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She tastes like mint tea and restraint.
Mcqueen’s back is against the wall of her dorm, the city lights from the window pooling a faint gold across her face. Her lips are parted, breathing like she wants to say something but can’t, and Gold Ship can feel the tension humming under her skin.
Every time they get here, every time she corners the smaller girl just enough, touches her just enough, Mcqueen freezes like this. Like there’s something she’d rather face than her.
“You don’t know what you want,” Gold Ship whispers, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. It’s not a question. Mcqueen’s breath shutters, but her hands—those perfect hands—stay flat against the wall instead of on her back like they should be.
And she hates herself for this part.
For knowing the second Mcqueen starts to melt. For feeling her pulse race beneath her skin when Gold Ship’s fingers trace her hip. For pressing her thigh between hers, knowing she won’t push her away but won’t pull her closer either.
It’s slow, almost painfully so. Gold Ship catches her chin, tilts it up, eyes searching hers. The tension between them is thick, and for a moment she swears Mcqueen’s going to close the gap herself.
Gold Ship doesn’t want to think about the fact she won’t.
She presses her mouth to hers, desperate, angry, and Mcqueen lets her, lets her, lets her—her hands find Mcqueen’s waist, pull her in. A faint, pitiful noise escapes her mouth.
She swallows it, hungry for more.
And just when the warmth blooms, when her body starts to soften into Gold Ship’s touch, she pushes her back. Not hard, but firm enough that it hurts more. The evident shift, the tightening in her jaw. It was like kissing a ghost. Warm and there but gone.
The distance between them is only inches, but it may as well be miles.
The taller swallows hard, jaw clenched, because the heat between her legs is the same as the one in her chest and both are burning her alive.
“I can’t.”
The words drop between them like lead.
“You can’t say you don’t think about it.” Gold Ship begs, pleads, “you can’t stand there in front of me and pretend you don’t—”
“I’m not pretending.”
Her voice is ragged. She’s trembling now.
And here it is again.
“You make me feel—” Mcqueen starts, but stops, and that’s worse.
“You always do this,” she says quietly, a final prayer to the purple-haired girl standing just out of her reach, her eyes hardening even while her lips are still damp. “You pull me in, and then you disappear.”
A second passes, silence. A few seconds pass, more silence.
“I’m still waiting for you, Mac-chan.”
Mcqueen doesn’t answer. Her breathing is uneven, her eyes now fixed on the floor.
Gold Ship forces a smile, steps back like it doesn’t matter. “Don’t get any big ideas,” she says, voice dripping venom to cover her pain. “You’re not special.”
She leaves before Mcqueen can see the way her hands are shaking.