Libby remembers her first kiss. The first real one, anyway, not years of mockery beforehand that ruined something she knew, according to stories, was supposed to be special. But it hadn't been terrible.
Her name was Nika and she had a laugh like tinted glass, nails all painted different colours. One of Jo's friends, a little younger than her but vastly more worldly, and they'd been working the same corner when Nika looked at her, thoughtfully, and pressed them together as gently as the falling rain. And she'd fluttered like James is fluttering now, and that's how she guesses.
Sharp is wrong, she realizes. Sharp is wrong for him, for a first time, and in the warming flush of their skin wherever they're touching Libby finds stability enough to soften. Her hands lose the desperation of their grip, fingers tracing back lightly: like this, like this. She brushes the tip of her tongue at the seam of his lips but doesn't dive in, her little noise now much quieter and lilting, a note of bird song. This is okay. This is more than okay, chaste and safe, and she realizes she's not just kissing him to prove a point.
That's why she pulls back, wide-eyed, hands stilling on his arms as she assesses--well, she just fucked this up, didn't she?
"James, I--" she hesitates and stutters, more shocked at herself than anything "--I shouldn't have--I should've asked, I'm sorry, oh, fuck, I know you don't like me like--fuck."
Let her just. Disentangle and make an escape, how about that.
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Her name was Nika and she had a laugh like tinted glass, nails all painted different colours. One of Jo's friends, a little younger than her but vastly more worldly, and they'd been working the same corner when Nika looked at her, thoughtfully, and pressed them together as gently as the falling rain. And she'd fluttered like James is fluttering now, and that's how she guesses.
Sharp is wrong, she realizes. Sharp is wrong for him, for a first time, and in the warming flush of their skin wherever they're touching Libby finds stability enough to soften. Her hands lose the desperation of their grip, fingers tracing back lightly: like this, like this. She brushes the tip of her tongue at the seam of his lips but doesn't dive in, her little noise now much quieter and lilting, a note of bird song. This is okay. This is more than okay, chaste and safe, and she realizes she's not just kissing him to prove a point.
That's why she pulls back, wide-eyed, hands stilling on his arms as she assesses--well, she just fucked this up, didn't she?
"James, I--" she hesitates and stutters, more shocked at herself than anything "--I shouldn't have--I should've asked, I'm sorry, oh, fuck, I know you don't like me like--fuck."
Let her just. Disentangle and make an escape, how about that.