just a little bit longer [belly conklin x conrad fisher]

part 1 - belly

It was Isabel Conklin's sixteenth summer in that pretty blue cape cod on Cousins. Sixteen years spent next to this boy, and somehow every year she was born again. The electric in her blood sparks, positive and negative charges flowing through at a rapid pace. Her body thaws for the season. Every year, she wishes for Conrad. She keeps grasping onto a thread of hope that one year, he'll finally notice her. That it will all change. She looks over at the brunette three seats down, barely illuminated by the soft white glow emanating from the TV that sits in front of them. She notices a faint smile on his face as he watches the movie with the cloudy glimmer of weed shading his eyes. Dirty Dancing, one of her favorite classic romances to watch. The young crowd on screen move fluidly, with a depraved breeze, to a song playing loudly over the bar. She feels the music notes slide out of the speakers and into her brain, overtaking it with a hypnotic rhythm. The picture shows to be a little risque, and she can't help but feel the tiniest droplet of embarrassment paint her cheeks.

"Oh won't you,

Stay, just a little bit longer.

Please, let me hear,

hear you say that you will"

"God, I miss dancing sometimes," rumbles from his chest.

This summer, he barely speaks. And for one of the first times he directs his words at her, it's to try and mask the almost-awkward blanket of tension from watching such an intimate scene together. They used to dance. Just fine. Why did he have to miss it? Like it was a past-tense thing? He could stand up right now and dance with her. He knows she would happily follow along. Now, she thinks, all he does this year is sit in a corner, brooding, watching, standing on the outside, looking in, like a memory.

"I wish I could dance like that. It looks more exciting than anything that's ever happened to me in my whole life." She exhales out, like a whispered secret or rushed admittance. She smiles meekly as she glances over to where Conrad lounges against the sectional. He looks back, a conspiratorial twitch pulls at his lip, and speaks quietly in response.

"It's just dancing. I promise that dancing, like that, is not all it's cracked up to be. It's usually pretty sweaty, and, ah, awkward." His lips were loose with weed, and she notices such as he speaks, revealing details about himself, in which she clings onto every word about. The scene continues, and only a few minutes pass until he speaks again.

"Would you... do you.. want me to teach you?" The question flits out of his mouth carefully, lightly treading the thin line they perch upon. Is he asking her to.... dirty dance?! Hasn't she been dreaming of this for like, 8 years? Her hands start to clam up a bit, as it sinks in that this was a very real situation, not just one of her endless fantasies. His face looks so open, relaxed from the substances, freed from the deep emotion sitting locked inside of him.

"Like, right now?" She mutters in response. He nods nonchalantly and stands, rewinding the scene to the beginning so they can dance to the song. She stands reluctantly, feeling the soft threads of the carpet in her toes, pulling her back into the moment, grounding her. He walks over to her, and oh so gently rests his hands on her hips, a light wisp of touch over her floral pajama shorts. She feels sparks fly through her ribcage, soaring at the casual touch he gifts her with. "What are the steps?" She questions softly, looking up the smallest degree to glance into his eyes. Their faces stand a few inches apart, and he glides gently with the music, pulling her along by his guiding touch around her middle.

"There aren't any steps to this kind of dancing, Bells. Just go with the flow. Follow my lead." His grip tightens as he steps in even closer, now pressing up against her in a delicious way that makes all of her thoughts fog up and fade into the backdrop. She feels slightly out of place, so she rests her forearms upon his shoulders and intertwines her fingers behind his head, now letting him lead their dance. She looks down at their feet, one of his stepping between hers on beat, and focuses on figuring out where to put her soles on each step.

"Look at me. Don't look at your feet." When he says those words to her, in a delicate yet commanding way, she can't help but obey. She gazes up into his eyes, delving into the deep blue that tells her everything he can't say out loud. They move back and forth, their eyes locking on each other's, and she feels a simpering heat crawl up her spine. She should not be feeling these things about him. Even though she has accepted the massive schoolgirl crush she's been carrying around for him, she can usually steer her thoughts clear of those feelings. But right now, touching him in so many places, body flush with his, it's inevitable. Certainly so when she feels him tighten, lower, near her hips as they dance. She's going to ignore that right now, and then later, tucked away in the crisp cotton sheets of her bed, let those thoughts run wild and her imagination free. He seems to either not notice or did not want to acknowledge it, and so they keep dancing, his thigh pressing in between hers, and she never wants this moment to end. Their eyes never drop each other's hold, and they dance and dance and dance. He whispers quiet encouragement in her ear, "just like that," and "you're doing good, just relax more," and "a little closer, Belly," and she thinks she might die right there. He looks so tender, beautiful and intimate, and her brain short-circuits. His hand carefully drifts down her hip and thigh, rounding around her back to take purchase on- fuck.

Conrad Fisher, her family friend since birth, love of her life, has one hand on her hip and another on her ass. He uses the newly-sinful placement of his hand to press her further into him, pushing and pulling to the sweet croons of the music through the speakers. All she wants is for him to inch down, moving his lips to caress hers sweetly. But she knows he won't. That they'll continue on this tightrope, not willing to admit or cross a line into anything more than the almost-more-than-friends thing they currently sit in.

A delicate, breathy, almost inaudible squeak leaves her mouth, and she can't seem to feel anything but how wide the distance between his thigh and in between hers feels. Belly feels the light brush of his soft locks against her forehead as his head rests lightly against hers, always there but never pushing, reminding her of his presence. She unconsciously moves closer, like reaching blindly at something unknown, and she sees his mouth drop open a little, staring down with a lust-filled awe. They dance, just looking at each other, touching too much to be just friends, but not enough to be more, and her heart is beating so wildly that it could be her last moment on Earth and she wouldn't bat an eye.

The scene changes, and the music abruptly cuts off, stunning them frozen. They both seem to come back into their bodies, floating down from the high of closeness, and Conrad is muttering "we should.. stop." And she mindlessly agrees, even though everything inside her says she doesn't, and they plop back on the couch and finish the movie like nothing is happening. Nothing is happening, except for the slight swell in his pants, and how she feels the tightness of her shirt against her chest.

For the rest of the film, they sit in silence, accidentally catching each other's eyes a few times when they look over at the same moment. Her eyes betray her thoughts and look over way too many times to claim her glances were an accident. His face was magnetic, and her eyes were solid metal. She couldn't help but examine the soft ridge of tension between his eyebrows, imagining what it would be like to smooth it with the tips of her fingers. He was always so concerned, blocked off. She wants to grip the tension from his shoulders and drop it onto her own, so they could share something. So she could help him. Carry the weight of his burden as her own. When the credits start to roll, she jumps up and sputters some excuse like "it's late, I should go to bed," and tries to escape to the sanctuary of her blue wallpaper to process the confusing occurrences of the night in privacy. He looks up at her standing there, in a matching pj set and fuzzy bunny socks, looking like the girl he's known forever, all he can say through lidded eyes and slurred words is,

"For what it's worth, I think yo--that was, really good."