"What if I'm never nice to you, ever again? Or never let you kiss me again, as long as we live? What then, huh?" I stand beside him at the sink where he's washing the dishes that have piled up over the week. The Author has absolutely no concept of tidy, it seems. Suds and water and ash are everywhere, because he sat his cigarette down on the counter and it rolled into the sink. It got fished out eventually, since I came over and pulled it out with that thing you use to drain pasta, but now the soapy water is all full of cigarette gunk. He tried to kiss me, 'as thanks', but I pushed him away and all he got was a wet handprint soaking into his red t-shirt.
"That wouldn't be very nice of you at all," he says. "But you wouldn't do that, of course." I frown at him. How does he know what I would or wouldn't do? I mean, if I really think about it, I guess I wouldn't� maybe not, anyway. Author peers down at his shirt, trying to see the handprint, although it's too high up on his chest for him to really get a look at. It's practically at eye level for me. I hate being so much shorter than him.
"Sure I would," I say, walking away from him to go find a towel or something. "It wouldn't be hard, I'm not really that nice to you anyway. And I don't want to kiss you." I start looking through the cupboards, thinking I saw a dishcloth there earlier. Living in a lab is pretty ridiculous, if you stop and think about it. I'm trying to find a normal, everyday dishcloth, and every cupboard I open reveals Petri dishes, Bunsen burners, tubes, flasks, jars of goop, pointy things, and those weird scratchy things that start fires. I wonder how safe it is to be using this place as a kitchen, even the one counter has been set aside for just that purpose its entire shelf-y life. The first rule of science class was always 'don't eat in science class', but I got over that pretty quickly.
It's a nice enough area, I suppose. The counters are thick and made out of that stuff that looks like marble, but is really just a plastic sheet over wood. Our cooking area is basically a Bunsen burner, a hot plate, and a coffee pot. We don't have an oven or anything normal to cook on, because apparently cooking your food over an uncovered butane fueled flame is way better. It's stupid, but I'm always afraid we'll leave the gas on one day and Author will light a cigarette and boom, there we go. It'll never happen, because the exact same fear makes me check the valves about every five minutes after we use them, but that doesn't stop me from being a little freaked out.
For all the weirdness though, there is a really nice view. We're the tallest building around for kilometers, so we can see everything in all directions. The window at the back of the kitchen, at the end of the counters, is tall and wide, and you can see all the way to the ocean. The windows are so big it's practically like having a glass wall on that side: really not good for anyone who's afraid of heights. It's my favourite part about this place, other than my garden. You could just stand there and watch everyone going around for hours - if there weren't so many distractions here.
Of course, as if on cue, Author comes up behind me and plunks suds from the sink onto my head. Ew. I spin around in my crouched position and end up falling on my ass, but not before I smack him in the knee. He makes a little sound of surprise and falls - on purpose, not because I hit him - right on top of me. He grins happily now that he's far too close, because it seems that's his favourite place to be. I lean back against one of the cupboards and he arranges himself on the floor between my legs. His head flops back onto my shoulder as he makes himself comfortable - and me uncomfortable. Soapy water drips out of my hair, down my face, onto my turtleneck sweater.
"Do you have some sort of annoying quota you need to meet every day?" I grumble, trying to ignore that he's warm and heavy like a big irritating blanket. "You're doing a good job." He just looks up at me and smiles, and I find myself hoping I don't have anything in my nose. What the hell. After a moment he reaches up and pulls my glasses away from my face a little, reminding me that I was wearing them in the first place. They rest right on the very tip of my nose, dangerously close to falling off.
"I like your eyes better when they're green," he says, completely ignoring my question. "I always like them, you know, but I think the green looks better. They're like� ferns. The blue is more steely, I think, and that doesn't really suit you." He says all this matter-of-factly, like it's not really an opinion, just a statement. He doesn't want me to do anything about it, isn't telling me to stop wearing the contacts; he just wants me to know. I have never met anyone weirder than The Author. Still looking up at me, right into my eyes, he doesn't say anything else. I think I had something to say, but I forget it now. His blue-green eyes are almost hypnotizing.
"But anyway, I know you wouldn't do that," he says, referring to what I said earlier. "I know because you said 'as long as we live', and that means you're not going anywhere, am I right?" I didn't even realize I said that. I break eye contact with him because I know if I keep looking I'll start blushing or something stupid like that. No matter what, he always manages to find a tiny little bit of good in every mean thing I say to him. If you didn't know him, or me, you'd probably think he was just grasping� but he's right.
"Yeah, I guess," I agree, staring at a spot on the counter opposite us. "I don't really have anywhere else to go, so�" That's the same thing I always say. There's probably somewhere I could go, but I don't want to. I don't like admitting it, but I'm happy.
"Exactly. And you're nice to me, right? Even though I put soap in your hair." He reaches up and brushes the last bits of fluffy bubbles off my head. A bit more water drips down my face and I wipe it away with the edge of my sleeve. I hate the cold feeling the trail leaves.
"Yeah, if I weren't nice to you, you wouldn't be� what are you doing?" He's turned around and rearranged us so I'm sort of sitting on his lap and his arms are down on either side of me. As he leans over me he smiles, and it's a real smile, that crooked one that he seems to save just for me. Goddamn, I know what's coming next. I can feel myself turning red already. Pulling my glasses of their perch on the end of my nose, he kisses me on the cheek. Then on the other side, then my forehead, the tip of my nose, the bottom of my chin. Every kiss makes my face go redder and redder, I can tell. Even the tips of my ears are burning. I'm just telling myself that I don't like it. I don't. This is not the way I want to be spending my afternoon off, self. No. I'm not listening though, because I do absolutely nothing. He moves in close to kiss my lips but stops right before he does. I look him in the eyes now that he's close enough to see. Those strange, inhuman eyes.
"And, because of all that, you're going to let me kiss you," he whispers. His lips brush against mine when he says this - doesn't ask. I don't say anything, but just let my hands wander from their place on the floor, up his arms, wrapping my own around his shoulders.
"You tell me," I say. He chuckles and presses his lips against mine gently. Even if he knows I want it he's always so careful. Until I give him a bit of encouragement, that is. I can't believe I'm doing this, but I pull him closer and close my eyes. I feel him smile. His tongue runs over my bottom lip and presses, trying to get in, so I let him. He tilts his head to the side a little so our noses aren't pressed together, which is nice, because his nose his sharp and that kind of hurts. His tongue runs over mine and explores my mouth, making me emit a weird little squeaky sound. I am hating myself, both for letting him do this and for not letting him do it more often.
After what simultaneously seems like hours and mere seconds he pulls away. He pulls my hands off of him and places my glasses in my left. My other hand gets the sweater sleeve pried away from it and he kisses the palm, right below the ring I always wear. He's such a freak. I put my glasses back on while he stands up and comes back into focus. He looks so damn happy with himself.
"I thought so," he says. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish washing the dishes now that I've made my point and my shirt is dry." I kick his at his leg and he walks away, leaving me sitting like an idiot behind a lab bench in a kitchen. I don't know what it is about him that completely destroys my common sense, but at the moment, I don't really care. I pull my sleeves back down and pull my knees up to my chest and just sit there with my face hidden. I don't want anyone to see me smiling.