Mostly Friends Like Socrates and Plato
Mostly Friends Like Socrates and Plato;; PG
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They've got the same mannerisms; could be from all the years they've spent as friends. He takes a chug of the coke, lets a finger slide around the circle of the can to grab the excess liquid and licks it. She snatches the can out of his hand and sips it, copying his style of searching for the excess, smacking her fingers against her lips when she does it.
They sit in silence for five minutes doing this, sharing the beverage until the can is empty. His first instinct is toss the can away because he always ends up feeling a bit rebellious when she's around. But they've got these images to keep, tarnished reputations to fix, so he reluctantly gets up, brushing the loose straws off his cargo pants where they strategically fall on to her unsuspecting face before he finds the nearest (recyclable) trash bin. She throws the brown tacky grass back in his face when he comes back, somehow managing to sit a couple of inches closer to her than he was before.
They aren't the kind of friends who give affection because it ends up being a defiant lack of caving of "you first" sort of game every time, but she's in the mood today. It could be the pink lights from the Han River bridge behind them glaring an overcast to their secluded part of the park, or maybe it's just because she can tell he recently showered from the pink tinge in his cheeks and the faint smell of shampoo hidden underneath his gray hoodie. She thinks about reaching over and grabbing his hand but decides against it, rather choosing to stuff her sticky right hand into his sweater pocket. He tries not to flinch when she does it, a strange smirk playing over him when it does. He reaches for his cell phone from his other pocket, scrolling through internet pages of nothing, not bothering to look up when she hunches over his shoulder to read.
"I'm bored," she says, "play with me."
They've both got a million and one jobs lately, and the time they see each other is in less and less increments, but that urge to just hang and do nothing has become daresay insatiable, so he can feel his stomach tighten when she playfully and hungrily lets her hand wander through his sweater pocket and around the confines of his abdomen. There's three layers of clothing between them; he's unusually cold for a humid summer night but his skin protrudes goosebumps and he hates feeling so naked.
"Stop," he mutters weakly, and he makes an attempt to look back at the water with a grumpy furrow as only he could.
"This would work a lot better if you knew how to tickle me back," she retrieves her hand from his pocket and he looks back wistfully. They make eye contact finally and she cocks a newly dyed and perfectly arched eyebrow at him.
"I hate tickle fights Qian."
"Me too." they both lean back onto the dying grass, pretending to count the stars that they can barely see through the city encapsulated smog, wishes of having a blanket to lay on being agreed about without being spoken of. It's quiet for another twenty minutes and she closes her eyes so that he can count the stars for the both of them.
"I can see you marrying an astronaut," he finally says, "someone who has perfected the art of escaping this planet."
"Have you ever wanted to kiss me Kyuhyun?"
"No." he lies.
"I already know who you're going to marry," she replies back, haphazardly opening her eyes only to stare at the blank slate of black. "she's got great legs and she's taller than me by miles and you and Changmin both agree she's got the greatest rack around Seoul."
"I don't know, you've got a pretty decent one yourself," he says with a lull, rolling over onto his back and then his side after a split second, pinching the skin on her stomach dangerously close to the edge of her breasts.
"You're not allowed to look there perv," she reminds him, her efforts futile because he finally grins one of those Chesire cat grins, memorizing the mounds and curves and folds of her chest, as if he hadn't ever done it repeatedly already. "you can look but you can't touch," she scolds, smacking his cola-covered pinching fingers away.
"That's what are friends are for," he chides, falling back down into his previous position. She frowns when he reaches over after another hour and grabs her hand, never really holding it, more observing it, just remembering the traces of her veins, the feel of the ridges of her nails, the patterns her thumbprints make. "I counted twenty nine stars," he leans over and murmurs in her ear, his hoodie accidentally sliding in the space between them making his voice and his husky breath even more distant than they should have been.
"I'll see you in space next year," she says, eyes shutting back, not moving her ear from his lips, comfortable words drying in the air around them.
;;
They've got the same mannerisms; could be from all the years they've spent as friends. He takes a chug of the coke, lets a finger slide around the circle of the can to grab the excess liquid and licks it. She snatches the can out of his hand and sips it, copying his style of searching for the excess, smacking her fingers against her lips when she does it.
They sit in silence for five minutes doing this, sharing the beverage until the can is empty. His first instinct is toss the can away because he always ends up feeling a bit rebellious when she's around. But they've got these images to keep, tarnished reputations to fix, so he reluctantly gets up, brushing the loose straws off his cargo pants where they strategically fall on to her unsuspecting face before he finds the nearest (recyclable) trash bin. She throws the brown tacky grass back in his face when he comes back, somehow managing to sit a couple of inches closer to her than he was before.
They aren't the kind of friends who give affection because it ends up being a defiant lack of caving of "you first" sort of game every time, but she's in the mood today. It could be the pink lights from the Han River bridge behind them glaring an overcast to their secluded part of the park, or maybe it's just because she can tell he recently showered from the pink tinge in his cheeks and the faint smell of shampoo hidden underneath his gray hoodie. She thinks about reaching over and grabbing his hand but decides against it, rather choosing to stuff her sticky right hand into his sweater pocket. He tries not to flinch when she does it, a strange smirk playing over him when it does. He reaches for his cell phone from his other pocket, scrolling through internet pages of nothing, not bothering to look up when she hunches over his shoulder to read.
"I'm bored," she says, "play with me."
They've both got a million and one jobs lately, and the time they see each other is in less and less increments, but that urge to just hang and do nothing has become daresay insatiable, so he can feel his stomach tighten when she playfully and hungrily lets her hand wander through his sweater pocket and around the confines of his abdomen. There's three layers of clothing between them; he's unusually cold for a humid summer night but his skin protrudes goosebumps and he hates feeling so naked.
"Stop," he mutters weakly, and he makes an attempt to look back at the water with a grumpy furrow as only he could.
"This would work a lot better if you knew how to tickle me back," she retrieves her hand from his pocket and he looks back wistfully. They make eye contact finally and she cocks a newly dyed and perfectly arched eyebrow at him.
"I hate tickle fights Qian."
"Me too." they both lean back onto the dying grass, pretending to count the stars that they can barely see through the city encapsulated smog, wishes of having a blanket to lay on being agreed about without being spoken of. It's quiet for another twenty minutes and she closes her eyes so that he can count the stars for the both of them.
"I can see you marrying an astronaut," he finally says, "someone who has perfected the art of escaping this planet."
"Have you ever wanted to kiss me Kyuhyun?"
"No." he lies.
"I already know who you're going to marry," she replies back, haphazardly opening her eyes only to stare at the blank slate of black. "she's got great legs and she's taller than me by miles and you and Changmin both agree she's got the greatest rack around Seoul."
"I don't know, you've got a pretty decent one yourself," he says with a lull, rolling over onto his back and then his side after a split second, pinching the skin on her stomach dangerously close to the edge of her breasts.
"You're not allowed to look there perv," she reminds him, her efforts futile because he finally grins one of those Chesire cat grins, memorizing the mounds and curves and folds of her chest, as if he hadn't ever done it repeatedly already. "you can look but you can't touch," she scolds, smacking his cola-covered pinching fingers away.
"That's what are friends are for," he chides, falling back down into his previous position. She frowns when he reaches over after another hour and grabs her hand, never really holding it, more observing it, just remembering the traces of her veins, the feel of the ridges of her nails, the patterns her thumbprints make. "I counted twenty nine stars," he leans over and murmurs in her ear, his hoodie accidentally sliding in the space between them making his voice and his husky breath even more distant than they should have been.
"I'll see you in space next year," she says, eyes shutting back, not moving her ear from his lips, comfortable words drying in the air around them.