Taste.
There is a dry taste in my mouth each time we host a prefect meeting. My tastebuds churn, sour and bitter as if my tongue sweats and swells in preparation of the hour.
I prepare the agenda while James fetches a platter of sweets delivered straight from the kitchens. He passes around the plate and wins everyone's approval while I talk rosters and permission slips. Whether this is a fair distribution of the Head Girl and Boy duties is hard to say.
As his staple is treacle tart, I assume it is his favourite.
Whenever it's served for dessert, I make the effort to have a slice. I turn the buttery shortbread base over on my tongue. There are hints of lemon juice and ginger, spices that tingle, and then, the burst of golden syrup sweetness. I understand the appeal.
These days, we get along. James is as warm and gold as honey, as sticky and syrupy as molasses. Sometimes, his sweetness gives me a toothache. At the end of each prefect meeting, once the younger students have filed out of the room, he slides the tray of sweets across the table.
On principle alone, I refuse to take any of the treacle tart, but this time, I can't help watch him lick his fingers clean of the crumbs.
"I can't tempt you?" he asks, lowering his hand from his mouth to gesture at the desserts.
"I'm sweet enough already," I say.
"I don't doubt that."
James crosses to my side, shuffling the loose parchment together. He is close, close enough for our elbows to brush, close enough for me to breathe in the musky scent of his cologne.
You know that moment when someone turns their face away?
They look outside a window. Or they turn as they hear their name. Or they bend to collect some scrap parchment. There could be a variety of reasons.
In this moment, I notice the icing sugar that powders his bottom lip. I reach out and turn his chin towards me, twisting his taut neck my way. I press my lips against his.
The dusky, dry sweetness of the powder that parts for the glossy syrup of his tongue. The sanguine stickiness of the treacle stays on my lips even as I pull away.
He opens his eyes, which shift from astonishment to coyness. I take a piece of treacle tart to hide my own diffidence.
"I suppose you tempted me after all."
I pop the tart into my mouth as I leave the room, and marvel over the fact that James tastes sweeter.
A/N: this was just a distraction, a bit of fun, and now it's done.