A kiss (1/1)
Title: A Kiss (1/1)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Skins -sigh-
Summary: My version of Naomi and Emily's first kiss back in middle school. From Naomi's POV, of course!
A/N: This may completely suck/contain spelling mistakes, because alcohol is not my friend when it comes to writing :p So, I apologise in advance. Comments, as always, would be much appreciated :)
I'm standing outside some random house, wondering why exactly I decided that this would be a good idea, that socialising with the wankers from my year group wouldn't inevitably bring about a sense of hopelessness. It does, of course, and I mentally remind myself to inform my mum of this very fact when I return home. After all, she's the one who's so apparently desperate for me to 'make friends.' Some song which I'm pretty sure I've never heard before but instantly decide I hate is pumping loudly through the speakers as I walk inside and, a quick glance across the room confirms my suspicions that 99.9% of the people in my year are complete fucking idiots. There's shrieking, lots of shrieking, because apparently I'm the only person in this entire fucking room who doesn't know every single word to this song. I grimace slightly, wishing I'd brought my iPod with me to drown out their tuneless singing with some Le Tigre. I didn't, of, course, because life has a habit of kicking me in the teeth like that. It does it deliberately, I swear.
Everyone was invited. They always are to these kind of parties, thrown by one of the vapid losers at the very top of the social hierarchy (apparently, the less braincells you possess, the more followers you acquire. Might explain how George fucking Bush got into power.) I knew, the instant I opened my locker to find some crumpled up invitation had been shoved in it (misspelled, of course, because apparently literacy is a choice and not a necessity these days,) that it was inevitably going to be one of those parties which bring about such an utter despair in the pit of my stomach, make me wonder if I'm the only person of this generation who actually gives a shit about real issues. Issues that don't involve which colour lipstick would best compliment one's outfit, or who fucked who at the last social gathering. I wouldn't have made an appearance, of course, had I been presented with a better option, had I not arrived home from school to discover that my room was currently being used as a bloody homeless shelter and that some complete tosser had finished off the last of my vodka. (Which part of 'Do NOT drink' don't these people understand?)
My eyes drift over to the centre of attention, which is, of course, Katie fucking Fitch, dancing in such a manner which should only ever be reserved for strip clubs (although, I think to myself, I feel very, very sorry for anyone who would pay good money too see a sight which is so horrific.) She's grinding shamelessly on some random meat-head guy, who's throwing the occasional thumbs-up to his neanderthal mates, clearly very pleased with himself. I roll my eyes, thinking that Katie fucking Fitch is the kind of person who would make Emmiline Pankhurst and the rest of the suffragette movement spin in their graves. Because, really, what self respecting woman would base her entire life upon ensuring that the entire male species wants to fuck her? It sickens me, it really does, that self respecting, brave women so selflessly sacrificed their own freedom to empower women everywhere, only to have tramps like her and her pathetic bleach-blonde followers construct their whole personalities around what is expected of the female species.
I shake my head momentarily, wishing it was possible to be at a social event without having to notice Katie fucking Fitch. It's not, of course. She's an attention whore of the worst kind, always making sure that her voice is louder than the voices of those around her, that her mannerisms demand attention. She has the kind of voice, in fact, which makes me wish more than anything that I wasn't a pacifist. Because, really, each and every time I hear that voice, I'd quite like to stick pins in her eyes. Or at least hit her, just a little bit. I could probably justify it, really, if I could be bothered. Inevitably, my gaze finds itself drifting away from Katie and finding her twin, who's currently sitting awkwardly on the edge of the couch, her head hanging down as she nervously plays with the hem of her skirt. They're always together, Katie selfishly hogging the limelight and Emily hovering shyly in the background. It's inevitable, really, that I should notice Emily. That, upon being forced to notice Katie on such regular occasions, my gaze should automatically find Emily. The lesser of two evils, I think to myself.
Honestly, she irritates me immensely, trailing after her bitch of a sister like some pathetic fucking puppy. Because really, who in their right fucking mind would just put up with being treated like that? I watch her in class on occasion, when our teacher's incessant rambling becomes too monotonous to bear, observe the way she sits passively beside her sister like a shadow, noting down every single thing the teacher says while Katie shamelessly re-applies her makeup for the fifth time that lesson. (Like it wasn't fucking clown-like enough to begin with.) Emily catches me looking every so often, her gaze meeting mine as she flashes me this pathetic puppy dog look which just screams desperation, as though she's somehow expecting me to save her. Perhaps, I think, she's not used to people noticing her. I'm pretty sure, in fact, that the majority of the tossers in our school only know her as 'Katie's twin.' I feel sorry for her on occasion, I really do. Because to be perfectly honest, I'd rather be associated with Satan himself than the self-indulgent tramp she calls her sister.
I finally manage to make my way through the crowds of inebriated teenagers and locate a small table with various alcoholic substances scattered haphazardly across it. My gaze falls to the floor, to a practically full bottle of vodka which has gone undetected. I smirk to myself, thinking that maybe this party wouldn't be so bad after all. People, I've noticed, become significantly more tolerable after I've consumed copious amounts of alcohol. (Might explain why I drink so fucking much.) I covertly pick it up, unscrewing the lid quickly and downing a few mouthfuls of the clear liquid, wincing as it burns the back of my throat and deciding that I'm going to get as wasted as possible as quickly as possible.
I carry the bottle with me as I make my way back to the main room. Katie's draped over some obnoxious, hormone driven guy (a different guy to the one before, I note. Excuse me for not being the slightest bit surprised.) I roll my eyes, finding a vaguely secluded corner of the room and slumping down against the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, still clutching the bottle between my fingers and hoping that no-one bothers to talk to me because, really, I came here for the alcohol and not the mindless conversation. No, if I wanted that, I would have most definitely stayed at home.
More than a few gulps of alcohol later, Katie is dancing on top of the table, parading herself in front of the leering men in the room like some cheap whore. I search for Emily, out of instinct more than interest I tell myself, and spot her still sitting on the edge of the couch, cringing as some fucking idiot guy wraps his arm around her and whispers something into her ear. She shuffles away from him almost desperately, looking over to her sister for reassurance and sighing silently as she observes her actions, realising that she's on her own. I roll my eyes for what must be the hundredth time tonight, the alcohol invading my system and making me realise that I need a fucking smoke before the sight before me becomes too much to bear.
I vaguely remember some faceless tosser (presumably the idiot throwing the party) yelling that all smoking should be done outside. I'm not one to abide by rules, but I think that, perhaps, the party-throwing idiot's parents would be less than impressed to return home and find their house riddled with the smell of stale cigarette smoke. And really, it's probably not their fault that their idiot son has invited countless tossers into their house without their knowledge. So, begrudgingly I might add, I stand up slowly, making my way outside into the garden and lighting up a cigarette thankfully, noting how peaceful it is away from all the wankers inside.
The peacefulness is interrupted (isn't it always?) by a figure stepping out into the garden with me and I instantly recognise the flash of bright red hair, praying silently that it isn't Katie fucking Fitch. It's not, thankfully, I notice as soon as I'm met with a shy smile and a subtle nod of the head. It's Emily, presumably seeking an escape route from that fucking wanker-bastard who'd attached himself to her side. I speak to her for the first time ever, which is a bit ridiculous really, considering how long we've been in the same fucking class.
''Didn't picture you as a smoker.'' I state simply as she lights up with shaky hands. She shrugs shyly, smiling slightly with crimson lips (I'm betting Katie made her wear that lipstick, because, I think to myself, it's far too bold and brash for the shy girl standing before me.) She's silent for a few moments, fidgeting nervously and looking around the forlorn garden as though she'd rather look at anything but another human being. The silence is broken after several long moments, by her rather than me, much to my surprise.
''I didn't really want to come here, y'know. Katie made me'' She throws her half-finished cigarette to one side and shrugs as though it's a simple fact of life that she does what Katie tells her to. Like it's as concrete and unstoppable as the sun rising or the grass growing. I shake my head, torn between amusement and despair because, as pathetic as Emily's passiveness is, I also find it rather sad. She could be like Katie, if she wanted to be. Could be the life and soul of every party, could get with countless guys each night and not even give it a second thought. She's attractive enough to, I've noted to myself on several occasions, far more attractive than her arrogant twin, has an adorable (irritating, I meant irritating) shyness about her which I can't help but find endearing.
''You don't seem to do anything you want to.'' I note almost arrogantly, blowing smoke through my nose and leaning back against the wall, throwing my own cigarette on to the concrete carelessly. She looks at me then, through wide eyes, as though she can't quite believe that anyone has noticed anything about her. They probably haven't, of course. I've noticed, in the midst of my sarcasm, that those who shout the loudest often have the least to say. Katie is the prime example of such a theory and Emily, well, I'm betting that Emily has far more to say than most people would imagine. She takes a deep breath then, before turning to look at me and letting words hurriedly escape her lips.
''I'm not as stupid as people think. And I could, y'know. Do something I want to do. Right now, actually.'' I turn my head slightly, exhaling deeply and scanning her features, trying to read the expression on her face. It's not that I care, obviously. It's simply that Emily Fitch is my only chance of even remotely intelligent conversation tonight and, well, it's only natural for someone with such an inquisitive nature as my own to be intrigued by someone so elusive. She's gnawing on her lip nervously, looking at me intently as her gaze lowers and finds my lips. I realise what she's about to do, think to myself that I should turn away. I don't have time to, though, because she leans forward nervously and her lips brush against my own before she pulls back slightly, looking at me with wide eyes. Rationality seems to escape me then, because I find myself far too overcome with how fucking soft her lips were, how her kiss was tentative and fleeting, yet so unexpectedly compelling. She leans forward once more, and I can't help but to allow her to once again capture my lips with her own, allow one of her hands to attach itself to the back of my neck and pull me closer. I find myself responding, bringing one of my own hands up to her waist and pulling her form towards me as her tongue lightly brushes against my bottom lip.
I could stop her if I wanted to. She's probably expecting me to, actually. Waiting for me to push her away, roll my eyes sarcastically before muttering something under my breath and walking away. But I don't, instead choosing to kiss her back un-apologetically. Because, really, it's actually kind of nice.