Chapter Thirteen: Bed & Breakfast

I come up behind Kyo in the kitchen, dressed in his black shirt, wrapping my arms around his waist as he he pats rice into submission. I noticed that he always stuck with making rice balls, inhaling ten of them before I could I finish two.

"Breakfast with sex on the side. Sounds like my kind of morning."

He gives me a flat look, before his lips give way to the smallest semblance of a smile.

"Hmm... Talk about your cock-a-doodle do." I laugh. "Is that why its called that?" I muse, biting into a slice of toast I steal off a plate as Kyo takes a break to sip his milk.

"What?"

"Because it rises when the sun does, just like roosters. And roosters are also known as coc-"

"I thought you didn't like talking dirty," He cuts in, guzzling down the rest of his drink.

"I know this might come as a shock to you, but I'm good for more than helping you get it up by going all..." I waggle my eyebrows, "...hot and heavy. I know a thing or two about animo-logy and anatomy."

He snorts, reaching for a helping of turkey sausage. "I doubt you know about zodiacs, even though you're such an expert."

I scoff, folding my arms. "For your information, I do know about them. But we're not talking about mythology, are we?"

He regards me with dark eyes, and its the mysterious depths of them that makes me wonder if he believes in that sort of thing. But not too long ago, we decided that we don't ask each other those things. I don't have a clue about where we stand now.

Instead, I move away from serious (and potentially dangerous territory) to his drink in question, deciding to let him in on a piece of myself while we took our seats at the table.

"I don't really like milk..." I bite my fist, blinking back mock tears. "It was mad traumatizing. Its still hard to think about."

His eyebrow lifts, as if to say 'Really?' before he takes another defiant swig of that cursed cow poison.

"It all began when I was staying the night at my grandparents' house. I was minding my own business, just chilling and eating some cereal that I'd poured a healthy serving of milk into. Then...BAM! A bout of nausea hit me and like that-" I snap my fingers, "-I just hurl. I throw up in my grandparents' kitchen."

He blanches a little, setting his nearly empty glass down on the table. "And you told me this while I'm drinking milk because?"

I frown, not liking that he's implying I decided to torment him on purpose. "How do you think I felt when I was enjoying milk - just as you were - only to experience a gastrointestinal reaction that made me despise milk for as long as I live and breathe?"

He shakes his head, grabbing for a rice ball. "What's a gastintestwhatever reaction?"

I pause, recalling my choice of words. And suddenly, I have to wonder why I feel shame about the terminology I use. It was silly, really, to feel like you just took the walk of shame by slipping up and speaking like an intelligent person. But if there was one thing I've always been insecure about...its my brain. I have a high IQ and skipped a grade; the birthday I spent with Kyo was my eighteenth, but only because I was born right at the cutoff for grades. He had no idea about any of this. And for awhile, I figured I'd keep it that way. The only time I allowed my smarts to show themselves was in my grades and in checking out whatever medical textbooks I could find in my journey to becoming pre-med and eventually a doctor. I haven't decided on what field, but I just wanted to do something in the medical profession.

"Um..." I scratch the back of my head, looking elsewhere. "I'm basically lactose intolerant, allergic to the sugar that milk is made up of. Dairy and lactose aren't the same." I wince, catching myself beginning to ramble and cram a riceball into my mouth just to shut up.

He nods, his eyes clouded with thoughts I can't even begin to know, before he changes subjects to something that's not any safer. "Remember how I said my grades suck? And that if I get one more bad one, its over."

I swallow the mound of rice, my eyebrows furrowing in thought. "How can that be? You did great on your math homework. You only got two wrong, which is a B...what's the problem?"

He exhales heavily, running his hands through his hair. "Literature."

I freeze, wondering if I heard him correctly and that he wasn't just pulling my leg. But the longer he stews in silence, angrily chewing, I realize that he wasn't messing around. He was serious.

I fiddle with my hands beneath the table, blushing at the fact I almost laughed at him. What kind of person am I? Laughing at something like that? Yes, its unusual for anyone - genius or not - to struggle with that subject. But there were exceptions, especially for people with learning disabilities.

"Ok, is there a test you need help studying for? A literary piece assignment? What?"

He scowls, looking to be on the verge of throwing up himself. "I have to write a poem," he spits out, like its a bad taste in his mouth and this time I do allow myself to smile a little.

"That I can help you with. Can it be any type? Elegy? Ode? Sonnet? Free-Verse? Does it have to have a rhyming scheme? Iambic pentameters?"

He groans, sliding down in his seat. "This sucks. Why do I have to be stuck with this complicated crap?"

I beam. "Hey. That was almost alliteration. Good job, Kitty-Kat."

"Shut up."

I think everything over until a devious idea pops into my head. And maybe it made me crazy, and somewhat freaky-kinky but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping he'd agree to it.

I lift my bare leg up, brushing his thigh with my foot and stroking circles into the material of his pants, as I gather the courage to meet his eyes. "I have a fun way to help you with your poem."

He sits up then, my foot gliding from his thigh to his knee as his gaze drops to my lips. I watch as he sees me smirk, before his eyes flick up towards mine. "I'm listening."

Instead of explaining my idea in words, I hoist myself up and onto the table, right in front of him. I slide forward until I fall into his lap with my legs spread apart, eliciting a gasp from the both of us at the instant, sudden contact. I throw my arms around his neck and trace his mouth with my own, smiling when his hands clasp behind my back.

"So...what's the requirement for this poem of yours?" I ask, speaking against his lips as my eyes slide closed at how good it feels to be pressed between the table's edge and him.

His hands move to my hips, dragging me in slow circles that feel cruel because of the pace. It was made even more intense because the only thing that separated us was his sweatpants; I was in nothing but his shirt. I nip his bottom lip and he bites me right back, taking my lips between his teeth at that same slow pace.

"It can be anything," he answers finally, his voice growing heavy as more heat travels between the place our bodies met and burned together. "What do I do?"

"Sonnet's out," I murmur, tugging on his earlobe with my teeth, while my other hand dips below his waistband. He wasn't wearing anything but sweatpants. "I don't think your sensei would be cool with anything short of romance. Seduction doesn't cut it for school."

He moans against my neck, kissing my skin in appreciation for my ministrations. "What else?"

"You could write an epic. You know? About heroes and all that." I smile at the words that haven't left my lips yet. "Like the citrus hero that saves the day with his catlike reflexes."

For that remark, he proceeds in his torture treatment, teasing me by inching towards my inner thigh, only to retreat when I thought he would go further.

I laugh, somehow feeling sexually frustrated and turned on all at once. "You're such a jerk."

He doesn't even bother taking the bait, refusing to cave and speed things along. And in a way, I'm glad he didn't. Because a part of me that I'd been denying and will continue to, was hoping this would last. At least...for a few minutes more.

"How about an elegy?" My voice is reduced to a whisper under the weight of my question, because it would break up the euphoric in turn of the somber. "A dedication to someone you've loved but lost to death."

He draws back then, leaning back in his chair as his sienna eyes penetrate mine. And even though I probably killed the mood, I really did think it was the type of poem that would suit him the best; one he could use as an outlet for his grievances. The best poems weren't the ones filled with over the top prose, decadent and sugary with a cherry on top. The best kind were the ones that expressed the hurt and happiness and sadness and highs and lows you experienced, getting someone else to feel those things through your words.

He sighs, burying his face into my neck. "I'll think about it. Not like I've got anything better."

And with that, we stop talking about it and he carries me to his room for another round before we had to get ready. And when I step into his bathroom, I notice my purple toothbrush next to his red one, and I find myself grinning. How ridiculous it was to like seeing my toothbrush nestled beside his. When I glance back at the shower I'd recently vacated, I take in my bottle of cherry blossom soap, our razors, the bar of soap he used, and his body wash. I see my towel on his floor, my clothes in his hamper, the mark he left on my neck with his tongue and his teeth.

I feel welcome and comfortable and sad all at the same time.