hi guys i have. oc fiction. not even canon to their actual plot i just wanted to make dolls kiss and think about gender. um. if you read it i will love you forever okay thanks bye. twelve hundred words.
"Whatcha thinking about?" I glanced over at Michael to find him already looking at me. We were on the couch, staring at the black TV in silence. I'd been half asleep, to be honest—I don't think I'd even been awake six hours, but I was already thinking about a nap.
"Uh." Michael's startled wordlessness lasted only a second. "Oh, uh, y'know, nothing much. Just, kinda, thinking my thoughts. Lotsa thoughts in here, or y'know maybe not so many. I'm kinda tired. If you got me sick you're gonna have to cook for me, by the way. That's the rules."
"Sure." I figured I owed it to him, and besides I didn't mind so much. There was something magnetic about him that made me want to stay nearby.
"Yeah. No takesies-backsies."
I giggled, then realized that Michael had barely answered my question. It wasn't like him to hide his opinions like that, and even less like him to lie to me—although I remembered my moment in the hallway, the one I was trying to ignore, and put a mental asterisk next to his honesty.
"What are you thinking about, though?" I pressed idly—I was used enough to him, somehow, already, that I could put his being Magpie out of my head and want to know him. It joined the background buzz of everything else I was frightened of.
And I think I judged him correctly, because almost instantly he replied, "You're kinda cute."
I stared.
"You are! I dunno, I mean, you don't have to do anything about it. But you're pretty cute."
"Like…" I barely cut myself off from asking if he like-liked me, because that's stupid. I said, "Like you wanna kiss me?" instead, which is also stupid.
It's a testament to Michael's shamelessness that he hadn't blushed until now. "I guess," he muttered. "Like, a little."
I thought about it and found my answer was shockingly simple. "Alright," I decided. "I like you too."
Michael let out a loud breath. "Okay that's good because I lied, I want to kiss you a lot which is weird because you're not a girl. But I do. So."
There was a lot I could have tripped over in that sentence. And a lot of objections and reasons I could have given. I was still sort of sick, and exhausted, and not thinking clearly. I obviously looked like a mess, my hair greasy and my breath stale, in the same sweatpants I'd been wearing for a week. Michael was getting sick too, also tired and honestly a little incoherent at the best of times anyway. He'd just told me that he was straight in the same breath as admitting he was into me.
Unfortunately, none of that even comes close to explaining what came out of my mouth next.
"I could be a girl."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael squawked.
I recognized that if I were Michael, this would be the part where I start rambling until something halfway sensible came out or someone told me to shut up. I'm not Michael, so I hesitated another several seconds before saying, "If you like girls, usually. And, uh, if you like me. We could pretend I'm a girl? Or something?"
Michael burst out laughing, and I tried not to want to crawl out of my skin. I was too exhausted and dehydrated to really make ice, but I could feel my body trying.
"If you wanna be a girl that bad, you can just do that—you know that, right?" His laughter was softer, now. Like I should be in on the joke. Maybe there was something in my face, though, because he carried right on into, "But we could pretend! If that's what you want. That's fine, totally fine, whatever you want. You'd be cute—I mean, you are cute, but I mean you'd be good at being a girl. Uh, a woman. Because we're grown up."
I wasn't sure what to do with any of that. I didn't want to think about it—the idea, being a woman, being Michael's girlfriend, felt magnetic just like Michael did and I didn't want to touch it. But I still echoed his words to myself, you'd be good at being a girl, and tucked them somewhere safe in my ribcage.
"This would be easier if you'd just kiss me," I said, then immediately buried my face in my hands out of sheer embarrassment.
Michael laughed again, but he also put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Hey, I like that! Straight to the point, that's awesome," and I dared to glance out from behind my hands and he was right there, face close to mine, grinning like he always is and so, so close to kissing me.
I was the one who leaned in. If I never do anything else in my life, if I never feel that bold again, at least I will have this: I leaned in to kiss him.
I'm the first to admit that it felt more than a little awkward. Both of our lips were chapped, our hands uncertain. I wasn't sure if I should hold my breath or not as we sat there, lips pressed together in quiet thought for a long second. I'd never kissed anybody before, if you hadn't guessed by the way I am, and I could tell Michael hadn't either—a bit more of a surprise, to be honest.
It felt right, though. It felt warm and friendly and like the sort of quiet romance that I had always envied on TV.
When Michael pulled back he just looked at me for a long second with honest-to-god stars in his eyes. I might've found the only way to actually shut him up, I thought, and giggled.
"What?" Michael whined. "Something on my face or something?"
"Nah, nothing like that," I replied, apologetic. I explained my thought and he twisted his face up in annoyance.
"Ugh, whatever. Still a good kiss though, right? Good experience? Five star rating, would recommend?"
"Yeah, pretty much," I agreed. The undersell got me the exact indignant expression I wanted to see. "I mean, I'm pretty sure you're supposed to, like, open your mouth. Lick each other or something."
"Ew," Michael declared with all the confidence of an eight-year-old boy rather than the twenty-year-old he was. "Don't say it like that, like, it sounds like a dog." We were still sitting on the couch with our shoulders pressed together, but he raised his opposite hand near his chest like a little paw. "Arf arf? What?"
I patted him on the head with a grin. "Good boy."
"Oh, fuck you." He turned his paw into a middle finger and rolled his eyes.
I retracted my hand solemnly. "No, bad boy. Good dogs don't swear."
Michael, in response, gave me the most dejected and plaintive, "Arf?" that I've ever heard.
And of course, because I'm me, because he's Michael, I broke instantly. "Aw, hey, I'm sorry. Puppy can get one swear, as a treat."
"Hell yeah!" He pumped his fist with a grin way too bright for the situation. "Puppy gets to swear."
I laughed but buried my face in my hands again. "Okay, now you're making it weird."
"What, puppy's not allowed to have fun?"
"Shut up. Let's just rewatch Terminator and take a nap or something, you're impossible."
"Ooh, okay," he chirped. "You've gotta put the movie on, though. I'm puppy." He gestured at me with both hands as paws.
"Spoiled brat," I shot back, already reaching for his remote.