Black Velvet (45) (Patreon)

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—

Twenty minutes in, and the Amadeus man actually looks like he's somewhat admiring the documentary.  His jaw works steadily over a piece of gum — his eyebrows lifting or occasionally furrowing at different information that the narrator gives.

I feel oddly proud of myself, bizarrely affirmed in my love of space when I see the gears in Tobias' head shifting. My own eyes have been trying to drag shut since about ten minutes ago, low lighting and late-night tricking my body into sleep, but I can't stop watching him.

"Stephen Hawking found out about the radiation particles around the black holes," I tuck my hands under the pillow that I've pulled into my lap and shift it backward so I can lay down, making sure I kept at least an arms' length of proximity between the two of us.

Don't make him leave, I think, but feel my sight blurring each time I blink,

"Imagine being him."

Tobias shifts his arm back behind his head. I've slid on pajama bottoms, something that's made me feel hundreds of times less awkward, even though I'm currently under the comforter that he's on top of anyway. It doesn't scream anything different than when he watches movies with Nic; it shouldn't make the hair on my neck stand on end when his bare forearm brushes mine.

"That'd be something," He nods, gaze flickering to the time next to my bed.

The thought that I'm watching a movie with him is foreign to me — doing anything with Tobias, like sitting here and just talking, seems foreign, like it's not something we could ever do.

I watch him play video games with my brother, watch the games when they play on tv, join in on outings where I'm almost always the third wheel — but other than that, he's out of reach.

"I watch this stuff all the time," I shrug, shoulders rubbing up against the sheets, dragging the loose cotton of my shirt across my shoulders. "What do you watch?"

"I like documentaries too," his voice is quiet.  "I don't really like — like sitcoms or anything."

"Right," I smile, "Me neither."

The conversation fades again, and I yawn.  I watch Tobias' eyes travel a second time, dark and heavy, and focused on the light that glows from my alarm clock.  They slide back to the expanse of my neck, something so subtle about his glance that I nearly overlook,

"Um, if you're bored,"  I swallow.  Part of me feels eaten alive, "you can put on something else."

Tobias shakes his head.  He slowly lets it sink back onto his arm like he's made up his mind, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks from under the television light.

"You think I'm going to watch something I don't want to?"   His gaze shifts to me, again, attention caught to where my finger is absently curling into my hair,

"No," I shake my head.  I watch as he reaches to rewind what he's missed, "You're not polite enough."

I snort when his eyes narrow, frown slipping against his features,

"Says the one who's falling asleep." The low timbre of his voice doesn't help, or the comfort of him being near to me, and it almost lulls me in again.

"I'm not." I insist, blinking my eyes hard to keep them open and focused on the screen, "So not."

—

It turns out, I so was.

I blink awake in a panic at the thought of passing out when it's the first time Tobias has ever really willingly hung out with me at my house. My cheek is warm, so warm, that I shouldn't be surprised that I've curled up against Tobias' upper arm.

Oh no.

I glance up at the television with bleary vision, realizing we're near the end of the movie but not quite, which means I probably didn't snore or completely bore him with my existence for more than maybe a half hour.

But how long have I been like this?

I can feel his arm move next to my head, the muscle in it not the most comfortable thing to rest against, and my heart is thumping.

He smells good.  In fact, my whole side of the bed smells like mint and a mild aftershave.   I try to blink the sleepiness away, wishing that my anxiety would transfer into energy, and reach up to rub away the tiredness that's settled.

Would it be too obvious if I move away now?

Would it make things more awkward?

Less awkward?

I glance up when the credit rolls, knees still tilted in the direction of Tobias. He's stretched out, lean and long against the sheets, one arm behind his head and the other slung across his mid-section.

Is this where we part ways?

He's not asleep, features more prominent in the dim light, the shadow over the cut of his cheek making him look full of edges — not as soft as I would think one usually looks in the dark. His dark eyes slide from the television and to me, my head still near his shoulder.

Our eyes meet, and my heart flutters.

"I fell asleep," My voice has the grain of sleep to it, like proof, and my gaze lingers on his longer than it should — too delayed to drag away.   His jaw shifts like he's moving his gum, and he turns his head a bit to the side so that he can readjust his arm and give me more space,

"I noticed."  His regard keeps flickering to my bare arms, to the loose collar of my shirt, and back to my eyes. I'm not much better; I can feel mine on the beauty mark next to his eye, the furled groove of his brows, sharp line of his jaw.

His fingers flex against his stomach like they're holding back, and his shoulders look strong and broad, imposing with how they've turned to me as I've turned to him.

He starts to prop himself up on his arm, glances down at me when I push up from the sheets a bit, eyes trailing over how his darken and shift with the light of the credits.

"Are you leaving?" I ask.  I can hear the blankets twisting with the definitive silence of the house. Tobias looks towards the door and then cocks his head a bit as he glances back to me.  He rolls his knuckles against the top of his leg, where they splay out, his fingers brushing my hip.

It's almost experimental until it's not, and his hand slides more firmly over me.  I bunch part of the blanket in my fist at the contact.  I don't know why the turn of his neck sends warmth through my stomach or why the squeeze to my hip makes my stomach flip.

"I should," He murmurs, but one of his hands is lifting to where mine is curled around the edge of my galaxy blankets. Instead, he tips a finger into the collar of my shirt, runs it along the seam and my skin underneath, and exhales through his nose.

I watch him closely, but notice how he hasn't pulled away in the slightest.

"Why?" I ask, tip closer to him when he turns to face me. His face is closer, nose bumping mine, his breath is warm, and I can feel it on my lips.  It smells like mint.  I can feel my body to the side when his eyes open,

"Why not?"

I can see the grey in his eyes as he waits for an answer, for confirmation.

"You could," I swallow, the roughness of his cheek sliding against mine as he bends closer, as his hands slink from my arm and up into the curls at the base of my neck. I can feel my shoulders slip a little bit, spasm under the nerves that he lights, "You could stay. Sleep here."

Sleep here, with me, keep your walls down.

His hand in my hair tightens at that, drags me back when his other hand lands next to me on the sheets, his knees now on the edge of my bed. I feel almost cornered, feel caged in a way I'd never think would be as adrenaline-fueled as it is now.

Because of anything, I expected him to blow off the suggestion, not this — definitely not this. I can hear my heart hammering in my ears, feel my eyes fog when I try to bring them to him,

What is happening?

"Sleep," His voice is in my ear, low and deep in the way that it's always been — but I can feel his lips there, I can feel the strength of him pushing me down against the sheets, nose buried in my hair, "here with you?"

One hand slinks under the blankets, rips them away, thumb pressing into the dip of my exposed hip bone.

I drag myself closer to him, feel my fingers curling in his shirt. It doesn't seem to help, and I can hear his sharp air intake when I do so.

"I'm not sure what you want from me."  He says.  A tiny hilt in my breath stutters through when his fingers curl in my hair tighter.  I don't think about it; I don't think about it at all when I press my lips to his forehead.

It's innocent, I believe, but then again — nothing about how I feel for Tobias definitively is. He exhales like the action has startled him, and I blush.

"I haven't — I haven't done..."  I feel a little stupid confiding my lack of crush contact, but I feel like it's something I have to say.  I avert my eyes to the ceiling and take a breath.  "So — um. I don't know what to say."

Tobias hesitates, his hold relaxing slightly,

No.

"But Tobias, you can..." I don't recognize my voice, and Tobias doesn't seem to either — his pupils blown when they snap up to meet mine,  "I just want to be near you.  I just..."

"Why?" There's something about Tobias that just demands an answer, like he can't wrap his head around the thought of it, so I frown, and then I blurt,

"I just like you."

I feel my chest heave with the admission.

"I just like you, Tobias — Ah.  I mean.  A lot."

Tobias' eyes shift to mine, wider, but then they fall.  He shakes his head like he's trying to fight through whatever thought he has.   I feel the quiet rumble of his laugh, as self-deprecating as it is, and I feel my hips shift when his fingers flex against my skin,

"You like me?"  He whispers.  He doesn't — he doesn't sound like he believes me.  At this moment, he doesn't sound like he even likes himself.

So I reach back, untangle his hand from my hair just long enough to prop myself upwards, and without thinking,

I kiss him.

It's soft, barely there. Warm and quiet, and my fingers brush against his jaw softly, trying to calm whatever storm is building inside him. His lips are soft.  He smells like gum, toothpaste, and soap.  He smells clean and comforting.

My heart is pounding.  Tobias stares as I lean back against the pillow, slowly, almost like we've quieted whatever this is.

He lifts a hand, touches his lips, and jerks his gaze back to me — muted, surprised.

Jokes on him because I'm even more shocked.

"Stay," I ask, again, regardless.  I feel my lips quiver, my upper arms threatening to let me fall against the sheets — because I just kissed him.

Holy shit.

I just kissed Tobias.

Oh my God!

"Did you just kiss me?"  Tobias' brows gather, his lip curling upwards in a sly thoughtfulness, and I redden like a tomato under the confidence that's growing in his gaze.  He leans closer, and I feel like I'm shaking,

"So what?"  I try to remain calm.  The problem is — is that I'm not calm.  "Um.  Are you going to stay or not?"

"Stay and do what?"

Tobias is smiling.

No — Tobias is smirking.

Oh no.

"Well, you could," I feel my cheeks heat further, the only thing that my derailing reality seems to process.  My voice quiets into something timid, but I meet his eyes, "we could watch another..."

"Or," Tobias interrupts me with a soft hum, and he ducks down close to my ear, "I could kiss you back."

--

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