Chapter 2: SIMON SAYS... PICK ME UP! by MisterInker
Beck’s eyes
turned slowly toward Simon; that odd expression from before was still plain
on her features, but she seemed to be hiding her discomfort a little better
than before. Perhaps the joke he’d made earlier had ruffled her feathers.
Better to try and put her at ease, considering they’d be spending a whole week around
each other—along with Milla, of course.
“Before Milla
came out of the bathroom…” he began slyly. “You were going to ask me if you
could touch me, weren’t you?”
Beck hid her
face behind splayed, cherry red-tipped fingers. “It’s like you can see right
through me,” she stammered. “I’m sorry, I’m really trying to be cool about…”
“No, no—it’s
fine! It’s fine!” Simon put his hands out in a supplicating gesture. “Really,
you’re being wonderful. Very professional. I was actually gonna offer to let
you pick me up, if you wanted.”
Her pale eyes
went perfectly round for a moment. “What?” she gasped. “Really? I mean… why?”
“Well, two
reasons.” Simon counted on his fingers, the gesture comically large as if he
was playing to the back row of a theater. “Item One: You’ve never seen a tiny before,
so you’ve probably never handled one. Clearly you’re a little gun-shy around
me, and there’s no better way to get over your nervousness around a tiny than
by getting your hands dirty… so to speak.”
He smiled up at
her, hands on hips in a puckish pose. “You following along so far?”
After a moment,
she nodded. “Uh-huh…”
“All right
then. Item two. I was just gonna watch TV until Milla got back, but I can’t get
down off this counter all on my lonesome. If I’m going over to the couch, you’re
going to have to carry me.” He folded his arms behind his back, squaring his
shoulders in a very businesslike pose. “So what do you say, soldier?” he asked.
“Are we feeling brave today, or what?”
Again, that
rogue right hand twitched a little at her side. “I guess that makes sense,” she
said slowly, still unsure of herself. “But… you’re sure I won’t hurt you?”
“Milla trusts
you, so I trust you,” came the cheery reply. “Plus—I’m a lot hardier than I
look. It’s… a strange perk of being this small. Something about the square-cube
law. I’m fragile, sure, but I’m much tougher to squish or splat than you might
think. You won’t hurt me.”
“All right…”
Still she hesitated. Her right hand came up, quivering—she didn’t seem sure how
to begin.
“You could just
pluck me up between your fingers and it wouldn’t injure me,” Simon told her. “But…
let’s start slower than that, eh? Just put your hand flat on the counter next
to me and I’ll climb up into your palm. That’s how Milla carries me, and it’s
plenty safe.”
Silently, Beck
did as he bade her. Her hand descended, large as a landing helicopter, until
the back of it rested on the cool countertop. Her fist uncurled, opening her
palm like a flower blooming. Immediately, Simon jogged toward it and before
Beck could even gasp, he had scrambled up over the edge and sat down
cross-legged in the palm of her hand, just next to the crease of her long
heart-line. The texture of her skin was like corduroy, firm yet very soft, and
almost instantaneously his nose was filled with the sweet overpowering aroma of
her hand-lotion. Her hand twitched a little underneath him, and she stifled
what sounded like a giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
he asked her.
“It’s nothing,”
she replied. “Just—it’s such an unusual sensation. And I guess I’m still a
little nervous.” Again, she recovered quickly, coughing behind her other fist. “Are
you ready to…”
“Elevator—going
up,” sang out Simon.
Beck seemed to
steel herself… then without much warning, her enormous hand lifted up. Simon
was used to travelling in this manner of course, so his stomach did not drop
out inside him like it might have otherwise. But again, a strange and silent
thrill shot through him. It was always a little bit leery being handled by a
new person, especially without his protective big sister around. He had never
encountered somebody who fit this mold, but he had heard stories on the
internet… of normal-sized folks who took perverse pleasure in abusing or torturing
or even killing tinies.
But again: this
was Milla’s roommate. And she’d trusted Beck enough to leave him in her care.
That would have to be enough for him… and besides, she seemed so nervous even
to touch him.
Up, up, up he
rose—until he was just level with her face. Nearly level with her lips, he
thought. He wondered again if he’d be able to see his reflection in her lip
gloss. They were large enough to be sure; he almost considered asking if she’d
hold him a little closer for a peek.
“All right,”
the titanic lips opened and said, “what now?”
“Just bring us
over to the sofa.” He pointed, rising up a little on her hand. “You’ll have to
work the remote for me—I left my micro-projector in Milla’s jeep. You don’t
mind do you?”
“Um. No. Of
course not.” Her hand had begun to sweat a little under him; he gave the palm a
pat with his own hand, a simulacrum of a high five. A few short thunderous
steps later and they arrived in the den, and Beck eased herself gingerly down
onto the leather sofa. The hand not holding Simon scrounged for the remote and,
finding it, clicked on Netflix. The other hand dropped down to the surface of
the couch, the fingers curling ever-so-slightly around him, cradling him
comfortably.
“Where do you normally,
uhm… sit?” Beck asked. “I’m a little worried about crushing you still.”
“I guess the
arm of the couch?” Simon replied. “Truth be told… with Milla I usually just sit
on her shoulder. But the arm will be plenty comfy too.”
Beck’s hand lifted
him up once more, drifting towards the curved arm of the sofa—then stopped.
Simon found himself ferried back, closer to Beck’s torso, halfway up to her
shoulder. She was wearing a dark blue sweater that sagged down, showing a lot
of her upper shoulder and some of her collarbone as well.
“If… if you
think it would be more comfortable,” she said. “I guess… I’d like to try it.”
Simon shrugged—then
stood up from her hand and hopped nimbly off it, catching handholds in the
coarse wool of the sweater and climbing hand-over-hand to her shoulder. Like in
her hand before, he sat down cross-legged, only this time he was surprised at
what he felt beneath him. Far from the softness of his sister’s own shoulder,
Beck had some muscle on her. Her deltoid was curved, firm and strong under his
slight weight. A swimmer, Simon guessed. Maybe even a gymnast? Again he gave
her a pat with his open hand, causing her to twitch at his ticklish touch.
“Thanks!” he
called up towards her ear. “Lovely accommodations. Remind me to leave a Yelp
review.”
This got a
giggle out of her, a genuine one this time. She was already getting much more
confident around him. Good. The week’s visit might have been an anxious one if
she stayed jumpy.
“What do you
want to watch?” she asked, angling the remote at the TV screen and the endless
scrolling icons for movies and Netflix Originals.
“Something
scary,” he replied. “I’ve been on a horror kick. They got any good slashers on?”
A few minutes’
scrolling later, Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday was blazing on the
screen. As buxom, airheaded teens got slashed, axed, stabbed, and sundered one
by one, Simon’s own anxiety slowly left him, replaced with the artificial
thrill of watching the hulking killer stalk his victims with eerie grace. Soon
enough, half-forgetting that it wasn’t his sister’s shoulder he was perched on,
he sidled away from the edge, curling up against the hollow of Beck’s long
neck. He heard her breath catch in surprise at his touch, but she didn’t remark
on it or ask him to move. If anything, the pulse under her skin seemed to
quicken with pleasure—though this could have been from the horror on the screen
as well.
He nestled
against her, a harmless enough gesture, and listened to her heart racing inside
her. It was a soothing noise, counterbalancing the screams of terror and
flashes of violence leaping off the screen.
This might end
up becoming a very pleasant vacation after all.