Introvert

16

mentions of homophobia; nothing too bad.

'Let’s tangle them up,

twist together all our limbs,

braid ourselves to sleep.' ~ Tyler Knott Gregson

 {two days before/ the day shyanna talked to niall}

||Kristy||

Coming out is no easy feat. It is, truly, something that makes your stomach tremble with worry. It makes your throat close, your hands shake, your eyes tear up. Because all your life your parents talk and laugh about gay people, say that they have it so easy, that it's a choice. All your life you're told to have kids and find a man or woman to love and hold dear. Because all your life, you feel wrong. And there are the exceptions, of course there are. There are people who won't bat an eyelid to someone coming out, but there are people who kill, harm, mistreat people who even slightly like the same gender. And, God, it's 2014, we should have learned by now. But we haven't.

We haven't learned it's not a choice, haven't realise it's not something people can change at will. Because we're idiots, who fear so much and love so little, so when Anna presses her lips to mine in a chaste, warm kiss, I flinch slightly. Not because I don't want to kiss her, but because I'm scared. Because my parents have laughed at the expense of gay people at all times. I want to kiss her, want to hold her and smile into her collarbones and hold her so tight our bones ache.

"I love you," She says, not looking even slightly hurt. She knows the pain of coming out in the same way I do, knows the locking of her throat and throbbing head.  "So much. When you're ready, yeah?" She gives a comforting smile, kisses me on the forehead. Platonic. Right, I can do that. I've been faking platonic for years.

"Anna." I say, because she always makes these sacrifices for me. For everyone, really. For Shyanna, but then we both do that. If she can help, she will. No wonder I fell in love with her.

"It's okay, babe, we can sneak at lunch, okay? In the back field, where the trees are." She winks, and I look cautiously around, making sure no one who'd hate us for it can see, before pecking her on the lips. It takes all of my will power to not do what I do most nights; kiss her until our lips dry out and then stroke her sides. God, how I adore this girl.

"Christ, don't say that, I might cry." I whine, laughing into her collarbone as her arms wind around me. 

"Love you."

"You, too." And I do, I really fucking do, because she makes me feel so much better about who I am. She gives me someone to hold and love and not feel like, somehow, I'm taking advantage just becayse of my sexuality. I just wish I was strong enough to give her what she deserves.

{two days later/after Shy has gotten the notes}

We never got round to sneaking kisses. We just ended up laying in the library and going over our speeches for the assembly the sixth formers are running in two weeks. Shyanna needed hugs and comfort and rehearsal, and we just added bits in. We've already learned our parts completely, in and out.

So it's not surprising we do it now, as we run from the philosophy class. Shyanna's staying in the class over lunch to talk over things she's missed and targets she has to aim for to get further. 

As we skid down the main steps, breathing hard and hands fumbling, I manage to catch a glimpse of Louis Tomlinson, the guy of the moment, the only out male in the school, huddling close to Harry Styles. I know just what Shyanna means, now, as I watch them giggle and press close. They really do look to be in a relationship that's less platonic than, say, Shyanna and Anna's friendship. We're all close, need to be for support, but even Shyanna, Anna and I aren't that close. But it is, undeniably, fucking adorable.

"Cuties." Anna whispers, nipping my ear as she catches up, clammy hand clasped between my own fingers.

We're heading to the one part of campus we're unlikely to get spotted in; the small garden just behind the main library building. It's a tiny place, filled with overgrown weeds and untended flowers, but it's so gorgeous, and it's where we first met, so it's kind of nostalgic.

The second we get in there, the scent of grass and blossoms clog our senses, and we both smile. A butterfly flutters past, beautiful and bright orange, but I barely have any time to examine the creature Shyanna ponders over before soft lips are on mine.

We've kiss so many times, in so many places, in so many ways, but this place feels so much better. Her lips are warm and slightly chapped, but I lick over the seam before getting more into it. There is nothing in the world more upsetting than having to deal with chapped lips in a kiss. It rubs in all the wrong ways. As my tongue grazes one particularly flaky part, a moan is elicited from them. It's high and sharp and burns me through to me toes, and I shiver. Anna, the teasing girl, winks.

"I don't like you." I say, but the statement is kind of null considering the fact my hands are curling into her neck, fingers twisting in hair, body pressed close to hers. It's hot, today, always is back here anyway, but the feeling of her hot body against mine just heightens the feeling. Sweat drips along my back, and all the while I'm whining, asking for more. Her tongue, finally, flicks out, meeting mine in a way that's so much more obscene considering we're at school. And it should frighten me, that I don't care we're kissing at school, but it doesn't, because it's Anna, and nothing frightens me when it's Anna. 

And I know it can't be comfortable, that my sunglasses dig into her cheekbones, but she doesn't mind. If her whining has anything to do with it.

And then, suddenly, we're not alone. Because the intakes of breath give nothing away. Nothing at all, and we pull apart in time to watch two males enter, gaping. And, shit, it shouldn't terrify me. But it does. Because these two boys... they have the power to spread this secret through the school in minutes. So, as I watch the boys gape and stare, I feel tears prick at my eyes. 

Nobody comes here. Oh, God, I'm a liar. Because Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson are gazing straight at my kiss bruised lips.

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