Disclaimer: I own nothing Skins related, sadly. We all know how much we'd love to have an Emily or Naomi in our closet.
Summary: There are many things in this world that Naomi Campbell can answer: the square root to every number, how long it would take to travel to Saturn and the name of every bone in the body. But when it comes to Emily Fitch, there are just some things that can't be answered. "Everyday, in every way, I find something new to love about you."
Rating: I rated this T but it'll range from T to M, I'll give you a heads up. :)
A/N: Hello! :) This is my first Skins fic and I'm really excited about it, so I hope you give it a chance. I have to be honest, I'm American so my knowledge of British terminology is very slim to none. But I'll try my best to keep the authentic Skins feeling to the fic. Please excuse the errors, I scanned through it briefly and I hope I didn't miss anything! With that being said...let me know what you think! :)

"Naomi, why do you love me?"

My entire body goes rigid as she curls into me, our heavy duvet covering her bright hair making the question seem like it was asked from nowhere. Bloody hell, of all the questions to ask. She could have asked me why the sky was blue and I could have given her an answer. Or perhaps the first 100 numbers of Pi, I could give her that in a heartbeat. But the question of 'why?' entails that there is only one correct answer, which is, in this case, just not plausible.

She must have taken my silence as hesitation as she places a kiss on my bare shoulder, wordlessly telling that she doesn't need an answer. She might not need one, but she sure as hell deserves one. I toss the idea around in my head for a few more moments, readjusting the blanket under my chin, feeling her warm breaths flush my skin with each exhale. Why? How could I pick just one thing? I pick up the blanket and peek underneath it, her hair in stark contrast with the white sheets. Slowly she lifts her head, her deep brown eyes invading all of my senses and leaving me paralyzed as she stares intently at me. And there I go again, feeling like we're the only two people in this world, like I always do when she looks at me. I maneuver myself until we're face to face, pulling the blanket high above our heads, our own personal fortress.

We continue to look at each other, like we often do. Staring, touching, exploring, memorizing. Each curve and dent and inch of skin. I trail my fingertips across her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in its wake. I trail over her shoulder, applying the lightest touch across her ticklish neck, watching her squirm and giggle in response until I reach out to brush a stray lock out of her eyes. I clear my throat, mentally prepping myself for this kind of situation that I, Naomi Campbell - politically-inclined, can't-be-bothered-to-give-a-rats-ass kind of girl - would usually run from. And run far away, I might add.

"Ems," I start. The vulnerability in my voice chilling me to the bone. "I can't give you a reason." I see her eyes begin to water as she raises the corner of her mouth in a half-smile, the smile that says she's disappointed but won't press any further; the one that I became very familiar with during our adolescent years. She tucks her chin into her chest, effectively blocking her expression from me. I brush her bangs from her face and place a light kiss on her forehead before reaching a finger under her chin, instructing her to look at me. "I can't give you a reason... because everyday, in every way, I find something new to love about you." I cringe, finally comprehending what I just said. If someone would have told 17-year-old me that those words would be coming from my lips, I would have laughed, loudly, in their face before calling them a tosser and flipping them off. But somehow, at this exact moment, lying in bed and hiding under a blanket with the girl of my undivided attention since age 12, it makes perfect sense. What has this girl done to me?

She lets out a squeak of delight before pressing her lips against mine.

Today, we are twelve years old.

One of the many years during that period of awkward growing. Our limbs too long, too fast. Scrawny and tall, unsure of how to present oneself. Arms crossed, uncrossed, pressed tightly to our sides. All gathered around in a schoolmates basement for said schoolmate's birthday. Someone hands me a cup and I drink it. The first slow burn of alcohol igniting a fire in my throat on its way down. I laugh because someone else laughs and soon enough we're all laughing. We're all finally getting over those tense first minutes when we realize we're doing something not suitable for our age group but letting the alcohol overwhelm any reason to actually care.

And then I see her. She's across the room, standing unsure next to her overly-confident twin. I don't understand the sensation that takes over me but I can't take my eyes off of her. Watching intently as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, standing quietly behind her sister until the dominant twin moves; in which case, she follows. They're matching in their button-up shirts and black waist skirts, albeit the other sister's shirt has one too many buttons undone, showing off her developing cleavage. She's drawing in a crowd, with her dark red hair and her loud stories while the timid twin slinks away into the background.

It's a while before I see her again. Four more cups of this mystery drink to be exact. She's sitting at the top of the stairs, her skirt pushed up past her knees, a cup in her hand. She has effectively hidden herself from the rest of the party, seeing everyone but no one seeing her. She rests an elbow on her leg, her hand keeping her head up as she carelessly sips from her drink. And, as if she and I were magnets, something pulls me towards her. Her knees are red and bruised and the only thought that comes to my head while I mindlessly walk up the staircase to her is, 'Who is this girl with the bruised knees?'

Her eyes widen as she watches me approach her, almost as if she's scared of the attention she's drawn to herself. I reach her and sit down on the same step, our bare arms brushing from time to time. I reach out a hand,

"Naomi." I slur, the excess rush of blood to my head leaves me slightly disoriented.

I watch as her eyes widen even more, as if that were possible, as she glances between my hand and my face.

"I-I-I know. Emily, me. I'm-I'm Emily." She answers quietly.

Emily. It fits her perfectly.

She reaches her hand out tentatively, shaking until it finally comes in contact with my own. Her porcelain skin is the warmest kind of warm that you imagine holding every night and wake up next to in the morning, for the rest of your life.

She gasps, and I can only hope she felt that too.

There's an uncomfortable silence that follows. I continue to stare at her, willing her to look at me, but she continues to stare straight ahead as if hoping she'll just blend in with the furniture. She nervously brushes her hair behind her right ear. Once, twice, three times. I want to ask her about her bruised knees. I want to ask her many things, and I want to know all of the answers to them. But I bite my tongue, afraid I'd sound too interested if I did. Mentally swearing to myself that I would not ask this girl any questions. You're straight, remember? Instead I say,

"You're different from your sister." As if I've known them all my life.

"How so?" Once again, it's spoken quietly, as if she's whispering.

I ponder the question. "I'm not sure yet." But I can't wait to find out.

It's 11:30 PM when the giggling begins to die down. Some of the girls have begun to climb into their sleeping bags and call it a night, while others are just getting started. We've abandoned our spot at the top of the stairs and found refuge in a quiet corner, barricaded by couches and bookshelves. I say something and she laughs loudly, rolling onto her back and pulling the blanket with her. I curl towards her, soaking in her body heat. I'm not cold, but I say I am and explain to her that's why I'm so close to her, because she's hogging all of the blanket. She smiles, and it's a smile full of knowing and understanding.

She disappears underneath the blanket and I'm left confused, lying on my back and staring at the creme-colored ceiling. I feel a light tug at the hem of my shirt, and then another one, followed by a nudge of her head against my shoulder. I pull the blanket high above our heads and roll over onto my side to face her, her face pressed adorably against my jacket that she rolled into a makeshift pillow. She's so tiny. Everything about her is tiny. Her hands, her feet, her ears, her button nose. I can feel her raise a nervous hand, feeling along the two inch (and closing) gap between our bodies until she finds it. She laces her fingers through mine. My hand, far too large and irresponsible to be holding something so tiny and fragile, envelops hers. We don't say anything. The air tense with unspoken words dying to be said. She runs her tongue across her bottom lip and I feel my mouth go dry. I can't even begin to comprehend what's happening. My whole body is screaming for contact, telling me to close the space between us and just feel her. The constant war between my head and heart is raging and I can feel my alcohol-induced confidence begin to kick in. But before I have a chance to tell my body to move, she does it for me.

It's slow motion. Slowly, she slides her body until it's flushed against mine. Her breathing ragged, much like my own. There's a new kind of look in her eye when she meets my gaze. It's confident, it's sure and it's full of need and want, unlike her usual sheepish demeanor. Even without speaking, she's telling me everything.

If you don't move, I'll do it.

Do it, I dare you. She raises an eyebrow in defiance.

I mean it.

Just do it already, please.

And she does. Her lips, as soft as I imagined them to be, move against mine perfectly. Her tongue, an indescribable warmth as it brushes against my bottom lip and slips into my mouth. Our kisses are soft and hesitant, growing into this relentless need to touch and taste and feel the other. I kiss the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her jaw, her neck. Her heavy breathing in my ear spreading this warmth in my body. She giggles as I trail her neck with tiny kisses,

"Tickles." She lets out a smile that stops my heart as I taste her skin. She lets out a soft gasp as I flip us over, my leg falling in between hers as I hold myself up slightly with my arms. She's under me now and I feel her writhing beneath me, aching for any kind of contact. She opens her eyes languidly, her lids heavy and her lips smeared with the shade of my lipstick. I'm not sure how long I look at her, but it dawns on me that it's one second too long when her eyes widen, perhaps with fear over the gravity of the situation finally setting in or because she thinks she's scared me off. I lower myself down to place another kiss on her lips, and that's when I know.

That brief moment before Katie reaches us and rips the blanket away. Before the moment of utter fear that takes control of Emily's body. Before the undistinguishable amounts of yelling and screaming as the others begin to wake and crowd around. Before all of that, and at that exact moment in time, I'd be prepared if she asked me why I loved her.

Today, it's her wide eyes and her bruised knees.

Soo.. what do you think? :) Is it worth continuing?