The Book of Firsts

Eighteen

On Friday I found Rin was listening to music when I arrived, his phone docked in portable speakers. The sound was very different to the floating vastness of the water piece he’d played before: discordant piano, full of fractured rhythms. I truly hoped he didn’t want to have sex to that.

His own mood seemed to be much better than last time, at least. He smiled at me warmly, and poured out a black tea that had a distinct orange scent.

"I’m going to end this year a tea connoisseur."

"It’s the role of the student council to guide and lead." He leaned back, watching me beneath lowered lids as he sipped his tea. "You don’t like the music?" he asked, having perhaps noticed me glancing at the speakers.

"I suppose if I wanted to go out and hit things," I said. "Is it another of yours? Background music for an argument?"

"Not for a game. Just processing."

I was puzzled for a moment, then said: "Your temper last week, huh? Are you feeling more confident about finding who’s responsible?"

"Not really. But my back’s stopped hurting, which makes a lot of things easier for me." He glanced at me. "I injured my spinal cord when I was seven, and went through months of rehabilitation. Back pain is a nightmare for me."

Picturing this innately elegant creature struggling with movement stopped me cold. And then another memory added a further point. "Kyou told me he’s very anti-drugs," I said slowly.

"His mother died of an overdose."

"What’s Bran’s worst nightmare?"

Rin’s mouth tightened. "He says it would be getting his voice back."

"Back?"

Rin reached for his phone and paged through a few screens, and then handed it to me. A roughly recorded music clip, with Bran instantly recognisable, though much younger. Twelve or thirteen, playing a guitar. Then he began to sing, and my jaw sagged. Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, with a purity of tone that cut right to the soul.

"That face combined with that voice meant Bran had his entire life mapped out for him since around five years old. The strictest of training, and a constant expectation that he project a very specific image. The problem being that he hates performing, and loathes above all the way audiences feel they know him, own him. His parents signed contracts for him before he understood what was going on, and refused to accept objections, but about two days before he was due to go into the studio to record a final version of that track, he drank a cup of—well, he says he thought it was water. I think he just poured everything he could find in the house into a cup and gargled it, and even if it didn’t damage anything on its own, the amount of vomiting he did afterwards left him barely able to speak. And as soon as he recovered enough to perform, it happened again. After the third time, he developed nodules on his vocal cords. By then his parents were finally willing to hear him saying no, and turned their focus to his younger brother, who at least enjoys that kind of thing. They haven’t technically disowned Bran, but he lives like a ghost in their house, because they are very much the kind of people who don’t forgive defiance."

"Are yours?"

"I expect they’ll get over it after four or five years."

"Next year really is going to be exciting for you."

He shrugged. "I used to think so. Right now, it seems simple." He took back his phone, and said: "Let’s take our minds off this frankly rotten subject. I seem to recall saying I’d help with your dance lessons."

Bran might be a more expert dancer, but Rin was grace incarnate. His height was a small disadvantage, since I had to tilt my head back to make eye contact, but we truly floated around the small garden.

"With a bit more practice with promenades, you should have no trouble."

I suspected that at least half of my ease with dancing would go away with a less expert partner, but still smiled—and then stumbled on the edge of the path and fell.

Rin caught me easily, holding me suspended for a moment, then lifting me back up. "And there’s always dips for added flourish."

"Nice catch," I said.

"I’ve often wondered how I’d feel about dancing if I had to do it backward. I suspect I’d enjoy it far less."

"Are you looking forward to the Seniors Dance?"

"Not particularly. Too many dance partners, not enough me. And it will be the last time I’ll see many of our classmates, so I can expect a half dozen confessions, which are always a little difficult. Are you confessed to very often, Cheshire?"

I thought about it. "About three times per school. It depends on what kind of look I decide to go for."

"Look? What does that mean?"

"Well, this year I’m wearing the longest skirts available, no makeup, and I’m keeping my hair in a short ponytail—mainly because hair and makeup take a lot of time I don’t want to spend. When I was fourteen, I went to a school that had no uniform code, so I bought all-black clothing and a lot of eyeliner, dyed my hair, and wore these glowing cat-ear headphones all the time. Two years ago, it was thick-rimmed clear lens glasses, and a fringe cut to hide a lot of my face."

"Leaving you with no confessions?"

"Four, actually, but I get different groups of people confessing depending on which look I go for."

Rin laughed. "So how much of this year is the real Cheshire?"

"Badly phrased question."

He looked puzzled, then raised his eyebrows. "Still, I think you named yourself accurately. How much of this year is persona?"

"No personas. The trick is to behave much the same, no matter how I’m dressed." I gave him a half-smile. "You should try it."

Rin considered me beneath lowered lashes, and dropped his gentle smile for the edged one.

I tripped, and fell backward, and this time Rin didn’t catch me. Because this time Rin had tripped me. He’d chosen a grassy spot to do so, and kept his grip on my hand, breaking my fall just a little before I hit the ground. And then he was on top of me, not sparing me his weight, hands trapping mine, those champagne eyes gazing directly into mine.

"What are you saying, Cheshire?" he asked. "I don’t understand."

"My mistake," I said, laughing, and hooked one of my legs around his, flipping us over while he wasn’t expecting it.

We fought a little for top position, but he had advantage in both size and strength, so as soon as he stopped playing, I was pinned again, and kissed very hungrily. We shed clothes with an urgent lack of care, and I entertained myself raking his nipples lightly with my fingernails, for I’d already noticed that Rin was very sensitive there. He captured my hands again, and looked down at me, nothing gentle in his expression.

Discovering the series of hickeys left by Kyou, Rin’s lips tilted into a distinct smirk, and he added several more, so that my whole lower abdomen was mottled with spots of different shades.

"I’m really going to have to start giving you three back two for every one of these you put on me," I said. I was feeling itchy, because they’d mowed the grass recently. Wriggling a little in his hold, I added very softly: "Stop playing around."

Rin responded to this by turning me onto my stomach and adding several more love bites to my shoulder blades, and then moving down and starting one in the curve of my waist, which tickled horribly and made me squirm and try to break away, hands over my mouth to stop myself from squealing. Apparently pleased with this reaction, he did the other side as well, but then obviously couldn’t hold himself back any longer, pushing me onto my stomach and then hooking both hands around my stomach and lifting me upward, trying to push into me. He met resistance, but I had learned from last time, and did my best to relax myself, so it only took him a little extra pressure.

It felt so good. I’d never want to have sex with Rin without working up to it first, but I thoroughly appreciated him when conditions were right. His stamina and self-control were probably the greatest challenge, because I was limply exhausted by the time he decided he’d had enough, switched up his pace, and rapidly brought everything to an end.

I’d given up supporting myself on my hands by then, and was lying on folded arms. Rin lowered the rest of me, then lay down to enjoy looking at my sweating face.

"Tired?" he asked.

I glanced at him, then rolled on my back. "And I thought no-one could look smugger than Kyou."

Rin’s chuckle was entirely evil as he inched a little closer to me and whispered: "Mewling."

That did make me laugh, but then I said: "Can I institute a no comparing notes rule?"

"We don’t really." Rin rolled onto his back beside me, sighing. "Just very occasional things. Well, that’s a lie because this is very fun to talk about. And we want to pay attention to things that seem to upset you."

"So, you can repeat them to me?"

"You were far more upset about being naked while I was fully dressed than you ever will be about the tiny noises you make when you come. Though they are highly adorable noises, and tremendously on-point thematically."

"Bah," I said, but in a mollified tone of voice.

"We’re all game-players in our way. Just remember that we don’t actually want to upset you, and make sure to tell us to stop when we push you too far."

"Okay."

We lay there in silence for a while. My thoughts were on sunburn, although the day was overcast, and we at least hadn’t been laying on our sides. That, and a thousand tiny irritations.

"Rin?"

"Mm?"

"This grass is so itchy."

We had a pleasant interlude soaping and sluicing each other under the hose, and then talked practically about dealing with garden trysts in late autumn and winter. I studied Rin’s back, which was a landscape of fading blues and greens, but didn’t ask him about potential suspects, and left for Art Club feeling happy with my game of kings, and happier that there’d been no dramatic interruptions.

Enough already.