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“Are you,” Joll began somewhat stiffly, blinking rapidly and licking his teeth. “a rock?”
Conk waited a second, playing with Joll’s words. It looked like an insult, it tasted like an insult, but it didn’t really feel like an insult. Mostly because of how Joll had said it; breathy and unsteady, almost… dreamy. It was as if he couldn't believe himself or the reality before him. As if it were all a strange fantasy. A cruel joke that his brain had played too many times. Something he had desired for so long, adored so dearly, that when it was presented to him on a silver platter, Joll simply melted into stupidity from excitement.
It was still an insult, though. Kinda.
“What.”
“Uh. Sorry. It was- I said it wrong. I meant.” His friend started, stumbling over his words, getting more embarrassed. He hunched over Conk, head hanging between his shoulders, eyes full of panic, nerves, and the last bits of something sweet clinging to him like a loose dream. There was a pathetic, short whine from him before his head fell down and bumped into Conk’s chest. Conk kinda wanted to laugh. “Shit.”
“You meant I'm shit?”
“What?” Joll's head immediately flew up, almost with a scream. He looked a bit too red to be healthy. Maybe the frog was sick? “No! Of course not!”
“Then,” Conk drew out the vowel, resting his head on the grass; it wasn’t like he could get away while Joll loomed over him. Not like Conk wanted to, anyway. “You meant I’m a rock.”
“No.” Joll looked away, nervously gripping the grass. It was cute. Joll was cute. Conk wanted to kiss him again. “Yes?”
“What are you even talking about.”
“I don’t know.” Joll groaned in annoyance, lowering his head onto Conk’s chest again. He smelled funny. Like those yellow flowers they found near the river. “Maybe? You just, uh. I didn’t expect you to taste like an actual rock.”
Conk hummed lowly, patting Joll on the shoulder. The frog seemed to shrink even more, hiding his face somewhere in Conk’s neck.
It was. Well. Certainly new.
It wasn't like Conk had never kissed anyone; he had kissed probably more than he should. People just never said something along the lines of ‘You taste like a rock’ afterward. It was just silly. And not very, you know, romantic. Usually, you would hear something like ‘I dreamt about this’ or ‘Can I kiss you again?’ or even ‘Okay, that was fun.’ Not ‘Wow, Conk. You have a weird anatomy.’
Conk still wanted to kiss him, though. He supposed it was Joll’s awkward charm.
“You taste like steak.”
“...It’s because we were eating steak, like, 30 minutes before, Conk,” Joll muttered in response. He sounded pathetic. Like a wet, sad dog. Conk wasn’t sure why. Did he not like the kiss? Joll had seemed pretty enthusiastic only a second ago — his hands had been exploring every crack and annoying patch of plants, tongue a bit too wet and long, wandering around Conk’s mouth, moaning loud, needy, and so, so beautiful that Conk wanted to save every sound in a bottle. All the "good kiss" lights were glowing bright green, but.
But things can change very quickly with this type of thing; it's important to ask.
“Did you like it?” Conk played with Joll’s fingers. They were long, thin, and a little sticky from. Sweat? Conk couldn’t tell. Maybe it was some sort of frog thing.
“What? Steak?” Joll briefly looked up in confusion. “It was alright, I guess.”
“The kiss. Did you like it?”
“Of course!” Joll hesitated for a moment, looking straight into Conk’s eyes, unsure. “Did- Did you like it?”
“I did.”
“Why ask, then?”
“You seem,” Conk played with words on his tongue for a bit. Nothing sounded fitting. Joll wasn’t angry — it was pretty obvious when he was. He wasn’t happy, with that deep frown. He wasn’t quite… sad. The frog didn’t cry or anything, but it still looked the closest to the truth. “upset. Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no. You did nothing wrong, I swear. It’s just, uh.” Joll clutched his own hands even tighter before immediately softening. His tone grew more tired and gray, eyes looking far to the left, somewhere in the grass. Conk really wanted them on him instead. “It’s all me. Again. You were wonderful and sweet and I just- I just went and ruined everything. As usual.”
Well. It made some things clearer. Conk still didn’t quite get it.
The kiss had been pretty good, if he said so himself. Sure, a little sloppy and too wet, but not awful. The place they were in right now — a beautiful meadow of flowers, fences with low trees, a small herd of cows and chickens — was lovely. Dinner before that had been tasty, and the movie they had watched was funny.
A perfect date. And all planned by Joll. Conk was more than happy with it; they had steaks, watched a new thriller, and even kissed in such a gorgeous place.
Did Conk miss something? Some sort of little social signal or an awkward word said at the wrong time? It wouldn't be new.
“I'm not sure I understand.” Conk frowned at the sky. There was a cloud in the shape of a tree. The trunk was wide and long. It almost looked like an atomic bomb. “The date was cute. I liked it. Did you like it?”
“Well. Yeah. I planned the whole thing. Of course, I liked it.”
Conk was out of ideas. It wasn't something he had done or said; it wasn't the date or the kiss itself.
Maybe it was the thoughts again. Joll had this annoying habit of thinking way too much — he would repeat one intrusive thought again and again until the frog was stuck in his own head. It was pretty scary at times; seeing someone he cared for so badly hurt by his own mind and not being able to help more than just be there.
“Are you upset with... yourself? Why?”
“Uh, not particularly.” Joll rolled off him, looking at the sky, not really seeing it. He stretched his hand forward and counted on his fingers. Conk was suddenly a lot colder. “I mean, I was pretty rude to you. And stupid. And I fucked up our first date. And our kiss.”
“I don't recall anything like that.”
“I called you, you know...” Joll looked at him out of the corner of his eye, lips tightly pressed together. His hand was doing that really smooth rotating motion that always fascinated Conk. It looked somewhat magical and strangely animated. “...a rock? Sorry.”
Oh.
Is that what it was about?
“I.” Conk wanted to blink. He never had eyelids, but he kinda wanted them. They sounded cool. “I suppose it can be interpreted like that.”
“Aren't you mad at me?” Joll sounded small and gray. Conk still wasn’t completely sure why he was so stressed. It didn’t prevent him from being gentle.
“Not really.”
“Are you sure?”
“Context is important.” Conk shrugged, rolling to his side, facing Joll. He reached cautiously with his fingers toward the small patch of blue flowers between them. The petals were unusually shaped, like many other, smaller flowers, which reminded him of lilies. Conk was sure he knew the name but couldn't remember it. Chicory, perhaps? “It was more of a comment about my biology than a slur. Still weird, but I don't mind.”
He softly stroked the petals. It was early evening, 5 p.m. or so — Chicory only opens in the morning, around 5-6 a.m., and by 10 a.m. the flower would be closed. It must be something else.
Conk plucked one. He twirled it between his fingers before trying to tuck it into the frog's pocket.
Joll stared at his face for a long time with a strange grimace. It was a mixture of confusion, a bit of anger, sadness, and such sincere, sweet adoration that Conk almost choked with surprise — something in his chest, behind the ribs, closer to the spine, was heating up and expanding like a bubble. It wrapped around his lungs, heart, and ribs with a gentle, tender motion, meant only for beloved ones.
Conk terribly wanted to kiss him again.
“How are you so calm?” Joll asked bitterly, sitting upright. He was still staring at Conk’s face through squinted eyes, as if, if you looked close enough, all the secrets of the universe were written somewhere between the tiny cracks. Conk was sure the frog would be lucky if he found the thin line of his mouth. “Like… all day, not only now. I was so nervous about, uh, confessing to you for- what? Four? Five months? But you just. Said it. You didn’t think I would reject you or be rude, or, I don’t know, call you names? Wasn’t it scary? Even a little bit?”
Conk just. Stared at him for a good moment.
It wasn’t a lack of fear; he, in fact, had choked on his words a couple of times when rehearsing in front of the bathroom mirror. The torture was slow and painful. Each word felt like he was trying to pull his tongue out. His mind was fuzzy, his stomach tender and churning, his hands unsteady.
It was terrifying. Although, not for the reasons Joll would think.
The thing was — Conk knew himself. Maybe even a bit too well. He was aware of his… not quite pleasant love history. His interest was bright, burning, and exciting, but above all, brief. Falling was easy, and so was leaving. That wasn’t exactly the problem; love wasn’t less thrilling even when you were aware of the inevitable and near end. Although his partners knew of this, they always wanted to change him for themselves, as if they were ‘the special one,’ his ‘one and only.’
He didn’t truly understand that until a year or two ago. Joll was fascinating in a way that Conk had wanted to ignore for as long as possible. The frog had literal hearts in his eyes, and Conk.
Conk didn’t want to do this to his dear friend. Couldn’t.
It would be messy and delightful. He knew he would like it. He knew Joll would like it. It easily would be the best, the most wonderful relationship he had ever experienced, but it would also be really, really painful in the end.
But then Joll looked at him like a kicked puppy and. Well.
Conk was a weak man.
“You are my best friend.” Conk shrugged, because what else could he possibly say? ‘I'm scared as hell that I'll accidentally break the most precious person to me in the entire Multiverse.’? That was just too silly.
“And you’re mine, but it still was horrifying.”
“You wouldn’t be so cruel.”
“And what if I- what if I were? I can be selfish. I have been selfish. And cruel.” Joll pressed his lips tightly together. “I could hurt you. Or say something stupid again.”
“Perhaps,” Conk said simply. “Perhaps not. I would love you anyway.”
Joll blinked.
They didn’t call it that yet. Both of them were dancing around with the words ‘adore’, ‘like’, ‘admire’. For Conk, it wasn’t something sacred, but it still was heavy, bulky and prickly on his tongue.
Because that was it, wasn’t it?
This time, Conk wanted to do something more with this. A desire so deep and quiet he had almost forgotten about it — to admire and adore his dear friend, not bluntly ‘love’. He wanted years and years of this fluffy, pink feeling in his chest.
Conk just hoped that both of them wouldn’t be too hurt in the end.