A Taste of Perfection

They had really only kissed once and not for 'never wanting to not have done that' like she had with Stan. No, the kiss she pressed to Casey's lips was a 'thank god we're alive' kiss. A kiss to just make sure that Marybeth hadn't really won and that neither of them were infected.

She had flung her arms around his neck and held on tight, smashing their lips and heads together and causing the geek to fall back slightly. She could picture him, almost. His blue eyes wide, head pulled back just a bit, shoulders tense. She had seen him so many times before that sketching Casey in her mind came as easily as an artist sketching on plain white paper.

Slowly, they broke away and his lips moved a bit, like they were still trying to work.

"I'm no Stan." Was what he finally said.

--

--

The words came back to her, months later, as she pressed her mouth to Stan's and cupped his face with her hands, her sun warmed rings pressing against his skin.

Stan was not Casey, no. Stan had always been mean to her, but never cruel and cold the way Delilah was. He always skirted the perimeter of her worlds, until that day The Invasion started (in her mind, it would always be capitalized, with maybe some fancy neon lettering thrown in for good measure).

Casey was different. He always at least had a smile for her, even if she tended to slash and burn him with her words. He'd call out to her, she'd turn and his camera would flash, capturing her in the moment. Stokely imagined she looked the same in each picture; blobs of dark for shirt and hair and eyes contrasted with white skin. Casey had seen her when she didn't want to be seen.

Their mouths pressed together and Stokely can taste the faint flavor of vanilla, the way Casey's mouth had tasted when she had kissed him. Maybe she's imagining it or maybe it's just by accident that Stan tastes like this today, but it makes her feel cold inside, hollow.

Vanilla tastes like she's cheating and thinking of Casey during their kiss.