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The feeling of the nondescript black fabric rubs against their fingertips, nails tracing their oblivious expression that’ll soon be stripped away from them in the shape of endless patterns. Mirroring the eyes that dart from face to face, a feeling of unpredictable tension wanders throughout the room full of its victims.
The reaction as to what they would be doing on Friday during the final sixty minutes of watching the hand on the clock inching toward the center was not what any of them would call a successful outcome. If what the teachers thought was going to be an exciting way to get kids to experience an important part of their life was guaranteed access to get the ruthless parents off their email inbox, all they’re going to get are more relentless complaints.
There’s also the issue of one of the smaller classes involving themselves in such an event; fewer people would most likely have a greater chance of having an unfortunate truth revealed, whether it be a proudly worn badge or the dirt on the bottom of a shoe that makes its home in the crevices that adorn the surface that meets the already-stained floor of the school hallway.
Taking a glance at the piece of fabric that the school has provided them with only explains further how much this will affect the permanently tarnished image of what people choose to display to the public eye. But, then again, won’t the public's eye also be blurred in the face of black material?
"Well, it wasn’t really my decision, asshole."
"I wasn’t really asking for your direct opinion, asshole." The choir of voices tunneling about the room comes to a halt. "But if all you seem to care about is whether or not you’ll get a kiss from your pretty little girlfriend, because she hasn’t even publicly held your hand yet, then be my guest."
All eyes have locked onto the argument in the middle of the dull square they’ve all been forced to situate in, with no one intervening for the sake of not baring their souls to the eyes of a narrow-eyed seeker. The tension begins to wind itself between their limbs, holding out against any restraints that cross its path. It reaches to root their feet to the ground, leaving no space for any other variation of hesitance.
A hand reaches out to the wisp at the edge of the string. "Hey, let’s all think about this positively. Maybe it’ll break us out of our comfort zones and crack our shells. Maybe this’ll be exciting — it’s a process of experimentation, after all! Let’s look at it as it was intended to be looked at."
"All this is going to do is cause a fight to break out!" Another voice retaliates. "Realistically, it’s a ‘let’s kiss my best friend’s boyfriend’ opportunity for the majority of the people here."
The next notorious thread is set loose and is already making its way to the mouths of those with silent voices. Thoughts of what the situation could lead to squirming around like how worms would get away from the surmountable hunger of a winged predator. The other percentage of the group plots methods of attacking the school board via their parents' keyboard-envisioned wrath.
The final few fantasize about their own selfish goals, striking down logic in place of want. Running their hands through their desired’s hair, slotting their lips together like the world would a piece of a puzzle. It sounds like an unforeseen reality — that’s why it’s so important to rely on authority when making these decisions, even if the other majority defies.
They stay quiet, watching.
"I’m not kissing anybody! Consent is a thing, you know." A large collective sigh bounces off the walls. "What? At least tap me twice on the arm before inserting your tongue into my mouth."
"Okay, fine. Tap twice for consent?" Collective nods repeat in defeated rhythms.
The door bursts open, and a disheveled clutter of a woman stumbles into the room, tripping over the fine line of trust between the rival parties. Once she gains her balance, she straightens her stance, maneuvering the clipboard back into place, resting against her elbow, and taking out a fancy black pen.
Her abrupt entrance shocks some of the students, and they don’t register that she’s made her way into the room until she clears her throat to clear a rather large amount of blockage. "Is everyone here?" Not waiting for an answer, one of her bony fingers begin to flick across each person in the room, her mouth forming consecutive numbers, before ticking something off on her clipboard.
"Okay. So, I’m sure you’re all wondering why and how this is going to happen. And that’s what I’m here to translate," she explains, her red lips drawing most of the eyes in the room rather to her vivid choice of make-up than her previously described instructions. "This game is called ‘kiss and tell'. Each one of you is going to walk into this room full of all the other students, who are blindfolded, and kiss whoever you choose. But here’s the twist! Neither of you can make a sound or tell each other anything about what you experienced, or it’ll ruin that concept of excitement."
Most choose to glare at her, wrapping their fingers around the string that lies dormant on the floor and looping it around her neck. Others find interest in the designs that pave the tedious layout of the classroom — desks and chairs seeming more comfortable than the knees beginning to waver beneath the tense bones of their upper body.
The teacher notices the amount of hateful gazes she’s receiving and averts her eyes to the wall in front of her. "I’m going to read out who’s going first. After that person’s done, the next will go. I’ll be waiting outside the door, so when each one of you is finished, I’ll go in and fetch the next while the previous person goes in and puts their blindfold on." The stares grow stronger. "Daisy Armon, you’re up first. Everyone else, put the blindfolds on."
The moment she leaves the room, the tension from before fades into a new abyss of anticipation. A few confident students follow these instructions without hesitation, curious as to what could come out of something so unpredictable as blindfolds seamlessly blend with their facial features. Some lock eyes with each other, raising their final thoughts to them, before doing the same.
After a long moment of silence, the door to the room opens. Quick footsteps approach the group, but stop at a certain point, hesitating. Some people wonder what she’s doing, if she’s choosing her pick, or if kissing them is the rampant moment of abrupt ending to her obvious neglectful attitude toward this supposed experience.
Her unkempt attempt at a ponytail, pieces trickling down the sides of her sculpted cheekbones, lashes from side to side to keep up with the amount of shooting darts her eyes are in the midst of casting. It was meant to be a smart way to keep the steadily growing sweat off her neck, but all it does is display a disheveled final image for her chosen kiss to run their calloused fingers through. They were meant to visualize her features and immediately recognize her pale complexion without even having a second thought.
Her feet move for her, directing her navigation toward a familiar person she’s come to expect. His blindfold sits neatly above his nose, effectively persponing his line of vision until this game ends like any other game would. Frantically, her eyes flick to the clock that sits on the wall beside her, ticking each second like an unwavering countdown to her inescapable controversy, and she glares at it, wills it to move faster. But, as she anticipated, it does nothing but continue its pattern.
A step closer, and she knows he feels her presence in the way his breathing hitches a little. A faint smile graces her features, registering his acceptance, before she brings up a hand to grasp at his arm. With her eyes still locked onto his shadowed ones, she lifts a finger to his warm skin and repeats the instruction that was agreed on beforehand — she taps his arm twice.
The anticipation that proceeds to absorb the air in the room grabs on to her traitorous bouts of desperation. Her mind begs for him to somehow accept her invitation, possibly accounting for the thought — she had so many other options — of even choosing him as her partner in crime. Of course, she won’t be angry with him if he declines, but she wants him to say yes.
It’s been a suffocating minute of awkward suspense between the two, but, as she’s about to let go of his arm, another sensation runs up her veins. The hand that’s grabbed her wrist mirrors her actions from before with the same amount of desperation as she had, intertwining their fingers and tugging her toward him. Their chests touch; their hands connect. And for one second, Daisy would’ve said their lips met.
They inch closer, their timid movements inventing a safe environment that both find comfort in. And the moment she knows that their lips are connected, she can feel the smile adorning her own — a reflective smile consoling him before he copies it, his own smile finding an area of his face to occupy. It’s short, but she knows, she feels, that it meant something, and she thinks that Sean does too.
The very second she leaves the now-fulfilled space in the room, the woman comes back in and drags the next victim into the abyss of having to make that required decision on who would be the best candidate for their guilty lips. There’s always that hint of faux confidence as they enter, but once their eyes come into contact with each oblivious face, some bouncing on their feet and others trying to shy away, their facade falls as quickly as it was built.
They roam in and out like ants in a never-ending cycle, their footsteps paving the way for the next person to follow. On average, there are about twenty people in this class. Eighteen have gone and kissed their faceless lover, and only two are left to waver between their fears of choosing incorrectly.
"Jake Sterling," she announces, her voice booming across the ears of the blindfolded crowd. "Take your blindfold off and come outside." A pair of hands reach up to tug at the overly tight knot that he perfected over the last hour before taking a few long strides to the door that leads outside into the hallway.
Once his hand lets go of the doorknob that’s been warmed over the amount of times someone’s hand has clenched its limbs around its spherical frame, a glance over his shoulder proves his teacher behind him with a bored look on her face, pen wedged between her teeth while her finger scrapes across the paper on her clipboard.
"Okay." She looks up, taking her saliva-covered pen out of where it got stuck between her lipstick, and locks eyes with him. "Jake Sterling?" He nods. "Perfect, alright. Hand me your blindfold, then when I say, open the door and kiss one of the people in there. Once you’ve done that, you can come outside again, and I’ll give you your blindfold back. All clear?"
Although the circles painted beneath his panicked eyes display otherwise, he nods to reassure her with her thorough instructions. She snatches the blindfold from his hands, ticks something off on her clipboard, then ushers him toward the door again, eyes lighting up in hidden excitement — he wonders whether she was the teacher who suggested the idea of this social catastrophe.
"Have fun!" She calls after him before the door to the room clicks open once again. His eyes wonder, scanning over each student with an analytical gaze in time with the ticking hand of the clock while taking the few first steps toward his inevitable doom. They jump from person to person, likely basing their choice on looks alone, but then his eyes stop; they click into place.
His footsteps halt where they stand, mere inches from whom he’s meant to choose, yet his eyes don’t falter in what they close in on. Maybe the other can feel his gaze from the way they shift in their position once or twice, swaying on their feet to keep themselves distracted; despondent to what they’re supposed to feel. His heart sinks to his stomach, pulling him down into the smoke below him that’s only been building from the first few minutes — Jake wasn’t expecting full-on head-over-heels behaviour, but, jeez.
A step closer, and he notices the other’s hands have begun to shake where they sit leaning against their sides, fists balled to create friction between their fingers dragging against skin. They’re nervous, and Jake knows they’re nervous. But so do they; they knew that he was going to pick them out of all the options he could’ve chosen, that he picked them to probably spite their ego.
And to that, Jake says, "Come on," because that is not what he wanted to do, because realistically, he feels that his first intention was to do just that. But something changed his mind. He thinks that this could finally be a time to show them his true emotion — neither of them could say anything to anyone, so he felt pretty self-assured about his unpredictable plan.
But then he’s standing there, hand hovering over their arm, staring straight into his eyes because he knows that they’re staring back, and a twinge of hesitation washes over him. It makes a difference with the blindfold on, because you aren’t forced to observe your future at the will of another, but now, with his person being controlled into an unseeing darkness, it just feels as if he’s the one with the surmountable power in his hands, its remnant spilling over into that air of anticipation, and that if he doesn’t make a move at this very moment, all his assertiveness will diminish before he can even pick another choice.
His mind begins to race with thoughts of unreciprocated nature, regret, and fear, tumbling around his head like a profound version of his recent failure. He’s practically lost all his safety nets because of the way he decided to deal with the situation, and now he’s out on the frontlines of another battle that he’s not ready to fight yet and that he’s terrified of losing.
His hand begins to shake, fingers trembling minutely as it sits there, and he closes his eyes, willing back the tears that threaten to form if he isn’t able to pull himself out of whatever spiral he’s summoned into the perfect shape around himself. But he should’ve known that if this person could read his presence from a pure gut feeling, then he could obviously feel this too. A hand twitches from where it sits on his hip, and it trails Jake’s torso, trying to find where his chest ends and his arm begins. He barely reacts to the featherlight touches as they reach his forearm, leisurely coming in contact with his trembling hand.
They link their fingers together, proud of themselves for reaching their goal, before reaching the other hand up to immediately find the front of Jake’s neck. He figures it’s his height that helps them when they seek his chin, tracing their fingers along his jawline until their tender nails find his hair, fondling with the loose strands. It’s not until they’ve reached behind his neck that Jake realizes that his own hand has made its way to their hip, subconsciously drawing patterned circles into their skin.
For a second, all Jake does is listen to their breathing, which had previously pulled him into a moderate trance. His lips part to connect their equal rhythms. It’s so intimate that his mind travels back to unshed memories of the two of them by themselves, sharing the same air, teasing the same familiar reciprocal energy with their tainted personalities, and his lips twitch upward. There’s still the same person he met all those years ago inside that trapped front that ruined a monumental piece of him, torn away day after day, until all that was left was a shallow relationship that was held at arm's length.
Surprisingly, it isn’t him who asks for permission. They tap their thumb against his hand twice, visibly swallowing their unspoken words. Jake lets the tears escape at the other’s implication of words needing to be spoken, to be shared between them. In the silence of the room, he wonders if the people around them are simply ignoring their interaction or if they’re envious of their proximity. Jake finds that he likes the idea of their relationship re-enacting as something to be jealous of.
It’s he who leans in first. He brings their lips closer and closer, not letting go of the hand he’s latched onto since the other brought it into their grasp, as well as the fingers curling around their hip. He can feel the hand on his hair tightening ever so subtly with the movement, and he begins to feel more confident. Less than an inch away from their lips, he dips to the side of their ear, bringing his hands to cup either side of their neck.
"I’ve missed you." And with the tears still dripping from his cheeks, he feels the other let out a breath.
"I know."
The moment their lips connected, it felt as if his chest had opened into pure ecstasy. It’s passionate, the manner in which their bodies effortlessly sink into each other, limbs transfigured into a single layer of a need they’ve both personally required from the beginning. Jake feels a sense of relief in the fact that the person sharing this moment with himself is reciprocating this emotion, the tears he shed because of the basic reason of denial.
The hands that he’s placed against the other’s neck start to linger toward their shoulder blades, sketching a mosaic of newfound curiosity. He wants to learn; he wants to memorize for days on end. His fingers drag down their back toward the way his first had laid on their hip, gripping the exposed skin with a distinct knowledge of the way the other shivers as he continues his journey of creating original depictions that even he, himself, does not understand.
It’s only until his tongue slips behind the barriers of their walls that he fully realizes the impact this scene has had, bringing questions he’s been asking for years back into his mind. They fire in rapid succession into his rebuttal of choosing the right person, leaking doubt into his narrative that this was the person he was meant to believe to be the right one. Out of the twenty people inside that room, who else could he have chosen?
Fifteen blindfolded anomalies rule themselves out of the equation as "unknown background information", but Jake still knows the remaining five out of twenty. There’s Sean, Daisy, Liam, Luke, and Lia — they're an unpredictable, intimidating bunch, yet the most secretive. If any of them know anything about this, he’s probably in safer hands than most. Daisy still lingers in the back of his mind as a simple concept — a choice, yes, but not the choice he made.
They continue their dance of their storm before disaster with ease, hands travelling the surface of each of their clothes, comfort between them like no other. It’s when they part that Jake notices his mistake. A panic-stricken look crosses the other’s face before they push him away with sudden force. When Jake looks up, he sees a visible sheet of glass cloud the other’s vision, eyes locked onto the floor like a chain that’s started to wrap itself around his heart.
They wrap their arms around their middle like they've received some sort of scolding, their kiss-bitten lips beginning to quiver with each passing second the clock ticks. They look up, sending a pleading look into Jake’s eyes, reflecting a sense of urgency to turn back the past few seconds and relieve themselves of the thought of betraying their past.
Jake turns away, his eyes stinging with foreseen tears, as he makes his way toward the mocking extension of a door that’s somehow distanced itself from his footsteps. He follows the same path as the other students, their feet digging into the mundane school floor. He finds himself yanking the door open, leaving a small piece of hope behind the rectangular version of a broken divider.
The woman looks up from where she’s been leaning against the wall. "Hey, how was it?" Silence. "Okay, uh, who’d you kiss?" Her eyebrows furrowed in a concerned manner, trying to depict what could possibly be going on inside his head.
His breathing starts to pick up, eyes never leaving their spot on the floor opposite to where she’s standing beside him. She had no right to know to whom he gave his dignity when the students themselves were left to leave their experience in the classroom, and he never wanted to enter again without having to deal with a life-or-death scenario.
His head whips to the side to meet her wide-eyed stare, eyes boring into her naïve soul. "I just kissed the one person I was never meant to kiss." The tears slip past his defenses once again, streaming down the contours of his pale features. He takes a deep breath, finally having the chance to register his spiralling thoughts while staring into her speechless expression. "And guess what? He kissed me back."