There is no creature in land, skies or seas fairer than she. There is no breath of wind that can compare to her, no symphony sang by the ferocious ocean that can stand to the sound of her voice, no light so bright and blinding that the sky can project, than her own. There is no element of nature, no emotion, or words, that can fully describe her; writing poetry about her proved to be an impossible task. There were no adjectives that did her justice. Drawing her was just as frustrating — no matter what pencils or brushes he used, he could not get the right shade of blue, nor could he perfect the art that was the perfect golden ring around her dilated pupil; Merlin knows he tried. My, did he try. He’d spend hours, days, weeks and even months trying and each time he tried, it seemed that instead of improving, he deteriorates. It is only now, as he watches her walking, on her way to meet him, that he realizes why he cannot draw or paint, write, or describe her in any way he knows how; he loves her. Not in the way that he thought he did. Not in any way known to him and perhaps any human, beast or other creature before him. He loved her, and that was alien enough for him, now the way in which he loved her… it felt different from all the things he read from all those poems and sonnets. It was deeper, much more… realistic and less idolizing. He saw her for what she truly was; every detail of perfection and every flaw, though they were few. He hated the way she thought she was always right, but he loved the way she would pull a face at him, and would cross her arms like a stubborn child and wait for him to admit he was indeed, wrong. It would make him laugh, and he’d have to fight with all his might… he’d have to fight the urge to hug her. To touch the soft, porcelain skin of her beautiful face, to brush his fingers against her silken dark sheet of hair, to snake his arms around her small waist…
Before she reached him, Kip was standing before her, the tree protecting both of them from the sun; when she was within his range of touch, he reached and touched. For the first time since the many months they had been close friends, he touched her.
It was simple and innocent… at first. Without saying a word, he simply touched her cheek, at first with the tip of his index finger… a sigh erupted from his lips almost immediately, and the finger was followed by the next… until he had his palm pressed against her warm, soft flesh, and soon was cupping her cheek… but that wasn’t enough. His hand slid to hold the nape of her head, and he was closer than he had ever been to anyone in his entire life. He could see the confusion in her eyes — she knew of his… internal battle against sexuality. She knew he liked to label himself as asexual, when in reality he was homosexual. She knew he didn’t like touching, or breaking one’s bubble of personal space… she knew everything about him no one else did, for she was a part of him. She was… she was… what was she, Kip? What was Willow, to you?
Willow opened her mouth to speak, but Kip was quick to press the index finger of his free hand against her soft, rosy lips.
“Tais-toi, mon amour. Chut.” He whispered, a smile now on his lips; it was warm and genuine, as was the look on his eyes. The way it gleamed as he stared down at her. “Vous m’avez dit hier …que vous n’avez jamais été embrassé. Oui?” There was no pause for her to answer him; he simply carried on, the fingers of his left hand moving softly in circular movements against the nape of her neck, whilst his right hand moved to her shoulders, slowly travelling down her exposed arm… she was wearing a dress today. A beautiful dress that complimented her developing form; she was still very young, just as he was, but she looked much like a woman, and this dress only emphasized that. He couldn’t help but wonder how stunning she must look without it, with her hair, which was now tied back in a perfect bun, down, loose, and he’d brush it off her face with his thumb, he’d let it brush against her skin, and he would moan at the feel of it against his own flesh… “Je suis sur le point de faire quelque chose… fou. Quelque chose qui pourrait changer notre relation. Mais… croyez-moi, tu veux?” There was no time for him to wait for her to reply; if he did stop and wait, he’d lose his bravery. He’d never do what he had been craving to do for a while now…
He’d never let her know the way he felt towards her; the way he had never felt towards any man or woman, the way he’d feel only towards her, for the love he felt for her was unique, special. One of a kind.
“I am going to kiss you,” he whispers, in English now. “Because I want to make sure, that the first person that kisses you… loves you. I want to make sure that you will look back to this day when you are old and wrinkly, and you will smile. You will feel… glad, that it was me, who first… touched these lips… you will… perhaps…” Kip closed his eyes as he held her in place with a firm hand on her waist, and he slowly dipped her head down, and with the head so went her torso… he couldn’t help but smile at the mental picture had; it was so very romantic. And that was what he wanted; it was a beautiful day outside, there were birds singing on the branches of the very tree they were under, and they were alone, embraced by the generous shadow of the tree by the lake.
Slowly, almost teasingly, he touched her chin; he merely brushed his lips against her flesh, and when he felt the need, the want, the hunger for her lips — something he had never felt or even known existed — he finally brushed his way up to her lips; he pressed his own against hers softly, delicately, experimentally. He didn’t know what to do next; but he did, and he turned her around, as if to the rhythm of a waltz, and held her petite body against his own as his tongue moved against her lower lip, asking for permission to go in, waiting for her to grant him full permission to make this one memory.
They would be each other’s first kiss, and it was only right.
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