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I watched as James leaned forward, the heel of his shoes tipping right off the ground, pressing his lips right onto Wren's. Perhaps it was my own interpretation, but the way James kissed her was fast, barely a peck, a touch. But it was James. James put all his emotions into the play, into his role as Romeo, feeling twice the emotion, twice the adoration and need to kiss Juliet's sin purging lips.
I kept glancing between James and Wren, the two of them had an undeniable chemistry, obviously making the act of Romeo and Juliet believable not only to the audience, but to me as well. Were I not so obsessed over my possession over James, having kept my eye on every move he makes, I would have doubted something had happened between them (I did).
Watching the two of them throwing lines back and forth between them, a raging fire in my heart began to burn. The smoke fogged my mind, ignited jealousy through my entire body. The sword in my hand drops abruptly, as if I was burnt suddenly by the growing envy.
The noise was not loud enough to disrupt the scene, but just enough for James to turn his head towards me, his eyes filled with concern. There was something else I couldn't put my finger on, the look of an emotion I couldn't put a name to.
James tried to follow me after practice, waiting outside the dressing room when I'd returned for a walk, the both of us still in our costumes. Romeo, the lovesick fool. Benvolio, the loyal companion. I would have said the roles were reversed if I hadn't known better.
"Oliver..." James started when he saw me. I have no reason to be mad at him, and we both know I couldn't stay mad at him for long. Not ever. "Can we talk?"
There was nothing to talk about. We knew what this was about, but none that we'd be brave enough to admit to ourselves, let alone to each other. His eyes were sad, pitiful even, when he stared down at the ground.
"Talk." I offered, not knowing a clue where this conversation would go. It was just as Alexander had said, I'm not entirely sure I want to kiss him or kill him.
"I understand a fury in your words / But not the words." I supposed he meant how I had acted on stage, or the way I had purposely ignored him during and after rehearsals. Not that he would notice, having his nose stuck into whatever Wren was saying or doing.
James had always been bad with expressing how he feels as himself, but perfect with the way he expresses his characters. The way they feel, he feels. Taking full advantage of the words he'd memorised, twisting them to the situation to create his own sonnets and poems. I, on the other hand, "You know perfectly well what this is."
Hearing the words, James lifted up his head. There was an unreadable expression on his face- somewhere between smug and provoked. The words would be either 'Is that so?' or 'You crossed a line.' or both.
Instead of those two predictable responses, the next lines were: "If I profane with my unworthiest hand / This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: / My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand / To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."
The same words he'd spoken to Wren moments ago, as Romeo to Juliet.
It didn't feel as if he was playing a role, because he wasn't. James, as himself borrowing the words of someone else, making his thoughts clear to me, for once. This wouldn't be the first time he's ever used words from the same play. Such a romantic play, speaking to me as if I am his love interest. Though, I never caught on, what he wanted me to see. Even now, although it should have been sooner, I fill the next lines in.
"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, / Which mannerly devotion shows in this; / For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, / And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss."
My hands laid still by my side, clenching into fists, resisting the urge to grab onto him. Such sinful words leaving our mouths, talking so freely, so carelessly about a forbidden touch, a kiss, of something more. I could almost hear James' heartbeat, with how close we were.
"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?" James breathed, his words slow and unsure, despite his role, such confidence completely wiped once he's off stage. Alone with me.
The expected half of the quatrain, which Shakespeare had so deliberately made for the lovers to finish each other's sentences, is yet to be said. No promises made, only feeling the buzzing tension in the room.
"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer."
"O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; / They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair."
Despair. Their prayers call for despair. The touch of those two lips call for despair. The pair of star cross'd lovers will eventually end with despair. Would that happen to us, too?
"Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake."
I was no Saint, neither was James. Though, we wish to pray just the same. Unafraid of those unspeakable lingering touches, only afraid of what's more, the emotions hidden underneath those touches.
"Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take."
Move not, yet I let our foreheads touch as I leaned in closer, our nose almost touching.
The moment my lips crashed into his, James made a noise of surprise, although he was expecting it. The urgency of the kiss, both of us giving our all into it, pressing against each other's, the two palms moving together just as forcefully. He leaned back into my touch, my hands moved up to hold him, finally. As if he'd run if I let go, I desperately tugged onto the hem of his clothing.
James let his arms fall down helplessly to his sides, letting himself melt into the warmth of our lips. Having waited so long, for something to happen between us, to have more, to give more, to need more.
Breathless. Was what I felt after we broke apart. Breathless by the way James had looked, his lips swollen, his hair a mess from the way I gripped onto him. Breathless by the kiss, from the emotions neither of us could describe with words, catching all of it from his lips, his kiss.
"You were jealous." James simply stated, the light smile on his face made me feel at ease again. I didn't mean to be so possessive, but something about how dishevelled he looked (all because of me) made me want to keep him all to myself.
I scoffed at his accusation, letting my head fall onto his shoulder, hoping he could feel my rapidly beating heart and catch the words I never found to say to him.
James brought his hands to my cheeks, and that was the only warning before he pressed his lips against mine again. This time shorter, a peck. "You don't have to be." He murmured against my lips, rubbing his thumb on my cheek reassuringly.
A comfortable silence fell between us, both changing out of our costumes, sneaking glances at the other while we stripped to our boxers before dressing in our normal clothes again. We've seen each other with even less clothes before, but knowing James' gaze was also on me, my heart flutters more than before.
James tangled his hand with mine, intertwining our fingers together, pulling at my arm before I ran after him, chasing him upstairs to our room. The smile on James' face when he looked back at me, the look of complete genuineness in his eyes. I could live with this forever.
The moment the door to our room closed, James' lips were on mine again, mouthing at it before my senses came back and kissed him with just as much force. His lips were burning against mine, yet I did not pull away. In fact, I never want to.
His lips parted ever so slightly, an invitation for my tongue to slip inside. The inside of his mouth, warm and tempting, pushing and pushing, as if we could become one if we tried harder. A sound of whimper escaped from the back of his throat. I pulled back a little to bite at his lower lips, allowing another whimper let out before him, so embarrassedly pulled away to hide the noise.
"Don't," I tutted and kissed him again. "I want to hear you."
The ungodly words left my mouth without a second thought, leaving all the well-written, thoroughly thought out words behind. It was enough to just be James and Oliver, Oliver and James.
James, such a bold and confident actor on stage, hid his head on my chest, his cheeks reddened from both my words and the heat between us. I've never seen him so shy and bashful, nearly shrinking himself in my arms.
"Oliver?" His voice small, timid even.
I let out a hum.
"What... What are we?"
My words failed me, so I lend the same one we've been using: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet."
The meaning wasn't entirely the same, but it applied to us just right. Whatever we choose to be, we'd still be us. Whatever we trust to use as a label would never completely define us, but we'd still be us.
James kissed my cheek, then the corner of my mouth, then my lips. "Lovers?"
I kissed his nose before nuzzling closer to bury mine in his hair. "Lovers."