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Franny sits at a table in Neil's observatory, feet tucked around the leg of her chair and hands folded primly in her lap. Equations swim in her vision, so she shifts her gaze to something more appealing: Neil himself. He's talking animatedly about the problems on the page and is using language that she can comprehend, but she's wholly intent on calculating the ratio of freckes to acne on his face.
Hamilton's frog can distinguish its mate from others by distinct patterns on its back; I bet I could do that with Neil if he let me map out all his markings.
An hour earlier, Neil had successfully attracted her from the enemy biome of the high school (full of the invasive species known as obnoxious jock) to the safe haven of the Robinson house. He presented her with an offer she couldn't refuse: help on her calculus homework. (She would've gone with him regardless, but she'd read that accepting assistance from a prospective male was an integral part of the human courtship process.) When she saw his lab covered in half-drunk cups of coffee and crumpled up pieces of drafting paper she thought excitedly:
I'm in his territory.
Now knee-deep in the murky waters of integrals, Neil glances over at her and pauses, mouth suspended between syllables and a blush dusting over the bridge of his nose. The intonation of his voice means he's asked a question, but it's hesitant, softer now, not the self-assured timbre he uses when teaching numbers and equations. Her mind is screaming that she needs to answer, to remain civilized and speak, but she can't— her thoughts are fixated on the way his tongue escapes to lick his lips.
A frog's tongue can be as long as a third of its body length— how far can Neil's extend?
His fingers drum the pencil against the table and she hears it distantly over the rustle of him clearing his throat. He swallows and her gaze drifts from his lips to his thyroid cartilage, tracks the dip it makes before resurfacing to its typical resting place. It was one of many new things she noticed about him when puberty made itself known.
I see why the males expand their vocal sacs— not just to amplify the sound, but for the visual effect.
He asks something again, her name, perhaps; she doesn't reply. This time it's intentional. Instead, she meets his gaze— takes heart in how dilated his pupils are— and leans forward. It isn't much, subtle enough to be misconstrued as her shifting in her chair, but she trusts Neil to take note of this deviation in her typical behavior.
If frogs don't need words to get their point across, then neither do we.
She watches the uncertainty shift into anticipation on his features: his eyebrows relax, his eyelids close partially, he mirrors her earlier movement. She watches his face come closer, closer, halt; he's so close she can see the flecks of sapphire in his irises, see the doubt still shimmering beneath the blue rings. His hair brushes against her forehead, his shaky breath tickles her lips, the smell of mint reaches her nose.
Right, the male American bullfrog seeks consent from its mate.
She gives it to him in the form of her mouth landing clumsily on his. Like a toad coming out of metabolic stasis in the spring, she feels warmth spread through her body. His lips are the sun, thawing her stomach from the inside out, and it makes her realize she's never felt true heat before, at least not there.
Good thing I'm not cold blooded, or this quick change in temperature would've caused organ failure.
She pulls back, intending to assess. When she opens her eyes, she sees his hand reaching up to touch her cheek and his face following hers as it retreats. He freezes, broadcasting doubt through his body language, but she doesn't give him time to second-guess her intentions. Her lips find his again, more intent and active than before, and when his hand slips through her hair to cup the back of her head she nearly faints.
Yeah, I can see why frogs stay like this for a couple days at a time.
She feels the rim of his glasses bump up against her nose twice before he takes them off entirely with his free hand. The pencil, paper, homework, and textbook all sit abandoned in the pursuit of more base knowledge. Her fingers come up to clutch his collar— it's the loudest plea she can make with her mouth occupied. The final coherent thought her brain makes is:
Goodness. If kissing is this revolutionary, I can't wait for amplexus!
Art drawn by the incredible @witchy-push on tumblr!