drills and she winks back, sitting down with Lacus and her friends. I'm used to having no less than twenty squealing girls watch me stretch, so their yelling doesn't bother me. At least I'm ready for the big leagues, when the whole park can see you bending over in these stupid tight pants. But I like playing too much to complain.
"Jeez, he was in a bad mood today," I sigh as I scrub my hair.
"I know. I heard his fiancee was cheating on him, so they broke up, but he doesn't have to take it out on us," Kira says from his shower stall.
We're in the boys' locker room, the only ones left, actually. Everyone else rushed in before us to shower, so we were stuck sitting around, listening to our Walkmans, until the other guys were done. Not that there's any hot water left . . . So I'm shivering while I wash off all the dirt, and Kira told me he was cold.
"This is what we get, huh?" I ask as I turn off the water and stepping out, wrapping a towel around my waist.
"We don't deserve it, though. At least you don't. You're the best player on the team," he answers. I quickly pull on my boxers and shorts, averting my gaze while he gets dressed.
"You're so shy, Athrun," he says, shaking the water out of his unruly mop of brown hair.
"Is that the same as introvert? That's what Cagalli called me," I ask, packing up my stuff before we leave the locker room and head down the empty halls.
"No, you're not an introvert. You just . . . Don't open up to everyone," he says.
"Feh, sure. Are you and Lacus going on a date tonight?" I ask, not really wanting to talk about my antisocial tendencies.
"No, she's having a sleep over or something," he says with a sigh.
"Chicks are weird that way," I add, "since Cagalli's going, that's the only reason I'm not going anywhere."
"Hey, since my sister won't be home, you wanna spend the night at my house?" he asks brightly as we go across the parking lot.
"Sure, should we go there now?" I ask, spinning my car keys around my finger.
"Could we go over to the mall first? Something came in for me," he says, blushing slightly. Art supplies, no doubt.
"Now who's shy, huh?" I laugh as we put our bags into the trunk of my car.
"I swear, they couldn't have made this thing any smaller," I growl as I try to close it. Stupid Beamer! No storage space! Of course, Z3's aren't exactly meant for dragging around baseball equipment.
Before driving off, I put down the top so my hair will dry in the wind. Kira told me once I should just blow dry it, but I refused, saying that it'd make me too feminine. Then again, it would balance me out with Cagalli, who's a brown belt in karate and wears the boys' uniform. We actually have a running bet, Kira and I, that whoever gets on TV at the Red Sox games more times doesn't have to wear the girls' uniform to school for a whole day. The bet started back in April and has run all summer, and will until October. That is, if we make it to the play-offs.
The best August the team's had in a while is coming to a close, and we're tied at three. If we're still tied by the end of the season, then we both have to wear it. Dammit, I have to win! Those chicks will go crazier than ever if I'm cross-dressing. Probably take pictures and put them in the year book. All I need is to be remembered as a cross-dresser. It could be worse, right? I could be talked about for years for being a fag. Now that, my friends, would suck.
That evening we're lounging around Kira's bedroom, waiting for the Red Sox game to start and talking about how many games we have left to go to.
"Alright, so Tuesday, Friday, then we're away. After that, the 16th, the 22nd, and the 26th. That's it," he says, looking over the calender of games he got out of the Boston Globe when the season began. The whole thing is littered with writing, scores for most of the games, W's and L's and arrows, things in parentheses. In a nutshell, it's a mess. He takes the fine point black Sharpie from behind his ear and taps it against his lips before writing "2004 Record" at the bottom.
"We'll have to wait a while for that. Hopefully, it'll include more than the regular season, huh?" I say with a smile.
"Don't go jumping to conclusions, Athrun! Remember my superstitions!" he says, giving me a scolding glance before looking back to the TV.
If you haven't gotten the impression already, we live for this team. What wall space in his room that isn't covered by his art and a few other posters is occupied by pictures of us at Fenway, two pennants, the menu from the right field roof seats, and an autographed, (and framed), picture of Johnny Damon. Kira even plays center field, which makes it even more valuable to him. I may play second, but I'd kill for Curt Schilling's autograph. I could die happy. With that, and a shiny World Series trophy with our name inscribed on the plaque. That would be the best day of my life.
"Athrun! Wake up! Baseball!" Kira yells, snapping me out of my day dream. "You want a snack? We have sports bars," he asks as I join him on the floor.
"How much are they tonight?" I ask, grinning. We have this joke about the high prices of concessions at the park. A bottle of water is 3.00, a Coke is 3.75 for a small cup, and sports bars are 3.50. But we pretend that they're outrageously expensive.
"There's a special tonight - two for the price of one, and that price is . . . Twenty bucks," he gets up and I say, "they're cheap tonight." He laughs as he goes downstairs to get them and I pull my worn-out hat on my head, smiling, as I grab a few floor pillows to sit on. He comes back into the room, flopping down next to me on the cushions and hands me the ice cream bar, putting on his hat as well.
"We're such losers," I say with a smile.
"I know, but I like it that way, don't you?" he asks, leaning against my shoulder.
"Wouldn't have it any other way," I respond, tossing the wrapper into the trash.
We're both done eating and the first pitch hasn't even been thrown yet, and I know the game won't be long. We're playing the sorry Detroit Tigers after all. Next series is Anaheim, our tough rivals for the Wild Card's top spot, so we shouldn't be cocky about anything. Aw, fuck it, I'm cocky as hell. I mouth off to every Yankee fan I've ever met and love to brag when we win. But I struggle through it when we're in a slump and never lose hope. Fair-weather fan? What's that? Not me, that's for sure. When we lost ALCS game 7 last year, I almost expected it. After so many years of failure, I thought, why should 2003 be any different? Kira sobbed and went Goth for a whole three months after, straight into the New Year, while I mourned inwardly. See? I am such an introvert. But just like I'm a loser, I wouldn't want to be anything else.
I hop up off the floor, turning off the TV and kicking my shorts aside, humming "Dirty Water." We won, of course, by a score of 5-3, and now it's time for not Loveline, since it's Friday. On any other night, besides Saturday, I'd be eagerly waiting for the show to start at 10 P.M.. Kira's sitting on his bed, clicking away on his laptop; probably ordering more art supplies. Ink, markers, paper, brushes, something along those lines. Just in case I'm wrong, I ask, "what're you up to?"
"Nothing, I'm just editing some pics I scanned in a few days ago," he replies, a touch of uneasiness in his voice. Ignoring it, I sit down beside him and watch as he shuts down his laptop, putting it on his desk and exchanging it for his Walkman.
"Grab your headphones, we can both listen through mine," he says, gesturing towards my backpack.
"CD or radio?" I ask as I yank my headphones out, untying the knots in the cord.
"Whatever you want, I don't really care," he answers, shrugging. I throw my headphones on the bed and inspect his CD rack, trying to find something I don't have. We listen to pretty much the same stuff, but I probably have a larger collection, thanks to my rich parents.
"If something's missing, onee-chan took them," he says.
"Alright. Oh! This one! Lacus broke my copy!" I exclaim, tossing The Killers' Hot Fuss to him. He catches it without looking and opens his Walkman, quickly switching Meteora for the red disk.
"When did Lacus-chan break it?" he asks as I plug in my cord and flop down next to him.
"When she was borrowing it last week," I reply, stabbing the play button. You have to stab it to make it work his Walkman is so old, just as old as mine. We both boycott buying iPods because they were too trendy for us. Plus, he'd have to save his money for a while to buy one, but there aren't any cool colors anyway.
This was one of my favorite CDs, until my stupid preppy cousin decided to crush it under her sandals. She returned the broken disk the other day with an insincere, "sorry." I was so pissed. I started to yell at her across the quad, but she ignored me, even though I swore at her. I don't know how Kira can stand dating her. Then again, I know he'd say the same about me going out with his sister. Now that I think about it, the situation is pretty odd.
Let's just say that Cagalli and I get married after we go to college, okay? If that happens, Kira will be . . . My brother-in-law. How bizarre is that? Shuddering at the thought, I turn up the volume, trying to get the idea out of my head. Being related to him . . . I glance at him cautiously, almost expecting him to comment on the notion that ran through my mind, but he doesn't, of course. I'm just psychotic sometimes. Seriously, though, what if that happens? It'll ruin our friendship. Should a lover be put before friends? Really, for me, the only thing that defines the difference is that I don't have sex with my friends or go on dates with them. They're equally close to me as Cagalli is. Eh, this topic is making me feel gay, so forget I mentioned it.
Suddenly, his head rests on my shoulder and I'm about to make a joke about him being into me when I realize he fell asleep. Blinking, I wonder why he's so tired. That's right: he was up late last night talking to me and up early for school. Damn, now I feel guilty 'cause he's so exhausted, but that extra-tough practice didn't help much either. Good thing it's the weekend and we can sleep in tomorrow. Speaking of sleeping . . . I look around his room, wondering where I should sleep. There isn't anywhere else to lie down besides the bed, so I guess I'm on the floor. I turn off his Walkman and place it on the night stand before carefully standing and easing him down onto the mattress. He stirs slightly, murmuring almost inaudiably, then settles again. I'm about to sit down on the floor when he grabs my wrist, pulling me back over to him.
"Nani?" I ask.
"Ath . . . run," he mutters. His eyes slowly open and he looks up at me, "sorry, I didn't mean to doze off like that. I'm sure you're not tired," he says.
"It's alright, really. I was up late with you last night, so I should go to bed, too," I reply.
"Were you going to sleep on the floor?" he laughs.
"There's no where else . . ." I say.
"See, you are shy. You can sleep with me." We both blush furiously after he says this, our perverted minds quickly making the translation.
"I didn't mean it like that!" he exclaims, holding up his hands defensively.
"I know, don't worry about it. Now lets get some rest," I say with a smile. He nods, yawning, and gets underneath the covers as I turn off the light and lie down beside him, yanking the sheet away from him.
"How weird are we, huh?" I laugh quietly.
"Not really. I've heard of chicks who sleep together and don't do anything," he whispers.
"We're not chicks. They don't have the sex drive that we do." Yet another thing I learned from Loveline when I was thirteen. "We always used to do this when we were kids, remember?" I add.
"Yeah, mostly at your house since we didn't want my sister bugging us," he replies. I smile as I think of when we were young and innocent, had no idea that boys weren't supposed to sleep in the same bed. I didn't know then and I don't care now. Kira and I are best friends and that's it...
Or not. Judging by our position we're in when I wake up, you'd think we were . . . Together. His back is to my chest, my arms tight around his waist and my lips brushing against his neck. Dude, what was my subconscious mind thinking? He wriggles in my grasp, making helpless noises, before muttering my name. Crap, he's gonna get me for this.
"What's going on?" he asks groggily.
"I-I didn't, I mean, I don't, I'm not–" I let go of him and sit up, looking away from his puzzled stare.
"Damn, this is all because of last night. I'm sorry, it's because I was thinking about me getting married to Cagalli and the two of us being related. Then there was the thing about me sleeping with you and . . ." I sigh heavily, burying my face in my hands.
"Wait, go slower, marrying Cagalli . . . ?" he asks.
"I was thinking about how we date each others relatives and how I'd be your brother-in-law if I marry Cagalli. I must be high or something, jeez!"
"Don't beat yourself up over it. You didn't do anything besides hold me, right?" I nod, still embarrassed like hell. 'Least I didn't rape him.
"Plus, I felt . . . Safe like that," he says, his cheeks pink.
For some reason, the sight of him having just woken up, his hair disheveled, a pale flush across his, makes my heart beat a little faster. Something in the back of my mind tells me I think he looks cute, but the right-thinking part knocks the perv unconscious. How could I think that? Am I gonna have to beat myself over the head with his laptop to get my mind straight? I must have smoked something yesterday and forgotten about it. If I was sober, I wouldn't be getting these ideas . . . Right? Then my eyes settle on his neck, where my lips were. Oh my God. There's no way. Holy shit . . . What was I thinking, goddammit!
There on his slim neck, tattooed on his pale skin, is a hickey, complete with teeth marks. "Fuck . . ." I hiss, tossing my head back. I must be dreaming. I did not do this.
"What? Are you okay?" he asks.
"Stop being so concerned about me and go look at your neck!" I growl. Obviously bewildered, he crawls to the end of the bed and hops off, and goes into the bathroom that attaches his room to Cagalli's. I busy myself by dumping the contents of my backpack on the floor then shoving them all back in when he reenters the room.
My face burns when our eyes meet, his hand at the mark, and we just stare at each other for long moments. I quickly stand up, avoiding his gaze, and mutter that I'm going to take a shower. I don't think I could spend another minute in that awkwardness. I let out a sigh as I step under the streaming water, collapsing against the tiled wall. Why don't I just marry him already? What the hell was I dreaming about to make me do something so strange?
I stare up at the ceiling, watching the steam billow upwards and decide to get over it, pretend it never happened. I'll just pay Lacus to say that she gave it to him. Then again, she's popular, and she'll tell everyone that we slept in the same bed, defeating the purpose completely. I wash briefly, scrubbing my hair impatiently, then rinse and turn off the water. I purposely hit my head against the tile and pull the curtain aside, wrapping a towel around my waist.
Y'know what else? He'll make fun of me for thinking about him in the shower. I roll my eyes tiredly and yank a brush through my wet hair, then realize I don't have anything to wear. Once again, my own absent-mindedness works against me. This whole thing is making me frantic! I fling the bathroom door open and he's sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing only his boxers, his purple eyes fixed intently on the screen of his laptop.
"You can use the shower now," I say, opening his closet and picking out some black cargo shorts with red stitching, (left over from his Goth phase), and a black baseball T-shirt with red sleeves.
I wait for the door to close before letting the towel slide off my waist and go over to his dresser for a pair of boxers, then hurriedly dress. I feel uneasy being naked in his room. I sit down on the bed with his open laptop beside me, everything silent except for the sound of rushing water. Something on the screen catches my eye before I can close the computer: an all-blue folder called simply "A."
Suspicious, I double click it and it opens to four pictures files, labeled "A/1," "A/2," and so on, all in green. Might as well start at the beginning, right? Clickity-click. Suddenly a lightly-colored picture fills the screen, an all-too familiar flash of turquoise against peachy skin. My eyes widen at the image displayed: it's . . . Me. It's amazing how good it is. He gave it a hint of manga-style drawing to it, but other than that, it looks exactly like me. This one is just my head and shoulders, but I'm sure the next is bound to be different.
Clickity-click, A/2. Me again, but this time, it's my whole body. I'm wearing my Schilling jersey over a T-shirt with shorts. It's how I posed in that one picture when we went to Fenway . . . the whole background is of a lush green shade, but I notice abstract splotches behind me to represent parts of the park behind me.
On to number three then, huh? My face colors slightly at this one: my hair is tousled, a sexy smile on my lips, a suggestive twinkle in my eyes, and I'm naked from the waist up. Even then, the fly of my jeans is undone, but the picture stops just below that. I don't even wanna know what photo he based this on.
Best for last, right? Smiling bitterly, I open the final one. The minute I see it the pale pink shade on my cheeks changes to red. Blood probably would've spurted from my nose If I had left it open longer than a few seconds. Glad I'm not the only perv around here. Kira kicks the door open and goes over to the closet. I try not to stare at his bare skin, the droplets running down his faintly tanned body. It's not like I haven't seen him shirtless before, but the situation makes me feel . . . Off, I guess.
Aw, hell, it makes me feel things I've never imagined I would, think things that never would have crossed my mind about him before now. I try to look away as the towel slips from his hips, but I can't help but steal a glance. I quickly whip my head the other way after laying my eyes on the perfect curves of his ass and exposed thighs. Pervpervpervpervpervpervpervpervpervperv . . . I stab myself in the forehead with my finger each time the word echoes in my skull.
"Hey, are you okay?" Kira asks.
I carefully look over at him only to blush again; the zipper of his shorts is down and his short-sleeved button down is undone. In my mind, it looks like he's getting dressed after we spent the night in bed together. Calming myself, I stand up and go over to him, gazing into his deep liquid eyes.
"I saw the pictures," I say quietly. His face slowly colors as he realizes which ones I'm talking about.
"I-I . . . they're just practice, I mean, I–" I put my finger to his lips, a faint voice telling me I want it to be something else. Feh! I don't wanna kiss him! I take my hand away, shoving them both in my pockets and stare at the floor.
"All of them?" he asks softly. I give a small nod in response.
"Athrun, I never meant for you to see that last one. It was just . . . damn, I don't know," he sighs.
"You must know, because you drew it," I retort. He looks down, shame and hurt expressed on his face.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go through your stuff like that, I was just curious," I say gently.
"No, it's okay. It's probably better that you saw. I was going to tell you soon anyway."
"Tell me . . . What?" He's being really vague.
"That I . . ." he fidgets uneasily and I wait for those words to pass through his lips. Words I've only heard from girls with long feathery hair and heavy breasts, sometimes the truth, more often lies. I watch as he tosses the three syllables around in his mouth, but he doesn't say it.
"I'm breaking it off with Lacus," he mutters.
"But how can you be so sure of–" "of what! What do you think I'm gonna say?"he yells.
"I've been friends with you for twelve years, I can tell by your eyes," I whisper. There's a sudden knock on the door and it opens a crack, his mom peeking inside.
"I was just coming to see if you two were hungry," she says, smiling.
"Yeah, we are. Five minutes?" Kira says casually, "alright, dear."
Our eyes are immediately drawn together again, as if by magnets, the emotions between us are that strong. Wide pools of greyed purple quiver as he stares fearfully at me.
"Athrun, I've somehow become . . . Attracted to you," he whispers. God, I never thought those words could sound so sweet and strange at once. Not only is he adorable as he looks up at me, his shaggy hair falling in his eyes, but his bare chest, still glistening with water, is tempting me.
"I think . . . I feel the same way about you. Maybe that's why I gave you this," he flinches slightly as I stroke the mark on his neck, his breath quickening.
"This is more than attraction, isn't it?" he asks.
"Kira . . ." I whisper, my hands cupping his face, "only if you want it to be." His expression tells me "yes," but his mouth can't admit it. "I already know because of that picture, don't I?"
I smile deviously at him, pressing my body against his, my hands resting on his slim waist now. Slowly, he wraps his arms around my neck; if we start kissing, I know I'm not gonna want to stop for anything, his full, irresistible lips parted slightly as he takes uneven breaths. I can't help it - I want to taste his mouth.
But, (curse the fucking timing!), his mothers voice calls to us again. Before we can give her the chance to walk in on us, I reluctantly let go of him, leaving his eyes lingering with a shimmer of desperation. Not that I don't feel the same. I may not have ever wanted a kiss more, but I've also never been so scared to kiss. I'm afraid that if what just happened goes on, what we had will be ruined. Our inseparable comradery, the cherished friendship. But I guess if we both want more, we should go for it.
I look over at him as we stand there in the sunny kitchen, watching as he licks the doughnut crumbs from his lips. Damn . . . The things I wanna do with that tongue of his. I mentally smack myself, reminding myself that I'm dating his sister . . . And here begins my problem: which twin do I really want?