Melancholy

chapter 25

[25]

I KICK MY FOOT to the side, hitting the shin of my victim with a childish grin on my face. He knew I would retaliate, I always do, and he also knew that my aim is exceptional, in every sense of the way, even with my foot that's obscured by the marble counter, so really, it's his own fault. And the pained yelp that escapes him is less than justified, but definitely pleasing to the ear.

I bring the warm cup I'm holding up to my lips, taking a long sip of my tea, my eyes gleaming pridefully. I watch him in my periphery, well aware that his sheer stupidity would tempt him to try and kick me yet again. But a throat clears suddenly, and both him and me stiffen in our seats.

It's not Marce though, he'd long given up on trying to tame our immature antics in the morning. It's a much rougher voice, higher in tone, and scratchier around the edges. My eyes snap to the person sitting directly across from me, cup lowering from my lips, down to hang awkwardly at the height of my chin, the smell of its content lingering in my nose but its warmth no longer reaching me.

I notice Serge doing the same with his overflowing sandwich beside me, some of it falling onto his plate as he fails to keep it upright due to the distraction.

The boy looks around skittishly, which is so unlike him that I cock a brow at his clear nervosity. He's usually the most level headed of the three, his eyes intense as they analyze and assess whatever situation he's presented with. But now they're flitting all over, wandering, hurrying across the five of us, our postures, our diligently contained expressions. An unfamiliar sensation breathes down my neck at his unusual behavior, making me almost squirm in my seat.

I narrow my eyes at him while mentally reprimanding myself for reacting so strongly.

"Uh," His left biceps visibly strains from where it's peeking out beneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt. I follow his arm down to the edge of the marble counter, which obscures the rest of the limb from sight. But judging by the way the girl's body is angled slightly toward him and looking at how closely they sit together, it doesn't take a genius to figure out what's causing the strain. He's done the same thing dozens of times before, gripping her thigh so tightly it looks painful. But she never appears bothered by it, sometimes she even looks as though she were encouraging him to hold on.

I'd found it weird at first.

It's an act usually performed by lovers, or in chase of desire. Seeing them do it, naturally, I'd felt weirded out by it.

But the more I saw it, the more I noticed how different it actually looked from the act that I'd performed myself an uncountable amount of times while making out. With them, it was never sexual. No matter how lust driven it would've looked on others - when they did it, none of it was of dirty nature. It was purely physical contact, which they sought from each other almost every waking moment.

Now, a part of me, the one I never let voice its opinion, even admires them for it. For the sheer amount of affection displayed through the act. One I can't remember ever having felt before.