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FICTION: sipara nzinga, kissing laledy
The first time you think about it, it’s easy to dismiss! You shake it off like the sun on your back and you move on. But just like a burn, what you always think is gonna heal just fucking festers, instead. The thought keeps coming back! It seeps into your pan and scalds the edges, leaving every last goddamn thought peeling away until there’s nothing but nerves and that stupid goddamn realisation left. It’s like your common senses sloughed off like dead skin. Every time you deal with Laledy, you think you’ve gotten over it.
Every time you deal with this fucking mossblood, you realise you haven’t. Lal’s been yammering for eight, ten minutes now, and you’ve been stuck watching that shit-eating grin for the last five.
(It’s not fair. There’s rules to the people you like, and you stick to them: big horns, pretty mugs, warm blood and girls. Laledy fits absolutely none of that, even if you kind of want to sit on his chest and count his eyelashes.)
(You’re pretty sure he wears mascara. You’re pretty sure he wears lip-gloss, and the realisation makes you want to puff out your cheeks with rage. It’s not fair! None of this is fucking fair.)
“Alternia to Earth, pal!” Laledy chirps, leaning forward on the table, and finally, you remember to look up. He’s got his lenses on, but just like your dumb moirail, it doesn’t hide shit when you know what you’re looking for. “For reals, what’s your dealio? Got spinach in my teeth? ‘cause thanks a bunch for telling me, insteada just starin’ like a proper weirdo!”
“Fuck off. I was trying to figure out how you got your teeth so nubby. You, like, break ‘em off in the creche, or something?”
“Nah, broke ‘em off tryin’ to chew rocks, get my face half as rough as yours.”
You kiss your teeth at him on reflex, but some stupid part of you shrills: he’s paying attention to your face! And knowing he can’t even see your goddamn face isn’t doing shit to stop the smug warmth.
He might not be able to see your face, but he can hear your contempt, and his grin widens. He starts to open his mouth, and you know how’ll this go. The conversation’ll drift! He’s probs about to say somethin’ about parasites, or zombies, or the latest shit he’s heard about, and.. you don’t want the conversation to drift, not just yet. An idea’s resting at the corner of your eye, and you’re starting to get a feel for what you’re thinking.
(This is a stupid idea.)
“Nah, but, like, for reals, doesn’t it bug you?” you blurt out, just as he opens his mouth, and you can’t help it: you bounce a little in your seat at the incredulous tilt to his mouth.
“Uh -”
(This is such a stupid idea, but you’re going to have fun.)
“Your teeth being so nubby, dumbass! Like - no, shut up, I’m talkin’! - like, they’re like pebbles. Rocks! Really fuckin’ dull rocks. And, like, 'kay, I can see why you’d keep 'em there for, like, red. Be the pity-bait, babe,” you sing, “ain’t like you’re not fuckin’ built for it. But it’s gotta be a drag for the rest of the quads! I mean, what’s your pitch-mate gonna say 'bout that?”
A beat. You inhale sharply, ears pricking straight up, and - yeah, you’re being as dramatic as fucking Riccin right now, but it’s so worth it for the way that Laledy perks up across from you. He plays into your shit so well! You love it, even as he quirks an eyebrow at you, because even as the silence drags, you know he’s not going to be able to resist that line.
“Pal, I’ll have you know my pitch-mates totes love it,” he drawls, sure enough, and you can’t help it: you laugh, pleased, even as he eyes you. “All of 'em! Like, the entire corral of peeps I’ve got waitin’. Some folks say you ain’t gotta keep 'em all hangin’ like that, but, way I see it, waste not, want not, yeah? You know how it is!”
“Oh, totes. You start off with one fucker flirtin’ blackways and then, like, suddenlyeveryone’s all up on your bulge.” Laledy’s got making fun of you down to an art: even the way he nods his head is mocking, mouth twisted to the side. “But,” you sing, “you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
He stops nodding.
“I mean, like, dude, let’s be real here, you’ve never even been kissed.”
He sticks his tongue at you, then taps a finger against his cheek. “Are you saying you don’t figure this face’s perfectably kissable?” he simpers. “Because I’d tell you all about it, pal, but 'fraid I just ain’t keen on, like, kissing and telling. But, like, beeteedubs, I’m totes a better kisser than you. On account'a the fact I don’t, like, go bitin’ off people’s bits!”
“Soz not soz, that’s how the cool kids do it. Stop bullshitting! You haven’t kissed nobody,” you accuse him. “Not even one person! You’re too fuckin’ scared.”
You lean forward all at once, palms thumping the surface of the table. He jolts. You beam at him, wide enough to show off all of your teeth, and - okay, okay, you’re ruining the plan, you’re moving too fast, but your pumpbiscuit’s racing like you’re six and new to the ring again. There’s laughter at the back of your throat! There’s nerves at the back of your teeth. But you don’t let either out. “And if you aren’t,” you demand, a laugh catching at your words, because oh god, this is stupid, this is so fucking stupid – “Then prove it!”
For a second, you think he’s actually going to. He actually frowns at you, the skin of his nose wrinkling, and he leans in. Kissing isn’t your thing, not really! It’s boring. It’s a waste of time. But it’s a sign someone likes you, too, and that’s why your heart does an unsteady little skip when he gets close enough you can start counting inches.
And then, at the last possible moment, he fucking falters. “Uh. Can I – wait, fuck, like, look –”
This close, the lenses don’t do shit to hide his eyes. They’re big and clouded and anxious. If he were anyone else, maybe you’d feel bad, but this close, you can count his lashes.
And, yeah, he’s wearing mascara. And eyeliner, the stupid nookmunch. You’d feel betrayed, if you weren’t so delighted.
“Knew it! You’re such a fuckin’ chicken,” you huff, but you don’t pull back. His eyes aren’t quite so wide, anymore, but those big, stupid ears of his are pulling right down and back. “God, how’re you gonna, like, survive anythin’, if you can’t even ki– mmph!”
(Apparently, he has been kissed before.)
(But no one ever taught him you don’t kiss with your goddamn fangs.)