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It still feels a little unreal that we are dating now. While our first kiss was wonderful—and I would never turn down one from her now that we are together—something about holding her in my arms, feeling her up against me, just cemented everything for me. After months of slowly getting her used to being casual and intimate together in private, this felt like a dream come true.
She’s sitting with me now, so relaxed knowing no one will catch her being this sentimental and touchy. Her bare chest is pressed against my back, somehow paradoxically soft and firm all at once. Kind of like her, if I was to sillily compare her to her own breasts. Her chin is firmly planted on my shoulder, leaning up against me as she holds me from behind. It’s the perfect situation for me to press kisses to her fringe and watch her turn peach pink at being smooched by her own girlfriend, alone in our apartment.
She watches the TV with idle eyes, listening intently to me info dump about the history of the Pocketstation—which she was equally confused and intrigued by when I had it on me during an outing together—and Doko Demo Issyo and why the little piece of tech never made it here. She had bought me the expansion discs for the game recently, probably the first rather expensive present she’s gotten me, despite not knowing a lick of Kurainese beyond what I’d taught her. It set my soul on fire, making me want to find out exactly what kind of gift to give her that was equally as thoughtful. It rolls around in my mind as I play and talk.
“Fran, why don’t you info dump about something?”
“...Are you sure? I’m not as focused on such interesting things like you.” The dark tone to her voice makes me ache for her.
“Of course!” I tilt my head slightly to nuzzle up against her own. “It’s only fair since you listen to me talk about Steel Samurai and old video games.”
“I suppose so.” She sighs. ” I am into…” I feel her physically cringe at her own words. “I am interested in… kitchen implements.”
Now that’s something I can give her. I set down the controller on the bed and awkwardly turn around so I can hold her now. The touch of being bare skin to bare skin even more so now is nice, despite the abrasive summer heat. I can smell the dizzying scent of sweat and cologne that holds tightly to the crevices of her collarbone. “What kinds of things? Like knives versus waffle irons?”
“Both, if you mean manually versus electrically powered tools. But nothing that’s a silly novelty. There’s enough companies that make attractive appliances that it’s foolish to focus on cheap impulse purchase fodder.”
“Mmm, like shovelware or a filler episode.” I nod sagely, like my comparison is a great philosophical notion.
“The best are the ones that are those that understand proper design. So few know how to do minimalism well without a gross oversimplification of everything visually interesting.”
“Ye olde maximalism, gone but not forgotten.” As if my phone isn’t a clamshell with enough keychains on a dust plug to be considered a melee weapon.
I could practically hear her roll her eyes. “Cooking was one of the few things I was allowed to indulge in… with the expectation I would be the perfect homemaker one day.” I feel her physically wilt against me.
“Then… we’ll just have to stick it to him by buying all the cool luxury tools we can fit into the kitchen!” I squeeze her tightly as if to release all the thoughts of the late elder von Karma from her.
“Oh, he’d have a conniption at the sight of our refrigerator alone.” Her laugh is light and airy, but full of genuine pleasure. Her posture grows far looser alongside it.
Said fridge is currently covered in crass magnet poetry, printed-out and spilled-upon recipes, and pictures of the messy conglomerate that was the Wright-Edgeworth-von Karma-Fey found family.
“I hope he is constantly turning over in his grave because Miles and I are gay and happier and more successful that he ever was.” It’d taken her years to be able to say that, finally coming to terms with what a horrible, miserable person her father had been. Both she and her brother now are stronger, healthier people—and, hell, even better prosecutors than they’d been under his tutelage.
“That’s the spirit! Stick it to his dead ass.”
She continues to talk as I sit and listen, throwing out silly comments every so often. The pleasure she gets out of it bleeds into her voice, the smile she’s no doubt wearing making her intonation curl happily. I’m intensely proud of her for willingness to further break out of the mask she’d been forced to wear since it was obvious to the adults in her life she wasn’t their definition of “normal”.