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It usually takes more to distract me than just changing rooms. Usually it takes something to eat. I’ve been watching Barry and Iris foolishly head over heels for the last hour with no means of escape before I grasp the first possibility to run and head for the kitchen. Movie night with couples is horrible.
Horrible.
You have those absurd giggles and that stupid shallow breathing that tells you someone’s hand has gone under a common shared blanket. I want to shout at them to get a room. But–given the leeway Barry got since he escaped the Speedforce he’s allowed to literally do whatever he wants. And Iris as his girlfriend has taken that chance all too willingly.
On our movie night.
And as it is their apartment, telling them to get a room implies either being ear-witness to what is about to - wait for it - come or leaving ourselves. I know that just as I know that my level of tolerance and humour decreases with every second and will most likely just have the dignity to be called prude by now.
But I should have known.
Not only had I tried dismissing the idea because I had seen those love-fools having no eyes but for each other, but I have since then tried to forget my own miserable state: Single. Hopelessly in love. A crush so irredeemably and unforsaken to be crushed (haha… not) I do not dare orbit people who share more pheromones than a butterfly generating Bombykol.
Of course Caitlin urged me to come. I could have said no.
But it was her pleading look that made me say yes. Hell, she made it sound like I wouldn’t feel out of context, like the famous third wheel.
And it had started well, really. Cisco and Caitlin leaning against the bottom of the couch, right beside Barry and Iris. And H.R. and I just behind them on the couch. As if the couch hadn’t been big enough for two more….
Third wheel….
Did I mention my crush?
Did I mention that I believe I got trapped into a weird setup by those people?
Like Cisco and Caitlin debating over the correct movie quotes and how Hitchcock did have an eye for the subtle desire depicted in shower scenes with H.R. and me occasionally chiming in. And then slowly but steadily the strands of dialogue separate with both of them settling into a more comfortable hushed tone and ignoring H.R. and me. It does make me question her plea to come with them.
Iris and Barry in front of us on the floor not watching Hitchcock at all and exchanging love arrowed looks as if Cupid had freshly hit them is another level. They had picked to watch Hitchcock… Horror movies for the love of everything reasonable.
Perfect reason for Iris to let her hand wander under that blanket she shares with her boyfriend and I had rolled my eyes at them from my place beside H.R. And then Barry starting to muffle those soft snorted chuckles and my eyes just can not remain focused on the screen anymore. Dear fucking–.
“Hey,” a slap on my arm makes me yelp in shock and pulls me out of my thoughts. I huff as I look to my right, returning the favour with a smack onto his arm. H.R. continues to chew unbothered on the wooden spoon with which he has nearly emptied the ice-cream cup he so maliciously denied to share with me.
“What?” I hiss at him. Meanwhile I try to remain somehow unaffected while I adjust my pose, not entirely missing how my knee brushes his thigh as I tug my legs beneath me.
“You’re not even watching,” he leans closer, enough that my earlobe catches the heat of his breath, spoon still between his teeth and turning the words into a grinding mishmash of mischief.
“I am watching too closely,” I whisper back annoyed, mirroring his head but carefully avoiding looking into those perfectly piercing blue eyes now. I knew he’d eventually start to mock me.
“Sure.” He grins and I inhale that short exhale of chocolate and coffee-laced breath before he straightens up again, resuming his gaze onto the screen.
I sigh, trying to cover it as a clearing of my throat. The whole world is against me. This is definitely a setup made by hell.
The others ignore us, making this much more awkward as I am bound to sit beside the man I am totally lost for. The man I befriended and–fuck, befriended so well, that I know nearly everything about him now: How he almost swooned over a little cinnamon I put into his coffee at the beginning of our friendship and how he enjoys it ever since; how he cannot stop bloating about his recent conquests and how good of a kisser they are (he must be obviously a very good one himself); how he constantly chews on things or bites on them; or how he constantly runs his tongue over his lips, denying every lip balm its purpose to exist. He might have an oral fixation. I might be too invested in that.
Too much of his proximity and easy as always-banter, it takes only one more minute before I untangle my feet and ungraciously climb off the couch, padding silently into the kitchen.
I am quite surprised at how comfortable the kitchen in Barry's and Iris's apartment is. Maybe I can spend the rest of the evening here, eating sweets from a secret drawer and swallowing enough of my pride until it is time to head home without anyone noticing. I mean, no one is even looking as I do start pulling drawers and shutting them. I leave the door to the living room open on purpose. But before I decide to go a hundred percent grinch by making more noise than necessary, I open the door to the fridge and lean my head against it, allowing myself a sigh behind the build barrier. In these seconds I just wish to disappear into the ground, hoping to get swallowed. Well, I am fucked, ain’t I?
The next second I hear a loud thud when the empty ice cream cup is slammed down on the counter just beside me.
“Yum, yum….” I freeze as H.R. clicks his tongue just behind me, before he scoops his right arm around my waist, resting his chin on my head.
“Hellooo, I am not a counter to lean on,” I try moving his arm but to no avail, his grip resolute and firm. Only then he relaxes with the softest of exhales. I shouldn’t read too much into this. Really.
Really.
Shut up, I mean really, shut up.
He likes to hug people. He is that golden retriever wagging his tail and jumping at you before you can even ask, if he’s friendly.
Is he friendly? YES. Goddamnityessomuchithurts.
Is he friendly to me? Annoyingly so.
And that is the thing. I really started to read into these things, believing somehow that he does them differently with me. Or hoping he would someday. I constantly fiddle with situations proving that he does and others where I tell myself I am just that friend: that stupidly in love-friend.
And I become equally annoying. I do not comment anymore on those lavishly narrated dates he has. Nor do I accept those hugs and squeezes and pats anymore without glaring looks and mean comments. I cannot bring myself to stay calm and unbothered. So it somehow evolves into something of a love-hate relationship.
He still comes to me when he wants to talk to his best friend. I listen–always…. but I am done encouraging him to pursue another carved line for his tally on his bedframe.
I think he notices. He is somehow more clingy than usual, especially those last days. I don’t think he knows what is going on but he senses that something has changed. If he can think that such a warm and feisty embrace can convince me to–
“Anything sweet enough to nibble at?”
His voice is sonorous and mischievous at once. His chin works on my head while his breath brushes against my hairline and I swear, if he’d let me move… My arms hang helplessly curled around his forearm.
“You had your ice-cream,” I mutter, caged by that wonderful warm body and still trying to get him off.
“I was hungry...” He trails off, the words more a sigh than an attempt at justifying his actions. And I do read something into this I should not… again. Focus.
My hands squeeze his arm pointedly, as my eyes scan the still open fridge, the sensor now alerting with peeping sounds that the door should be closed to maintain the coldness inside: “I think after you ate the chips and the ice-cream, Barry may have not much left. Popcorn–”
“-eww…” His arm tightens in mocked disgust and I cannot breathe properly. Is it his arm or my heart?
“Chocolate?” I propose weakly, blinking rapidly and attempting to move my head yet his chin remains rested on my head firmly. He hums in approval, the vibration making me shudder from the top of my head down to my toes. I exhale too measured, trying–yeah, I am trying, somehow, I swear–to get him off: by not winding out of his embrace at all.
I get it. I am enjoying this too much. I shouldn’t. I know he is a womanizer. And I am not the ugly best friend turning into a swan so the hero falls in love-type. I am just bland.
“Sweet enough… for starters.” He tilts his head just a bit so his lips brush my hair and my hands press against his arm again. They–somehow try pressing so very lightly, like-imperceptibly soft. I am trying to escape…not.
This is stolen time. This is not for me. Oh, get a grip for fuck’s sake.
“You’ve been distant lately….” Really?
“I miss this… us, like this… being close, having fun.”
“I’m not having fun.” I try to sound annoyed and unbothered. Like those cats that are squished by that overwhelming loving embrace which they reward you with death glare after death glare, sharp claws pointing at you. It makes him hug me even tighter. I so do not make it to be a thread obviously.
The peeping of the fridge continues, but H.R. doesn’t bother closing the door, his breath halting before he just breathes the softest: “Why?”
Oh dear god of plushy-wanting to hug-voice…
“Can you guys please just shut the fridge door already?” I jump at the sound of Iris’s voice from the living room, pressing myself instinctively more into that warm body of my–best friend, say it, he is still–
H.R. takes a step back, not letting go of me but enough to kick the kitchen door to the living room shut with his foot. He sighs dramatically, slightly annoyed at the disturbance before he returns to his obviously earned spot behind me. Damn, I could have escaped. I didn’t. His thumb starts moving over my ribs now. And he has done it so many times. Well, not exactly like this; more loosely and briefly...
“Why,” I hear him ask again. I inhale– fuckfuckfuck–and try to turn to face him. He realises that I'm not necessarily attempting an escape, so he loosens his grip for a moment before tightening it again. My hands rest on his upper arms now.
“You want to know?” I am not talking about the fun.
“Yeah.” He is not either.
Why is it so hard looking into those awfully enchanting blue eyes? I looked into them so many times before.
“You want to know?” I urge and pray to any deity that he will answer with a ‘no’ this time.
“Yeah.” He smirks that small wry smile, the one that makes me mad for how beautiful he looks by being so soft. I huff, lost for words, my hands flexing on his oh-so-wonderfully toned biceps and I lower my eyes.
“I… you–we… I cannot be your friend.”
His expression freezes. “What?”
What?
“I cannot be–your friend anymore.” I look up again, trying to sound steady and look like I could sell it. It almost works, if it weren’t for his absolutely shocked expression making my breath hitch.
“You do not mean that.” Oh great, now we are going to argue?
“Look, you have been–,” everything I have been looking for since I knew it existed in someone like you, “--nice and all.” Oh, don't you dare!
“Don’t.” His eyebrows furrow and I want to brush the wrinkles that appear between them away.
“I cannot love you and be your friend and–no, I mean-” Beetred and stammering I feel my mouth drying like a river retreating into its bed, “I cannot be your friend.”
I do not even realize that my fingers dig into his shirt now. I just try to hear anything beyond the rush of blood into my head. What the hell did I just say?
“What did you just say?” ARE WE HAVING A TELEPATHIC LINK NOW?
He uses his free hand to shut the fridge door without even looking at it. His eyes narrow and I miss how his lips stay parted, his mouth twitching on one side now.
“That is–not important!” I hiss now like one of those squished cats that attempt to claw their way out. I swear I notice how his lips turn into a slow smile.
My death glare does not seem to work. Oh, angyyy cat!
“You are in love with me…” He echoes it, awe-struck almost but clearly surprised. His eyes wander for a moment, before they return to mine. He is clearly processing. Yeah, fuck me.
“Don’t you bother. I know that you still have your tally on your headboard. I know you are not looking for someone like–”
Chocolate, coffee, salt, H.R. ...
My breath leaves my lungs, as I feel his lips on mine. There is a soft groan that escapes him, as if he is relieved.
He.Tastes. So. Good.
It feels like a huge thunder cracking between us when I part my lips for him. My fingers dig into his shirt again and I make one of those silly whimpering sounds that I never thought a kiss could evoke. Fucking hell, I do press myself against him. And his other hand moves up my spine to my neck to cradle my head. It feels endless before we part and start to breathe again.
“You scared me…,” he nuzzles his nose against my cheek and I shiver from that intimacy that just seems to have washed over us like an unstoppable tide.
“I meant what I said… Your tally-”
“-is a telltale nonsense. It is–” he huffs, amused but so much different than before--lighter--while he shrugs his shoulders “-I mean, not everything is a lie–”
“-H.R!”
“Alright, alright.” He cannot seem to get that half smile off his face as he looks at me.
“I might have told some stories, to tease something out. To see if it is true.” His voice becomes soft again, cautious, as his hand moves to my cheek and I blink again at the sensation this closeness promises. I tilt my head questioningly, leaning into his touch which makes me lose focus for a moment.
“I hoped something–I mean, I assumed… It was Caitlin who nudged me to talk to you.” Caitlin…. Oh, she owes me big time… That was the real reason we were here.
“You hoped… Like–you hoped I would feel this? I mean, you–you do, too? Like–you–you do, too?” I blush heavily and scold myself for that stupid stuttering that teleports me mentally back to my teenage years.
“Cat got your tongue?” He smirks a bit more mischievously now, his thumb caressing my cheek.
“You want me to show you again, what I feel for you, sweetheart?”
And when his lips press on mine again, deeper and fuller and so soft I whimper into his mouth. He bites into my lower lip before tugging at it.
“Still the sweetest thing today.”