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i blame alex
The first time they kissed, they were fifteen. Rudy was at Mike's house for the weekend, citing 'three-day weekend Nintendo parties' as his excuse for not wanting to be at home. Mike heard 'I've missed you since school started again; let's hang out.' Who was he to say no?
Especially when Rudy was looking trimmer and sleeker than ever these days, all hatchet face and perfect hair and sometime over the summer, his shoulders had broadened and his hips hadn't, and Mike couldn't stop looking at the lines of his figure as they sprawled companionably on his bedroom floor.
"Rudy," he said after a spell of listening to the songbirds and distant, slow traffic outside, "do you ever wonder what it's like to kiss someone?"
As always, Rudy gave the question due consideration before he answered. He gave all of Mike's questions due consideration, even when they were patently stupid, which made Mike feel special.
"Not generally," he replied, "no."
There was something in there that Mike couldn't put his finger on, a qualifier or an exception, but before he could pursue it in the manner that he doggedly pursued any and all Delphian nuances in Rudy's speech, he was sidetracked.
"Have you never been kissed?" Rudy asked, propping himself up on one elbow, fingers raking just far enough into his hair to muss it attractively.
"No!" Mike declared, not so much indignant as surprised. "Why, have you?"
"Of course I have."
Anyone else might have sounded like a braggart; Rudy Miller simply sounded matter-of-fact, and though it crossed Mike's mind to doubt him, he couldn't quite manage it. After all, who wouldn't want to kiss Rudy Miller? (Mike certainly did.) Surely someone out there was brave enough to have tried it.
"Who was it?"
Rudy raised a shoulder, a motion made elegant by the fact that he was the one making it. "She never told me her name," he answered. Mike heard the remainder of the story without pause this time: I discovered it later through her school records, but it's not worth telling you.
While Mike was envisioning Rudy digging through the filing cabinets in his school's administration office (glancing covertly at the reflections in the window above him, listening closely for the sound of the secretaries returning from lunch), Rudy pushed himself up and moved over him, into his field of vision. Maybe it would have been natural for Mike's heart to pick up, for his mouth to run dry; Rudy was close enough to touch, dark eyes keen and thoughtful. But that wasn't the way Mike and Rudy worked. Of course Mike considered how close Rudy was (close enough to kiss), but it wasn't the first time he had been, either. Nothing alarming had ever happened before. Why would it start now?
("Because," Rudy would explain to him later, patient but not quite patronizing, "you said you'd never been kissed, and you implied that you wondered what it was like. As your comrade, I felt it my duty to divest you of such uncertainty and inexperience."
Mike would laugh and marvel at how Rudy had somehow arrived at the correct solution without properly understanding the equation. "When I asked if you wondered what it was like to kiss someone, Rudy, I meant someone. Someone in particular. I meant me."
He would revel in the realization dawning on Rudy's face, smile impishly and solve the problem himself, this time.)
Into the space between them, Mike said, "Hello, Rudy."
"Hello," Rudy answered, with a warming in his eyes that Mike knew as a smile. He closed the gap and pressed their lips together, angling his head just so, parting his lips just a touch, and Mike kissed him back with his eyes open because they were too wide to close.
When it became apparent that Mike was too startled to respond appropriately, Rudy withdrew again and studied him. "Michael," he said pleasantly, "you have to breathe."
So he did. Mike breathed in deep and stared back at Rudy, mouth open. At last, he said, "Do it again. I wasn't ready."
Happy as ever to comply, Rudy dipped his head and kissed Mike again, and this time was met with an eagerness, hands in his hair. Mike had once again forgotten his lungs, but it was probably for the best, since the kiss may not have ended if he hadn't let Rudy go to gasp for air.
"Rudy," he breathed, "did you feel that? Tell me you felt that."
Up close, he could see Rudy swallow, could watch him collect himself, bit by bit: a tongue over his lips, a fortifying breath, a hand through his less-than-perfect hair. Then he said, "Of course I did," as if there wasn't any other answer he could have given.
Mike suspected that, so far as Rudy was concerned, there wasn't.
Especially when Rudy was looking trimmer and sleeker than ever these days, all hatchet face and perfect hair and sometime over the summer, his shoulders had broadened and his hips hadn't, and Mike couldn't stop looking at the lines of his figure as they sprawled companionably on his bedroom floor.
"Rudy," he said after a spell of listening to the songbirds and distant, slow traffic outside, "do you ever wonder what it's like to kiss someone?"
As always, Rudy gave the question due consideration before he answered. He gave all of Mike's questions due consideration, even when they were patently stupid, which made Mike feel special.
"Not generally," he replied, "no."
There was something in there that Mike couldn't put his finger on, a qualifier or an exception, but before he could pursue it in the manner that he doggedly pursued any and all Delphian nuances in Rudy's speech, he was sidetracked.
"Have you never been kissed?" Rudy asked, propping himself up on one elbow, fingers raking just far enough into his hair to muss it attractively.
"No!" Mike declared, not so much indignant as surprised. "Why, have you?"
"Of course I have."
Anyone else might have sounded like a braggart; Rudy Miller simply sounded matter-of-fact, and though it crossed Mike's mind to doubt him, he couldn't quite manage it. After all, who wouldn't want to kiss Rudy Miller? (Mike certainly did.) Surely someone out there was brave enough to have tried it.
"Who was it?"
Rudy raised a shoulder, a motion made elegant by the fact that he was the one making it. "She never told me her name," he answered. Mike heard the remainder of the story without pause this time: I discovered it later through her school records, but it's not worth telling you.
While Mike was envisioning Rudy digging through the filing cabinets in his school's administration office (glancing covertly at the reflections in the window above him, listening closely for the sound of the secretaries returning from lunch), Rudy pushed himself up and moved over him, into his field of vision. Maybe it would have been natural for Mike's heart to pick up, for his mouth to run dry; Rudy was close enough to touch, dark eyes keen and thoughtful. But that wasn't the way Mike and Rudy worked. Of course Mike considered how close Rudy was (close enough to kiss), but it wasn't the first time he had been, either. Nothing alarming had ever happened before. Why would it start now?
("Because," Rudy would explain to him later, patient but not quite patronizing, "you said you'd never been kissed, and you implied that you wondered what it was like. As your comrade, I felt it my duty to divest you of such uncertainty and inexperience."
Mike would laugh and marvel at how Rudy had somehow arrived at the correct solution without properly understanding the equation. "When I asked if you wondered what it was like to kiss someone, Rudy, I meant someone. Someone in particular. I meant me."
He would revel in the realization dawning on Rudy's face, smile impishly and solve the problem himself, this time.)
Into the space between them, Mike said, "Hello, Rudy."
"Hello," Rudy answered, with a warming in his eyes that Mike knew as a smile. He closed the gap and pressed their lips together, angling his head just so, parting his lips just a touch, and Mike kissed him back with his eyes open because they were too wide to close.
When it became apparent that Mike was too startled to respond appropriately, Rudy withdrew again and studied him. "Michael," he said pleasantly, "you have to breathe."
So he did. Mike breathed in deep and stared back at Rudy, mouth open. At last, he said, "Do it again. I wasn't ready."
Happy as ever to comply, Rudy dipped his head and kissed Mike again, and this time was met with an eagerness, hands in his hair. Mike had once again forgotten his lungs, but it was probably for the best, since the kiss may not have ended if he hadn't let Rudy go to gasp for air.
"Rudy," he breathed, "did you feel that? Tell me you felt that."
Up close, he could see Rudy swallow, could watch him collect himself, bit by bit: a tongue over his lips, a fortifying breath, a hand through his less-than-perfect hair. Then he said, "Of course I did," as if there wasn't any other answer he could have given.
Mike suspected that, so far as Rudy was concerned, there wasn't.