Snapshot · (Roswell Fanfiction) · √

1. Seven Minutes with the Enemy

Author's Note: The characters are loosely based on the characters from the TV-show "Roswell". This story does not feature any aliens (or anything of supernatural nature) and the characters are placed in an alternate universe/plot. *Since the story revolves around snapshots, the chapters will not be sequential.*

Ryan Anderson's closet
Saturday
(2001) Max is 16, Liz is 15

Liz squeezed up against the wall as his warm body struggled to occupy the same small area in which she was currently trapped.

"Max!" she exclaimed as his foot stepped on hers. "You're stepping on my foot."

"Sorry," he mumbled. He fumbled in the dark after something to hold onto, but he seemed to only come up with warm skin against his hand.

"Stop groping me," she whispered harshly, making him smirk in the darkness.

"You wish," he said, earning a well-positioned smack from Liz across his chest.

"I can't believe you got me into this. God, how did I end up in here with you?"

"Come on, Lizzie. At least it's not Pervy Perry."

He didn't have to make out her features in the darkness to visualize her eyes rolling skywards at his statement. "Whatever."

There was a pause, their soft breathing seemingly magnified in the silence. Sounds from the party outside drifted through the wooden door, emphasizing once again why they were here.

Max's voice broke the silence. "They can tell, you know."

"They can't tell," she said, pure mockery in her voice.

"Your lips get swollen."

"They won't get swollen."

"How do you know? Is there something I should know, Shorty? You haven't been getting close and personal to Sean, have you?"

An irritated scoff escaped her lips. "As if I would let him get anywhere close to me."

"Sooo... If there's no one else, how do you know?"

"Because," Liz said stubbornly, hating the one-worded statement as soon as it left her mouth. That statement alone was enough to sum up her meager age of 15. Could she sound more childish?

"When you kiss..." a shiver raced through Liz as Max's voice got darker and she could feel the air shift around them to accommodate the increasing closeness between the two. She frowned at her own reaction, wondering what Max was up to. "...more blood will flow into your lips, making them swollen and red."

His body pressed into hers and her breath hitched in her throat as anticipation trembled through her body, quickly followed by the innate reflex to push him away. Which she did.

"Maxwell Evans," she said with noticeable warning in her voice. If there had been enough room she probably would have pushed her index finger into his chest to further emphasize the scolding tone in her voice. "If you think that you're gonna lay one hand on me..."

She could feel his breath on her face as he spoke slightly above her head. He had always been almost a head taller than her. "They're gonna talk, Lizzie. You know they will. Remember Cathy? That's gonna be you tomorrow. You're gonna be labeled the prude one and that label is gonna stick."

Liz had never been afraid of moving against the stream. She had never been one to seek out attention or approval from society. She moved in her own world and followed her own rules. But still, even though she didn't really care what anyone else thought about her, she had seen the effects of being labeled.