Disclaimer: No YuGiOh-ness for me. SOB!
Author's Note: This one has been in my head for a while; it's nice to finally get it out.
Warnings: YxYY (SLASH!), fluff, Yugi's PoV.
Dedication: For Lessa, who can't get enough of the world's hottest alter-ego couple. XD (By the way—would Yami be a nechropedophiliac like Chrono? But no, HE'S the one that's "dead". . . XD)
I kissed Anzu, once. When I was little—I remember how embarrassed she was; the blush that stained my own cheeks. It was so long ago. . . yet I can still see the day in my mind so vividly, it may as well have happened yesterday: the park sandbox, the warm wind, the gleam of the sun off of her hair, the gritty softness upon which I sat.
Her lips touched mine and that was the end of it. There was no build up or dramatic confession—we were only 5. Our parents cooed and laughed and took a picture or two, perhaps, but there was nothing special or romantic in the exchange.
Regardless, my recollection is quite clear. . . her lips were soft, warm. Slightly chapped, perhaps, but that's natural; a little wet from running her tongue over them. She tasted sweet, of the cotton candy we had shared earlier.
It was nice.
But the feel of her mouth on mine did not cause any happiness to well within me; there was no thrill or excitement. Even now, if she were to do the very same thing, I doubt I'd care at all. Perhaps I'd look at her oddly, but that would be the extent of it. Anzu is beautiful, charming, and kind. . . but I don't really care.
I kissed Yami, once. When I turned 17—I remember how embarrassed he was; the blush that stained my own cheeks. It was nearly two week ago. . . and the memory hasn't faded in the slightest: my bedroom, the playing cards, the stakes of the game—the surprising prize he chose as the victor.
His lips touched mine and that was the end of it. There was no build up or dramatic confession—it was a spur of the moment embrace. His fingers remained clamped around the cards as he leaned into me; arms supporting his weight on either side of my lap. There was no one around to see us. . . no photos or giggles.
Regardless, my recollection is quite clear. . . his lips were soft, warm. Slightly chapped, perhaps, but that's natural; a little wet from running his tongue over them. He tasted sweet, of the toffees we had shared earlier.
It was not nice.
It was fantastic.
It was like nothing I had ever felt before, and yet, everything at once. I was horrified and delighted and amazed and stunned and happy and scared. . .
And when he finally pulled away, looking slightly nervous—I wasted no time in pulling him back down.
I love him. I love the way he makes me feel; the way we act around one another. I love his laugh and smile and pout; the way he takes delight in even the simplest things. And yes, I love the way his lips feel on mine.
Isn't that enough for everyone? Can't they accept that I love him, and leave us be? Why do they act so frightened; hostile; disgusted? Why do they call it wrong when we kiss?
Lips are lips; they're the same on everyone. There is no distinct difference between them—I could kiss a million girls, a million boys. It wouldn't matter; it's not the gender that I care about. It's not his kiss that makes me love him, nor any other part of his physical body.
Lips are lips. Yami and Anzu's were very much alike.
It's who's attached to them that matters.
So call it what you will when he kisses me, or when his fingers brush mine—but we're not doing anything wrong. We're doing what feels right.
I love him.
And that makes all of the difference in the world.