Integrity Deficiency
Title: Integrity Deficiency
Summary: They both want something the other can't give. Key/Amber.
Warnings: Implications of sexual situations, self hatred and sexuality confusion.
A/N- I wrote this with Key and Amber in mind but after I was done I realized there isn't much that really feels like them.
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They both want something the other can't give.
She likes the feel of her blue dress against her skin but the moment he steps in the door she wishes she had a shawl, sleeves, something to cloak her arms; hair pricked by a sudden chill and tense for reasons she doesn't deign to explore.
They don't speak, acutely aware the atmosphere will collapse if they do and they'll revert to their re-regular selves, mask themselves in a teenage naivete they can still just get away with, play shy of acknowledging the true intentions of what tonight were and pull out some kind of game to amuse themselves with.
She presses against his chest and beneath the smooth material of his suit and silk undershirt he's so flat, hard and wr- just right, this is right.
His lips are soft, plush, tasting distantly of cherry. The kiss is stiff and their hands hover uselessly by their sides. She tells herself it's because he's her friend and he placates that it's just nerves, only nerves, and he's overcame them many times before.
This is just something he needs to overcome.
Like a hurdle. A hurdle is just a square you jump over and that's it, gone, left in the distance but his stomach stirs uneasily because he hates sports and running and that's the only metaphor sticks fast in his mind.
Her face is bare, hair unstyled and hanging in and around her dark eyes, sticking out at odd angles. She doesn't know if it's some intentional or a subconscious effort on his part but his eyelashes are tipped with mascara and a tell-tale streak of powder along his jawline -too sharp- a tone darker than the pale expanse of his neck.
He closes his eyes and ploughs on, because that's what everyone in the stories did when faced with challenges; also in the stories layered with romantic turmoil a traditional plot line was forbidden relationships. Even though a voice is screaming at him that they shouldn't be doing this, he flips it and convinces himself it's because they're not used to it, and when they get going it will all fall into place and he'll know this is what he- they should have been doing all along.
It's not new. He's felt these- breasts- before, engaged in petting, and it shouldn't be any different from before but it is, in the worst possible way because there's barely a peak there and his mind wanders, trips and tumbles down that tunnel where it shouldn't be going.
Nearly perfect.
With boldness she doesn't feel, body detached from her brain and resorting to instructions on autopilot; perfunctory, expected, controlled, the hand resting on the small of his back lowers to cup, just slightly, the rise of his ass. Closes her eyes and the rest of her body off and focus, only, on the feelings in her palm. It's smooth, and she thinks of that time in the gym, the curve of circling hips and that, that, like two perfect peaches...
Stop.
Her eyes fly open when she feels him jerk and realizes she's gripping, too tight, he's too tight- and she jolts back with the power of an electricity surge before he can choke out a rough "It's fine"
They're both looking, gazes laden with apprehension flashing anywhere but at one another and they both, like a dart inevitably zoning in on the bulls eye, land on the doorway leading to the bedroom.
The Bedroom.
The words roll around in her mind like the contents of a shaken bag, a washing machine, it's all a whir and jumble and when the letters rearrange themselves they're big and black and bold, staring: The Bedroom.
It's always been casual, flippant "Come upstairs, I'll show you my bedroom" friendly and familiar up until now, in this situation it carries a whole new weight. It's strange, foreign and the uncomfortable stirring in her stomach has stuck like cement, thick and heavy.
It's not her room anymore. Her room is where all her things are, clothes and games and drawings, this room only has one specific object that's sat high atop a pedestal, everything below is insignificant.
They walk ahead in perfect sync, still without eyes meeting contact once, to meet their imminent fate.
They sit on the bed, the mattress commonly known to be soft and welcoming is like floorboards built on shaking foundations, awkward to even inch forwards. They feel so high strung that every creak and recline under the pressure of their movements has their nerves set on edge. They don't do anything but fidget, obviously, a silence reigning that they know in a few seconds will border on ridiculous but neither of them can break it until it's absolutely, inescapably, time to act their parts. Neither of them will win an award for their performances any time soon; critiques wood be a stiff movements with bad posture and delivery more wooden than bark.
Unconvincing.
She should have just lay there, eyes closed and left the work to him and she has no idea if it's out of some misguided chivalry but she's on top, looking down at him and wondering if her eyes are as wide, vulnerable and closed off as his.
The whole time it's been this search to fill but being left with this empty, bittersweet feeling, it's like trying to catch water, water spiraling down the sinkhole with no plug time and time again. They're both ensnared in a mind-trap where their only means of coping, even inadvertently, is if they picture another person, another situation entirely but they can't allow focus on that, can't think those thoughts or. Or...else...
And it's only when it happens, when that they're reaching out to touch even though they can't even fucking look at each other that the overwhelming reality of the situation rears up, hits them both in the face and pins them down, no escape:
Key and Amber are unmistakeably boy and girl.
Kibum and Amber don't like the opposite gender.
Not in a way that matters.
That's it, they're in over their depths and he shoots up, would have clipped her on the jaw if she hadn't fallen back at the very same moment. Minds buzzing, they set to work quickly and aren't listening to each other as they rearrange their clothing with none of the usual care for precision, but they know they've both murmured hasty excuses of:
"This was a stupid idea"
In a blur he's phoned a taxi and whisked away only he hasn't really, because as he sits in the back seat hoping the driver gets the message he's in no mood for obligatory small talk as he still feels as if he's in that apartment, still thinking about that room and knows that's where he'll still be rooted in his dreams that night. She remains perched on that bed, lights off where she pictures herself sitting on the lips of a monster ready to swallow her whole so she has to lean over, head in her hands and think. All they have left is their thoughts.
Neither of them want to open their minds to the prospect of why they knew, why they felt the ease to ask one another to do this, friends with benefits approached with edgy eyes searching, spying, for hints of ulterior motives. Knowing instinctively though gazes parted with guilt before they could really catch anything, but that in itself was enough.
He didn't understand her enthusiasm for sports and she's unfazed by his love for various shades of pink but they both cooed over leather studded bracelets and flipped through magazines dedicated to modern hairstyles.
Maybe, somewhere, in the depths of her mind where flickering thoughts are crushed and banished will congregate and say she wants curves in places he'll never have, he can never have.
Maybe his diary, the pages now shredded and binned and lost to the world, could have told someone of his harboured desire for broad expanse of hard shoulder blades leading down to toned muscles, and if anyone had been let privy any point of their ill-concieved tryst they'd have noted the way he avoided her arms in fear of brushing the smooth, slim planes and shattering the illusion.
The next day they text one another over the same, trivial things they always do. Scattered pieces of a complicated puzzle slot together and seem simple in hindsight, and they both link together again with the reassurance that they can go on as if nothing ever happened.
Everything will work out eventually.
Yet those thoughts plague the backs of their minds, festering, spawning and darkly overwhelming in it's impossibility to be quenched:
They just hadn't found the right test subjects.
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Thank you for reading, concrit is readily welcome.