Frostbite Doesn't Hurt Until the Nerves Awaken
The fleshy side of Seto Kaiba's hand was still tender from when he punched the wall after Tea left, although the bruise was now fading from purple to yellow. The scratches on his arm had turned from red to soft pink and white. Like her.
Kaiba, who had never been a particularly sensual person, preferring the cerebral over the corporeal, now found his hands not just touching but feeling. They preferred soft things, smooth things. At a conference, he would stoke his silk tie, relishing its slick coolness. He would finger the metallic planes of his laptop. The covers of books had a special appeal, whether they were cushy leather or embossed paper and board.
One night, he stood behind Mokuba, helping him with his fraction homework, when Mokuba spun around. "Seto, what the shit?" Seto realized he had been unconsciously stroking Mokuba's hair.
He thought about the Blue Eyes White Dragon Girl. He didn't deserve her. No matter how hard he tried, he could never look into those clear pools set into that glowing face as pale as the moon.
He thought about Tea. He thought about her more often than he could understand. He would go to school and see her smile, her big eyes with their coal dust lashes, the curves of her cheeks, the flowing lines and subtle flares of her body. He would hear her giggle, and her sweet words of encouragement. He would suffer through it, then, he would go home, and see and hear her there.
He was antsy all the time. His eyes and mouth constantly watered. His muscles twitched. He had a rash that itched and prickled inside the center of his brain and in the marrow of his bones.
Kaiba raged, silently and sullenly. He raged that, even though he was smarter, richer, bigger, and stronger than Tea, even though he, by all rights, should have brought her to her knees, she was still bouncing about, chattering with her friends—and LAUGHING. When was the last time he had laughed?
He held it together, though. If he had nothing else, he was proud of that.
His dirtiness, his wickedness, surrounded him like a miasma wrapped around his body. It bound him like a moist, chafing rope. He used to be able to ignore it most of the time, like a birthmark on the small of the back, but now it sometimes tightened around him, bringing tears to his eyes like a sudden cramp. And it was all because of her. Touching her was supposed to cleanse him. It was supposed to rub off his nastiness onto her. Instead, she made him dirtier. He had been doing so well until she had lain on her back under that tree, her uniform jacket off, and scratched her shin with her toe.
She was TORMENTING him. She knew it. She had to. She was making him hard. She was making him ejaculate. She was turning him into an animal. She was making him aware of his too-gross flesh, his cumbersome body.
Worse, she had made him remember. He remembered the hose, the scalding water, the words Mrs. Prosser hissed at him.
He remembered dancing with his mother, standing on her feet. He had already come up to her chest. She had smelled like roses and lavender. She had been wearing her ballet shoes, white tights, and a gray-green sundress.
Kaiba wiped his face. That heavy, choking ball was back in his throat. It felt like there were tiny needles stinging him behind his eyes.
He wanted to do it again.