# Tacit



## Blissful Lissy (Sep 23, 2011)

His fingers hold my wrist, circled claw-like around the jutting bone there. I can almost pretend his hand is a little lower, that his fingers are laced into mine.


And when he throws me into the pile of brown and curling tree leaves, if I shut my eyes tightly enough, I can just about fool myself that it’s a bed of blankets and pillows cushioning my frame, and not of dead foliage.


We don’t do this often, romp around and muck about as children do. So it is a precious thing, if a bit juvenile, when we lie supine in the pile, side by side, gangly legs stretched up, reaching toward the few clouds that linger in the late afternoon glow, hovering to observe our togetherness.


His toes, long and bony, curl and uncurl to shatter leaves into bits and pieces, and his flaxen hair that has grown long and wispy is tangled, matted to his face by a sheen of sweat. 


Sharp eyes give me a long side-glance; he’s caught me staring, but doesn’t ask what I’m looking at or inform me of my idiocy. Those lips, the ones I would so like to be covering my own, crick upward in a smile, more taunting than joyful. Fingers, long like his toes, reach for me, and I brace myself for a blow that does not come. Nimble digits slide underneath my shirt and it takes a second for it to sink in that he’s tickling me, nails scuttling like June bugs away from a broomstick over my flat stomach.


The amusement is not stretched across his mouth, but it lights up in his eyes. Fat tears tumble down my cheeks as my jaw slackens with great heaves of laughter. I double over, a vain effort to shield my aching belly from scrabbling fingertips, but his hands, undeterred, move to my ribs. He treats the bones to the occasional biting pinch.


I twitch just then.  Something coils deep within my abdomen as his callused hands roam my torso more fervently. I shove him away from me because I know a boy isn’t supposed to feel this way about his best friend and because I don’t know what else to do. 


The smirk slips from his face and lands somewhere in the mound of leaves. And as he stalks away, I don’t bother searching for it. Just sit there, grinding dead leaves into dust with the heel of my palm, thinking of the day his hand will be a little lower, his fingers clammy as they lace into mine.


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## fossiliferous_g (Sep 28, 2011)

This is beautiful. I can truly feel her longing. And it plays so well with the idea that girls are usually more mature, needier, and ready before boys. It's sweet and lovely.


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## BabaYaga (Sep 28, 2011)

This is really nice.... you had me guessing about the nature of the relationship up until the second last graph and then when I went back and read it again, it all fit together perfectly. Well done.


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## Blissful Lissy (Oct 4, 2011)

Thanks very much for the feedback and kind words. ^^


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## Sunny (Oct 4, 2011)

I liked this! Beautiful, really.


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## Phyllis (Oct 4, 2011)

Really well done.  Loved it!  You led me on to wonder about several possibilities, and when the time came to grasp your intent, it was a lovely surprise.


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## Higurro (Oct 5, 2011)

I like the ambiguity in this, which seems to reflect the conflict within the characters. One or two of the sentences went on for a little longer than I was expecting without a breath, but the style was good and enjoyable overall.


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## MissSuiYen (Nov 30, 2011)

Ooh, this is fantastic! Beautiful, concise imagery and great expression. It describes something that so many young gay boys go through, especially because they can stand to lose so much by admitting their feelings.


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