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That tingle.
Honestly, it was always meant to overwhelm her.
At least, that's what it feels like. Once the hem of her skirt has gone completely soaked, and she can barely feel heat at the base of her hooves.
Right were her hands are sealed to Kris' own — that's where it's the warmest.
"Kris," her voice speaks out. Divorced from her own brain, her throat has decided to grow a mind of its own. It does little to actually make Kris look at her — to offset the dreary cold in the water, to heat her up beyond the extent of her fingertips.
Proceed, and Kris' chest knocks against hers. The water pools around them, a sway pulling them apart, then close together, then apart...
Noelle welcomes the weight. She presses herself further into Kris, hooves barely grazing the dirt underneath — and finally, finally, Kris gazes up to her.
It's not them. It's not really them; and yeah, that's the point. Inebriated, Noelle curses a giggle under her breath, drinks in the way it collides against the tense line of Kris' lips.
"Hey," she mutters.
What if Susie was in their place? In the million fantasies she's hosted before, Susie closes her eyes and meets her lips. She hasn't gotten around to the imagination part when Kris is in her place, though. Beneath her skin, all parts chilled in the cold air and lake water alike, she's trembling in anticipation.
She's thought about how she'd like that — a shove into Noelle's boxy figure, until she's writhing into the ground. Whether it's the whirlwind of indigo-colored hair, or a wild brunette mane; it's supposed to ignite something within her. The thing that will stir her to be anything but submissive, utterly docile. Noelle—like.
Historically, it being Kris has made it harder to buy into the fantasy. Not when Kris was held at bay by a swinging bat, or a strong furry arm covered in adolescent plad. Up until then, the ugliest consequences of Kris' leashing had been contained by an array of third-parties.
When it is on its own... Kris hesitates.
Noelle does, too. Her cheeks burst aflame to that, sweltering in shame. What good are her words, then, when she can't even commit to them? It's so, so, so cold in the space left open beneath her chest. Another step in, and Kris moves away. Far closer. Away. Far closer.
The ebb and flow of the water... as erratic as it feels, it ends up bringing Noelle into their close space.
There, it's the scent Noelle has known from all her life. Amongst the sharp intake of lake water, the chilling swing of wind, the smell of Kris reigns supreme. Her hands —gripping in desperation, growing colder and colder — pull Kris into her gravitation again. They meet her with the same resigned reticence as always, if not a little tarnished by the unknown.
It's a little bit funny, if Noelle really thinks about it. Back then, it was always Kris prompting her into the unknown, tugging her by the arm into danger until her screeches drowned everything else. Kris doesn't screech, obviously. But their stone-cold reluctance in their step grows more and more, until Noelle feels like she's the one fighting — against the current, as well as the static figure of her childhood friend.
Her lungs fill in the dissonant fragrance of both uncertainty and familiarity. "C'mon, Kris," she garbles between her teeth.
When everything is said and done, Noelle will regret the incertitude. She will resent the way her body gives into the gentleness — so alien from the persistent thought of water, of desperation, of discovery. When everything is said and done, Noelle will melt into the shape of Kris.
Kris stumbles forward, and they kiss her like it's an accident.
So then, when everything is said and done. When the end of Noelle's tale is as pathetic as she feared it will be...
She will kiss back.
Slowly, like the gentle graze of a warm finger into the surface of the sea.
Closing like eyelids into the soft flesh of Kris' bottom lip, chapped and rough as they have always been.
No pull in her hair. No intrusion of a forceful tongue into the warm cavity. Just the swipe of lips from the right, switching to the left.
Noelle sighs. Convinced as she is, that she's deserving of the roughest of treatments, the softness emanating from Kris is as foreign as the punch.
There lays the humiliating discovery: she craves this like she craves air.
Another step back. The lake swallows harder into her, just as Kris pecks into her lips. A soft, tiny gesture.
The contrast is churning. Noelle's stomach swirls in ultimate disparity. Proceed, she begs to whatever entity keeps listening to her, and it obeys.
It's near intoxicating, as Kris reaches back into her mouth, the contact as delicate as the last petal of spring.
Noelle's ears are filling up with water.
Once Kris gets a lung full of air, they come back into her.
Outside its voyeuristic gaze, Noelle shrills in laughter. She thinks back to her sister, shivers, then settles. There are worse ways to go.