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She is the one to initiate. Because of course she must—Michael would never push her no matter how rapidly his heart eyes beat into his skull.
If love is supposed to look like the way Nick and Charlie behave around each other, then Tori might as well be allergic to this ooey, gooey, sappy, sentimental feeling. It doesn’t sate her, only leaves a sticky residue in her mouth and makes her sick to her stomach.
Love is full-fat Coke, and Tori has always been a diet lemonade connoisseur. Bitterness lies in her blood, and she would boast that the stinging aftertaste has settled into her marrow and the bubbles aerated it. Mother’s milk has nothing on the influence of generic Tesco lemonade, supposedly ‘sherberty and sweet’.
At least that is what she told herself before she met Michael Holden. Now it’s all a silly straw with multiple entry points and many bottles with flavours playing a discordant symphony in her mouth whenever she sucks at it.
Because Michael is many things with a litany of flavours. Odd. Miscellaneous. Away with the fairies (in more sense than one). Angrier and more frustrated than he seems on the surface. But most of all, he gets her like nobody else does. Before him, Charlie was the closest to her in the sense that his neuroses and struggles let him dip his fingers into a gloom Tori was born into. She loves him fiercely and would do worse than breaking David Nelson’s phone on his behalf.
Not that she’d ever tell him that to his face—that’s something their family doesn’t really do. Aside from Oliver, of course. Even if that little thief insists on downloading games with all sorts of microtransactions on her phone and broke her Death Star Lego set while playing with it, despite being told it was exclusively a display piece, it doesn’t stop her from reciprocating when he tells her that he loves her through a gap-toothed grin. That is the only time the word tastes a comforting sweetness, like dried fruits as opposed to confectionary sugar.
Love. A word she dislikes thinking about when looking at Michael Holden and his frizzy hair, thick-framed glasses, pointy chin, and dorky smile. She doesn’t do full fat, so it bears reasoning that she doesn’t do full love either. If she did, perhaps her heart would give up on her and deflate, that sad, withered thing. Her arteries weren’t constructed to carry vast quantities of serotonin through her veins.
Yet Michael Holden keeps injecting it without her consent. How very rude of him.
That is how the whole spiral starts, in fact. An affection injection (a verbiage which sounds about as vile as it does euphemistic). Because that is what it feels like to be around Michael Holden. His very name is a cluster which sometimes demands to be pronounced in a rhythmic four tap beat. Just Michael won’t do. Although she hardly ever says it aloud, it is enough to microdose on it in her mind.
Even when he annoys her, Tori can’t seem to get enough of him.
Which is why she headed over to his house today. This fateful day. She braves the rain by clinging to Michael as he shields them with a hideous umbrella while walking from the bus. They much prefer his place over hers, because as long as Mum, one Jane Spring, is home, the doors stay open—or else. At his? It’s fair game. Doors are shut, stale snacks and dirty glasses remain on his study desk from a previous visit, stinky socks which she snarkily comments on are chucked off the bed and into a pile vaguely resembling a hamper.
As usual, he insists on scampering to the kitchen to procure her a drink—diet lemonade is now a permanent fixture in his fridge—and Tori plops down on the bed in starfish formation. It is too soft. How can he fall asleep in this mushy, springy, creaky mallow mess? She could never. Even if it does smell like him: slightly spicy with hints of clover, combined with floral detergent. Should it soothe her nostrils the way it does? Should it do something else? Entice her? Incite a spontaneous snogging session?
It never does. Sure, they have kissed. Several times. Never in public, never in front of anyone else. At least that’s what she tells herself. It is fine. Bit gross when it lasts too long or tongues probe around. It perplexes her how that has become the norm for expressing affection when resting a head upon a shoulder, a hug or a nap together are all much better options.
“Here! Sorry, the metal straw is in the wash, so you’ll have to use this paper one that came with some Uber Eats order.”
Or acts of service.
She sits up and takes a sip before thanking him. Same ordeal as always. He’ll stand there with a doofy smile upon his face and strip out of his school uniform without paying her any mind. Rambling about his latest passion project, this time about how toads are slowly going extinct due to spore-borne illness and what a shame it is considering they have been around for hundreds of millions of years.
Despite his beanstalk stature, he is surprisingly muscular beneath the ill-fitting clothes. Figures. Lad’s a bloody ice skater who takes his craft rather seriously. The first time she saw his back as he pulled a shirt over his head, shoulder blades undulating with each movement, she had been taken aback by it. Flustered? Maybe. It was hard to tell. But she has gotten used to seeing him shirtless by now. She has gotten used to the one cherry angioma on his lower back, the star-shaped scar on his flank from a mole removal, numerous spots creeping towards his hairline, the faint patch of coarse hair climbing down the back of his trousers.
Is that what prompts her to stop him today as he’s about to pull on some lame graphic tee? Set the glass down to join its brethren on the desk and place her arms on his biceps and catch him mid-movement while he looks at her, the top half of his head poking out the hole, befuddlement in his eyes?
Who is to say? The world lurches Tori Spring forwards and she looks up at Michael Holden, heart lodged in her throat.
She knows what she wants to say. It’s a simple sentence, a verbalised want—or perhaps a curiosity—but her heart blocks it. For what if she, of all people, is giving in to peer pressure? Of everyone at school, resident gloom-lurker Tori Spring would be the last person anyone would expect to initiate intimate relations with someone just because ‘everyone else’ is doing it. Because what’s the point? Conformity is stupid, and she’d gladly be a black sheep who refuses to bang on a drum.
Everything happens at her pace. And this is leisurely enough for her.
So, Tori decides then and there, looking at Michael’s moles and freckles and patches of dry skin, that she is going to make it known.
Michael seems confused yet amused, ready to make some off-the-cuff remark, when she slides her hands up his biceps and revels in the warmth of bare skin. She makes a note to stick her feet up the back of his shirt when they get particularly frosty later. Then pulls his collar down to access his mouth for a simple kiss. Close-mouthed. Normal. As normal as kisses can be between them, especially with arms cramped in place above his head.
The shirt remains where it was when their lips part, leaving his chest on full display. Tori tells herself that she’s not looking. Not at the smattering of hair, his innie belly button, the way his collarbones jut out. Nope, nope, nope. She keeps staring at his nip—eyes. Michael’s eyes. Mirthful yet awestruck. Blue and green. Heterochromia iridum. Dumb, dumb, dumb. That is what this decision is.
“So…” he says after a few dreadful seconds. “Am I allowed to put the shirt on, or is this a new fashion trend you want me to try? Do you maybe want to wear my clothes again?”
Tori snorts but says nothing. For what is she supposed to say? ‘Would you like to have sex right now?’ is even more cringe than dad’s tendency to call it ‘hanky-panky’, and there is no way in hell she is going to try and seduce him in any capacity.
Instead, she delves into practicalities, an area she is much better versed in.
“Do you have condoms?”
Maybe not the best approach, but it certainly prompts a reaction.
“Co-condoms?” Michael stutters in disbelief before blinking and tilting his head. When he follows it up by saying her name in a querying intonation, it is done in a whisper.
Despite everything, Tori replies with the same calm as before. “Yes?”
“Are you—” he swallows, then wets his lips, “—are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
Her shoulders tighten as she releases a hefty breath and closes her eyes. Her hands fumble their way up his shoulders and bunch into folds upon folds of the shirt worn like an unfastened noose.
“Only if you want to.”
And she means it. There is no way he would ever pressure her into anything that would violate her bodily autonomy, so the least she can do is to extend that same courtesy to him.
Three. Two. One. Add an additional second. That’s how long it takes for Michael Holden to reboot as he registers what she just said. Several blinks follow and an exhale of disbelief gives way to a wide grin. The lad is virtually vibrating with excitement.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
Michael nods. “Yeah.” Then he motions to discard his shirt again, but Tori stops him.
“Let me.”
For the first time since they started coming here together, Tori is the one who undresses him. Buttons slide out of holes. Zippers drag down. Socks pull off. Somewhere in the chaos Michael procures the necessary supplies.
Once it is her turn to lose clothes, he asks, “Are you sure you want this?”
“Yes.”
A nod, then a smile. Fingers slide between fingers as hands clasp.
“Okay.” He cups her cheek with his free hand. “Let me know if you feel any different.”
“You too.”
Tori does, in fact, not feel any different at all. That is that. The whole fanfare. It is neither life-changing nor revolting. It’s fine. He is fine. She is fine. If emotions were a bass, they would hover around the same imaginary chord smack dab in the middle, picking up pace, strumming and snapping in alternate tempos, but it would ultimately play the same melancholy ad-nauseam.
‘Fine’ is not a word anyone in her life has used to describe sex before. When she was little, everyone would wrinkle their nose and make noises of disgust at the notion of sexual activity. Nowadays it seems like it is all everyone is preoccupied with. Romance is a vehicle for carnal activities. For two bodies to become one.
But she feels no more, nor any less, connected to Michael than she did before they wound up in his bed.
No one has prepared her for this overwhelming bubble of indifference she would be swallowed by. This pedestal that is heteronormativity celebrated and made manifest can only be described as a sham.
Moments linger in her mind. The way his hand slid into hers. How he tucked locks of hair behind her ear. An infectious smile. That one moment where he slipped and almost fell off the bed. She had never imagined an expression could look more naked than an uncovered body. If Michael Holden has taught her anything, it is that he is full of surprises.
When he asks if it was okay and she nods, it is the truth. When he holds her close, still shirtless and half-covered by a duvet, that is more than okay.
This is where she still lies while they doze. Well, while he dozes and she ruminates, dressed in his sleep shirt. Stealing clothes is a ritual which she practices with religious rigor. She wonders if his arm is numb where it snakes beneath her. Maybe he’s too polite to complain, thinking her comfortable in her curled up foetal position. It wouldn’t be inaccurate.
Would she have the courage to tell him that she doesn’t feel any closer to him than when they cuddle clothed? That her body lights up with unfamiliar, though not unpleasant, warmth when he grins at her and rambles about a newfound interest which excites him? That what they had before—that she hopes they still have after this—was more than satiating to her?
That eternal pessimist Tori Spring dares think that she might be content, almost happy, in his company?
That this might well be the first and last time she has sex with anyone?
Would that ruin everything? Would that mean watching the only person outside her family whom she cares for slip away between her fingers, not necessarily straight away, but slowly, like sand sieved through a cupped palm?
Would he even dare ask to do this again?
It’s not like they’re even boyfriend and girlfriend, are they? No. They haven’t talked about it. In fact, Tori has deliberately derailed that train of thought with the hopes of crashing it. That’s what she does best. Crash and burn, dash expectations by being snarky and foreseeing curtain call from thirty minutes into act one.
Even if Michael would be okay with her feelings now, he would inevitably change his mind down the line and that would be the end of them. Until then that line is precariously thing, and she might as well derive as much enjoyment—or whatever analogue to enjoyment she experiences—out of their… situation. Falling is inevitable. Bracing for impact can reduce the damage.
But if she had her way, they would stay in this gravitational bubble where they orbit one another. For how long? Hard to say. They are both young, and youth begets foolishness, which she could do without. ‘Young, dumb, and full of cum’ is the antithesis to Tori’s old soul. ‘Forever’ is ambitious. ‘For as long as she is here’ is grim. ‘For now’ is what she settles for.
She balls her hands into fists and shuffles closer to Michael. Warmth is welcome on dreary days like this, where rain pitter-patters onto windowpanes. They remind her of how clocks tick in unnerving metronomy during mocks.
When she stirs who-knows-how-long later, she rouses Michael awake and tells him she needs to get home in time for dinner. As always, he offers to walk her there, though this time she rebuffs him.
She rolls her eyes when he insists that she bring an umbrella with her. That same gaudy one he used earlier, reminiscent of a circus big top.
“If you didn’t leave yours at home, we wouldn’t be in this situation!” he reminds her in the corridor.
“The forecast didn’t include rain.”
He smiles that foolhardy smile of his. “We live in Britain, Tori. What’d you expect?”
What did she expect exactly? Not this. Not this mess of feelings and complications entangling her with another person, nigh on against her will. Not time flowing like slush in a gutter.
She’ll have time to covertly browse through Tumblr and commiserate with anonymous, faceless asks for answers later. For now, Tori settles for having one more sip of sickly-sweet full-fat soda by giving Michael a hug. It’s brief, and she must set down her glass, straw now water-logged and soggy, upon their little desk beside a key bowl. Then she swathes herself in one of Michael’s jackets, pleasantly oversized.
Before she leaves to indulge in whatever brown slop dad has made, she finishes the drink and swishes lemonade around her mouth to wash the taste of kisses away.
Bitter.