(They have the kind of physical relationship where they pretend there aren't any feelings. They need to get closer and closer, until skin isn't close enough and they can't pretend any longer.)
Rachel smells like comfort. That's the only word that really comes to mind. Comfort. She's comfortable, she's warm, she's all the things I've missed about intimacy and none of the complicated emotional bullshit.
Which is a complete lie. My emotions for her are complicated. It's just that it doesn't get in the way. She's still Rachel, she's still my soulmate and my best friend.
Her hair's so soft. I nuzzle my noze into it, hugging her frome behind. Her skin is soft. Even under the fabric of her t-shirt it's soft. I catch myself as my fingers slide under it. Cool it Pryde. Cool it. Yeah. Complicated emotional bullshit.
I roll onto my back, then shift so I'm facing away from her. I'm usually the big spoon. We fit together so well like that. Like two puzzle pieces that belong to the same puzzle. Even in the rest of our lives outside this room, I've always caught her in my arms when she falls. I've comforted her and held her through some of her worse moments. Last night she'd broken down in my arms.
I'm good at that. Good at holding people together. I just kind of wish I could hold myself together. I kind of wish that Ray could've been there to pull me back together when I needed it. I know I missed some bad things for her, too. Like fate conspires to pull us apart when we need each other the most.
Rachel moves, pushing in behind me and wrapping her arm around my waist. Her fingers lock together with mine and I snuggle into her. She murmurs something into my hair. I don't catch what it is (I do but I can't let myself think about that). She's warm and comforting, and my cheeks sting. I feel her lips brush my neck. When I start crying, really crying, her arm tightens around me. She pulls me against her, turns me until we're facing each other. Big spoon, little spoon, spoons tucked together face to face, it doesn't matter. We still fit. We've always fit.
I can't get close enough to her. Even with no space between us she's too far away. I lift my head up. Her eyes are open, but she doesn't say anything. Rachel leans in and kisses the tears on my face. I turn my head just a little to the left, and she says my name like it's a question. Then I'm kissing her, and she's kissing back. She's still not close enough. Even when I phase our pajamas off and they land in a heap on the floor. We're skin to skin and there's so much heat I'm burning up and she's not close enough.
Her mind knocks against mine, like she's asking permission to enter. I can barely think straight with our hands roaming like this, but if I let her in, she'll be close enough. She's never done that before, not like this. Not when we're feverish and hungry and pretending that it's just a physical release. It's too intimate a thing. But we can't pretend any more. Not when I let her in. It's more than sex now (it always was but we can't hide that now, not from each other). And oh my god, oh my god her dad's telepath fixation makes so much more sense now. It's like I'm filled with her emotions, her feelings bleeding into my own. Every time I touch her I feel it as though I am her. And when she touches me, she feels that too. This constant feedback of emotions and pleasure flooding between us and I don't know who's crying anymore.
It's not even weird. There is so much open to me now. Thoughts and fears and Rachel's gaping loneliness. The harder I kiss her the more it's like a salve on her heart. The more I open my mind and show her my own fears and loneliness and that bitterness I keep so buried, the better I feel. We don't need to say it. But I do. Or she does. Or we both do, the sound echoing in the room with our moans and whimpers, the words echoing in our heads and sinking deep into our hearts. I'm Rachel, and Rachel is Kitty, and we can't go back to who we were when we were apart.