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Title:  Many Sweet Companions
Author:  Kate Elizabeth (moonwhip@yahoo.com)
http://www.geocities.com/moonwhip/fiction.html
Rating: PG
Spoilers:  Second Season Roswell
Summary: on being a butterfly surveying a flower; or, 
tess and kyle and the carpet

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Yesterday afternoon, the two of you talked about 
Michael. You laid on the beige carpet with your 
legs bent up, calves flattened on the sofa cushions, 
and Kyle ran his sturdy fingertips over the dry 
soles of your feet, tracing patterns only he could 
see. Your toes fell asleep. Eventually you began 
to laugh and Kyle seized your right foot, held on, 
wouldn't let you go.

You don't like to think about Michael too much; you 
should like him more, and you know it. At 
times you do like him. He tries so hard to be a 
bastard that his flashes of compassion are blinding, 
each smile bright and shifting as a lens flare. But 
Max is the only one who rests comfortably in 
your mind. You can turn Max over and over, like 
rolling his body on a bed, to examine him from 
every angle. You reach the same conclusions every 
time, but that doesn't matter. You were bred to 
think about him.

Kyle thinks that the other three are "fucking 
irritating" -- he told you so again, yesterday. You 
giggled then, listening to the sound float from your 
lips, and said that Michael was like sand in your 
underwear. Kyle's soda spilled on your foot. It ran 
down along the arch, down white skin over white bone, 
bypassed your ankle. A drop made it to the back of 
your knee and you let his tongue sweep it away. By 
then, he'd forgotten that you hadn't said anything 
about Max. Or Isabel. You jiggled your leg, thumped 
him on the shoulder with your heel, and pulled him 
off the couch.

It was four-thirty. You had time. Dinner is always at 
seven, and Kyle's father gets home promptly at six-
fifteen. He's nearly your adoptive father, now. You 
like to remind Kyle of that, from time to time; you 
tease him about "unchaste acts" and brotherly love. 
You tell him solemnly (mouth twitching) that you 
won't have sex with him because he must follow the 
Eightfold Path. He looks at you like you're crazy, 
and you like that, too.

Yesterday, he sprawled on the rug beside you, 
stretching, and his elbow knocked your ribs. You 
yelped and whacked him on the chest. He laughed as he 
rolled toward you, ending up propped on one elbow 
just like you were then, smirking into your eyes and 
your mouth.

"Heal yourself," he said, rolling his eyes.

You stuck your tongue out at him. Kyle makes you feel 
free to do things like that, to be juvenile. To 
pretend you had a childhood. "Fuck you, Valenti," you 
replied. Nasedo's faint accent was in your voice.

"That would be option number two."

"Did you practice that in the mirror this morning? Is 
that why you took so long in the bathroom?"

"Other reasons," he drawled, and flopped onto his 
back, settling his hands over his stomach.

You flipped a glare at him from under your eyelashes, 
smiling. "I take showers in there, too, 
Kyle. Have a little human decency."

"Ha," he said, and gave you a pointed look that 
meant, "I'm choosing not to comment on your own lack 
of humanity, missy." Kyle says things like "missy." 
One arm reached out and tugged you onto his chest. He 
isn't that much taller than you are, so your knees 
bumped when you laid a leg over his. He smiled, and 
laid a warm hand on the cloth-covered space between 
your shoulderblades.

You breathed with him yesterday, pressing your cheek 
against his collarbone. He smelled of warmth and 
soap. His hand moved absently over your back. He was 
staring at the ceiling, and you wondered what he saw 
there. Probably nothing good. You pulled out of his 
loose hold and swung up to sit on his hips, blocking 
his line of sight with the fall of your hair.

"Hey," he said. It was a surprised, pleased little 
sound. His fingers curved around your hips and flexed 
once. "What're you doing, Tess?"

"Nothing," you sang, grinning. It is nothing. It's 
something you can give him at no cost to yourself, 
and in Roswell that's so rare that it makes you like 
him even more. His eyelids drifted shut as you 
settled down on him, dropping your head back and 
humming a little. His hips slid up and you put a hand 
on his firm belly, just lightly. Energy pulsed in him 
and you fed on it like a butterfly, dipping your 
mind's long tongue into his sweet heart.

He laughed and squirmed, muttering something about 
tickling, and sat up to pull you into a kiss. Your 
lips made a soft impact. You kissed him, kissed him, 
gentle and slippery against your tongue. When you 
pulled away, he breathed onto your wet mouth and the 
two of you smiled at each other. "Hi," you whispered, 
happy.

"Hi," he said, shifting slowly beneath you to lie 
back on the carpet again. You leaned forward to brace 
your hands on his shoulders, studying the planes of 
his face, his closed uptilted eyes and lips. There 
was a mischievous smile in your stomach. It fluttered 
slowly up your spine, burned in your ribcage. Your 
mouth formed it as you bent to kiss him again.

Eventually you were laughing, nipping at his tongue 
until he winced and laughed back, a joyous rumble 
that slid easily down your throat. His hands skidded 
under your tank top and plucked at your bra. You 
tried to say his name, but you were strangle-voiced 
and giggling, and it emerged as a gasp. Fingertips 
trailed over your skin. The sensation was light and 
brief, like a dusting of powder.

You're beginning to forget how long the two of you 
rested there, luxuriating. You'll never quite 
remember, even when it happens again. These times are 
folded within you like flowers pressed between sheets 
of paper -- separate and gilded and fragile -- and 
you don't like to let them see the light.

You do remember getting up. His eyes were closed 
tight, his jaw hung open. You kissed him once more, 
flicking at the center of his tongue with your own. 
When you pulled back, he was smiling. He knows you 
well enough to anticipate your moves. He knows your 
supposed limits and, secretly, you suspect that he 
finds them cute. You don't even mind.

His fingers curled around yours as you knelt beside 
him, and you smiled, feeling the gentleness in your 
face. You said, "It's your turn to empty the 
dishwasher," and grinned.

When he stood up, scowling overdramatically, you 
spotted a stray thread of carpet clinging to his 
mussed hair. You didn't tell him about it. His 
imperfections remind you that he is human, that you 
could do without him-- that you don't have to. You 
rubbed your feet on the carpet and thought of 
taking flight.

But, for now, you're grounded. Literally. So it's 
only three forty-five, and you're already home, 
sitting on the floor with your back against the base 
of the couch. Your hands are flat on the carpet, 
fingertips pushed down to its hard glue roots. You're 
waiting for Kyle. Kyle, who has pushed you back 
against the couch this way, playfully, carefully. 
When he thinks he's got you pinned, he gets 
triumphant and sly, and then you know you have him. 
You know that he'll smile whether he wins or loses. 
He'll smile when he gets home.


 

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