They're fine.

They're absolutely fine. They don't talk about their—their argument (?). It's easier to just let it float over their heads, ignore what was said and what wasn't said, go back to what they were before.

Because it's clear Maxon doesn't know how to reassure Becks that she doesn't need to hide boxing from him.

"You, uh, you're going to school?" he asks, drawing his eyebrows together.

Becks blinks. "Yeah."

"Oh, have fun boxing!" he says cheerily, grinning. "Punching bags, and—and people," he mutters. "Yeah."

"Right," Becks says, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Thanks."

Becks doesn't bother hiding her gloves anymore. She dumps them on the couch, takes off her hand wraps in the kitchen, doesn't mind if Maxon sees her bruises or the gashes on her knuckles. It's freeing for her, she says. But Sanders can see—she's not happy. She was happier when she was hiding boxing from him.

As an athlete himself, Sanders can't help but feel disappointed at how shameful Becks is of her sport. Even though—even though Maxon thinks it's cool. He dropped by the gym once while she was sparring with her coach. His mouth is open, and his eyes are wide. "Cal is amazing, don't you think?"

Becks doesn't like it. She doesn't like showing this side of her to him.

So when she has an upcoming match, she tells Sanders without Maxon in the room. They're eating, and Becks is on her third cup of rice, and she swallows it down with water before saying, "I have a match next week. You can come, right?"

She says this like Sanders has a choice.

"Can I come, too?" Suho asks brightly, grinning. Sanders doesn't even know why the kid is with them. He just...tagged along. "Our training might end late, so I'll have to follow, but can I come? I want to watch you again!"

"Sure, kid," Becks says fondly, ruffling his hair. "Don't bring anyone else. You can sit with Sanders and Rosen."

Suho's smile grows wider.

But before the match, they have Kaitlyn's birthday party to go to first. Sanders is wearing a suit that hasn't been touched in a year, he's putting on a bow tie, and he thinks he'd have to pray that his dress shoes don't break or fall apart. Suho is sitting on his bed, wearing the same thing, but he's struggling with putting on his tie. "Why are we even wearing these things to Kait's birthday? It's just a birthday," he whines, pulling on the fabric, face scrunching in annoyance.

"There'll be lots of food," Sanders reminds him, lips tilting up. He kneels down in front of him and swats his hands away. "Let me do it, kid. Christ, you're such a baby. Like my son."

"I am your son."

"Glad you've decided to take on the role." Sanders knots his tie, careful not to accidentally strangle him. "Fix your hair. Put on some gel. You can't dance with anyone if you look like that."

Suho huffs. He borrows Sanders's gel. Outside, Maxon is buttoning his cuff sleeves—he's in gray.

Kaitlyn's friend from gymnastics is picking them up. They're picking up a lot of people, so the four of them will have to squish in the back, the trunk—in face-to-face seats. Sanders doesn't mind. Becks is seated right next to him, body crushed to his and legs folded to the side, resting her head on his shoulder.

She's wearing a black lace, long-sleeved dress with a pleated skirt ending mid-thigh—she borrowed this from Adan last week (Sanders was there when she tried it on, and he—well, his brain kind of froze). Her hair is in waves, curled down her shoulders, pulled up in a half-ponytail, and her face is painted with light makeup. Maxon has been teasing her for her eyeliner for the past twenty minutes of the ride. Becks glares at him. "Try doing your own makeup, asshole. You can insult me, then."

Sanders and Suho snicker.

But when they get out of the car, walking through the entryway of the fancy venue, Maxon pulls her aside and says, "You know I was kidding, right? I think you're pretty. Dress and the makeup and all."

Sanders plasters a grin on his face, not wanting to see Becks's blush, or hear her flustered response, and throws an arm over Suho's shoulder. "Let's go find the food, buddy." The fish goes with him.

It's a pretty simple program—apparently, according to Maxon, Kaitlyn's family does this every year. Sanders doesn't really care who's talking, who's holding the microphone, he's too amused watching Suho go back and forth between their table and the buffet.

Becks is too busy stealing glances at Maxon. Sanders pretends not to notice.

He pretends not to notice how Maxon is always reaching out, sticking his finger under her bra strap, placing it under the sleeve of the dress where it's supposed to be. It keeps—moving around, showing itself, and Maxon just keeps—putting it back.

He pretends not to notice how Maxon watches her whenever she focuses her attention to the stage.

He pretends not to notice all of that—he pretends not to notice every single time Maxon flicks her forehead, or—or brushes loose strands of hair away from her face, and the way Becks flushes, but doesn't swat his hands away.

Maxon is called. He's asked to say something for Kaitlyn, about Kaitlyn, and he's wrapping an arm around his girlfriend's waist.

Becks isn't looking at them. She's trying to find her plate of fruit interesting, poking around with her fork.

When they kiss, Becks's eyes fall shut.

Sanders unbuttons his jacket and stands up. "I'm gonna get some wine. Babe, you want one?"

"Please," she says, forcing out a smile.

Sanders gives her a glass. Suho asks for one, too. "You're a kid, you don't get wine." But of course, he's kidding, and he wants to see the kid have fun, too, so he gives him half a glass and warns him they'll leave him if he gets drunk.

When Maxon comes back, scoots his chair closer to Becks, Sanders leaves for the dance floor.

He doesn't even know who he's dancing with. It was a couple of guys at first, and then a girl, and then another girl—it doesn't really matter. He's just trying to have fun, doing his best to keep his back to Becks, so that he doesn't see the genuine smile on her face, so that he doesn't see that—that stupid look in her eyes whenever she looks at Maxon.

"Rush!"

Sanders turns around. It's Scarlet. She's grinning at him, walking over.

"Hey, Scarlet," Sanders greets back, panting. He smiles back at her. "You're a friend of Kaitlyn's?"

She nods. She's pretty, Sanders thinks. She's in a short, white dress. She's in heels. (Becks can only wear flats.) "We're in gymnastics together. You don't remember?"

"I do," Sanders says, shaking his head. A chuckle escapes his mouth. "No, I—I remember you're a gymnast, too. I just didn't know you were friends with her."

"I didn't know you were friends with her," Scarlet counters softly. She's still smiling at him.

"Her boyfriend is my roommate."

"Ah, makes sense. I've known Maxon since we were fish," she says. Her eyes are gleaming. "You were busting out some pretty great moves. You wanna dance?"

Sure. Why the fuck not. "Sure, why the fuck not?" Sanders voices out, grinning, and he takes her hand.

So they dance. Sanders doesn't even think about anything else. He's dancing with a great girl, a pretty girl, and she's smiling at him, like she's genuinely enjoying his company.

Sanders doesn't think about Becks until it's time to go home. He doesn't know if she and Maxon danced together, or if she danced with someone else. He doesn't know if she saw him dancing with Scarlet, he doesn't know if she cares.

When he comes back to their table, Becks has Maxon's jacket around her shoulders.

Sanders doesn't care. She must have been cold.

They're leaving in the same van that picked them up. This time, Becks doesn't sit next to him. She goes straight next to Maxon.

Suho blinks. "O—kay..." He sits next to Sanders.

Sanders can pretend he doesn't care.

He can pretend.

But Becks is falling asleep. She muts have been exhausted—or, or tipsy from the wine. She looked flushed, earlier, but Sanders didn't think much of it. He thought it must have been because of Maxon.

And then her head falls on Maxon's shoulder, and Maxon doesn't even flinch. Just slumps down further on his seat, so that Becks's neck doesn't have to strain from leaning upward. She's still wearing his suit jacket.

Suho is falling asleep next to him, too. He drops on Sanders's shoulder and snores.

Sanders grits his teeth and asks Maxon, "Is she drunk?"

His roommate shakes his head. "Nah. Just tired."

Sanders looks out the window. Suho is drooling on him.

"Rush," Maxon says quietly. "Will she sleep better on my lap? We're about forty minutes away from home, I don't want her neck getting stiff."

Sanders pushes his tongue against his cheek. "I guess."

Carefully, Maxon jostles her body, carefully placing a hand under her cheek. It's gentle, Sanders thinks, the way Maxon holds her. He finds a pillow from behind him, drapes it across his legs, and gently settles Becks on his lap.

"I saw you and Scarlet dancing," Maxon says, smiling at him. "You like her?"

"No," Sanders bites out harshly. "Dude. Can I be brutally honest?"

The soccer player blinks.

"I think—" Sanders pauses, taking a deep breath. "I think you shouldn't do this to Becks."

He looks absolutely confused. "Do what?"

How can he be so fucking clueless? "You pay attention to her a lot."

"Because we've been friends since high school..." Maxon says slowly, scrunching his nose. "And because she's like a little sister. And because we're roommates. I don't get it, Rush."

It's not his place to say. It's not.

It's Becks's.

Sanders sighs. "Never mind. She might fall, don't move around so much."

"Okay..." Maxon blinks at him, placing a hand on Becks's arm, careful not to wake her.

Becks doesn't go to his room that night. She must not be sad.

How could she be, when she spent the whole night with Maxon?

*

Becks doesn't ask about Scarlet.

She doesn't care.

*

On the day of Becks's match, Sanders can feel his head swarming with little Sanders. It feels like they're all taking an exam they didn't study for. It feels like they're all drowning. That, or they're dancing to Elvis while everything's on fire.

Somehow, the boxing ring looks bigger than before. The bleachers are packed, and he and Rosen find seats at the front. Like always, his leg is bouncing, his palms are sweating, and he can't contain the nerves slithering across his chest, tightening in his lungs, making it harder for him to breathe.

Becks calls him. Like she always does before she steps out into the ring. "Hey."

"I'm fine," Sanders bites out. When he exhales, it's shaky, and nervous, and loud. "You—do you remember what your coach told you? About not getting cornered?"

She's smiling when she says, "Yeah. I got it."

"If I see blood on your face after this," Sanders warns, shutting his eyes, "I will cut off your fucking wrist."

"But I need my wrist," she says in a whine, grinning.

"Becks," Sanders whispers. He's clutching the fucking seat. Rosen puts a hand on his leg, and his hand bounces, too. "Don't get cornered."

"Sanders Rush. I'll try my best not to get hurt."

"I don't believe your bullshit," Sanders snaps. "So just—just don't get cornered. It's your weakness. Okay?"

"Okay," she mutters. "One last question before I go."

"What?" he grits out. The venue is starting to fill. There are a lot of people.

Becks sighs into the other line. "Do you—can you watch me?"

"No."

"Please."

"I can't," Sanders says. "You know I can't. My eyes do this thing, you see, they close automatically when your opponent is hitting you. So. No. No can do, sorry."

Becks is silent.

Sanders grits his teeth. He groans out loud. "Fuck, fine. Fine. Jesus Christ. I—I'll try my best. I won't cover them. I'll keep my eyes on you. Happy?"

"Yes," she answers quietly. "Okay. Thank you. I gotta go. Don't forget your promise."

Sanders hangs up. "So. I can't do that thing I do where I don't watch the match, but I also kind of watch the match?" he tells Rosen, trying for a smile. "Becks made me promise. So, uh, I have to watch her."

"I think the point of having good eyesight, of getting front row seats, of coming here to this place, is to watch Becks."

Sanders's phone buzzes. It's Suho calling. Sanders can't be bothered to answer him, he's seeing dots behind his eyelids.

When Becks steps out, in her hooded robe, Sanders grips Rosen's arm.

"She'll be fine, dude," Rosen mutters. "Her opponent is—kind of bigger than her, but it's fine. It's totally fine. There's a first aid tent somewhere, but I'm sure she'll be fine."

Sanders tries to keep his promise.

For the first minute of the round, he's doing well. Becks is doing well. She gets good hits, her feet keep shuffling forward, on the offense, and her eyebrows are scrunched, hands up, protecting her face and torso when needed. She's bouncing on her feet, like she's dancing, not afraid to move forward, to block, to punch, to get hit. Sanders can see the fire in her eyes. The flames are dancing, too.

When Becks gets punched at her side, Sanders winces, immediately turning his head away, but Becks brushes it off, acts like she doesn't even feel it, and hits back.

He makes it through the first round.

Becks is sitting on one corner, and her coach is whispering in her ear. She downs her water during the break, shaking her head and hands, and there's sweat pouring down on her face, hits her neck, her chest, her stomach. She's wearing her lucky sports bra and the gloves he got her.

And then her eyes fleet around the audience. She spots him with a few seconds.

Sanders holds his breath. Stares back at her.

And then she's back in the match, and the second round starts. There's a blow to Becks's face that she almost doesn't dodge. She weaves around it, gives a strong punch to her opponent.

The third, fourth, and the next few rounds go on, and on, and on. Sanders is about to pass out. His legs are shaky.

"She's doing great!" Rosen says, eyes wide open. "She's tiring her opponent out. Becks can win."

But—but the thing is. Suho suddenly appears next to them, panting. "I was trying to call you!"

"Shush," Sanders says, keeping his eyes on Becks. She's still on the offensive, blocking when needed, no major blows to her head or any part of her body. Her punches are still strong and accurate. It's the first time he's really, really watching. Becks is—Becks is amazing. "I'm watching."

"Whoa, is that Cal?" a new voice says, and Sanders—Sanders's entire body freezes.

It's Maxon. He's seated next to Suho, jaw wide open, eyes wide and unblinking, and focused on the ring. Focused on Becks.

The round's halfway to ending. Becks hasn't seen him.

Sanders reaches out to grasp his arm. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he growls out.

He's—Becks will be crushed. He's not supposed to be here. He's not supposed to see her like this. Becks will lose her focus, she might get hurt, she might—

"I was calling to tell you that Maxon followed me!" Suho explains desperately, looking between them. "He asked where I was going, and I told him, because Becks's boxing isn't a secret anymore, right? And then he insisted on coming even though Becks told me not to bring anyone else, and he's your roommate and friend, so I thought it'd be fine, and you weren't answering—"

No. No. Sanders is—he's frozen, he doesn't know what to do. Becks can't see him. She'll—she'll be crushed. She'll be sad, she'll get hurt—

"Get out," Sanders hisses, standing up, pulling Maxon's arm with him. "Get up and get out, Maxon, she can't—"

His roommate stands, confused, but his attention is on Becks, still. "Rush," he says, mesmerized, and—and smiling. "She's amazing, what—"

"Maxon, get out now—"

"Wait, I don't—"

Sanders doesn't care. He pulls Maxon's arm, about to tear it out of its socket, but the moment Maxon moves, the moment he starts walking, Becks sees him.

Her opponent's back is to the audience. Becks is facing them. It was supposed to be a glance, Sanders thinks, a point one second glance, at where Sanders is seated—and then she spots Maxon, and Sanders sees the exact moment her eyes lose focus.

That loss of focus results to a blow to her head.

"Fuck!" Sanders hisses out, turning his face away.

"Shit, that looked bad," Maxon says, wincing.

Becks stumbles. She stumbles on her feet.

Her opponent is on her in a heartbeat, punching relentlessly, moving forward, taking advantage of the opportunity. Becks holds her arms up, face scrunching as she tries to block, but her feet keep moving backward, and backward, and backward—until she's cornered.

"Fuck," Sanders mutters, panting. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Becks has one eye shut. She can't open it. Sanders can hear her grunts, the pain in those sounds, as she does nothing but try to block as many punches as she can. She's injured. She's injured, and she's cornered, and she won't be able to get out of it because she's fighting with one eye closed.

Sanders pushes Maxon. He pushes him until they're outside.

"Rush, I don't—"

"Maxon," Sanders says. He's seeing white. He doesn't—he doesn't know what his voice sounds like, it sounds like it belongs to a stranger. "Maxon. Becks doesn't want you here."

"I don't understand—"

It's not his place.

It's not his place. But he can't take it anymore. He can't take this anymore. Becks is—Becks is hurt.

"You're so fucking blind!" Sanders yells. Screams. "You're blind, you're clueless, you flirt with her all the time and yet—Becks likes you. She's liked you for years, she's liked you since high school, it's you she likes, Maxon, it's been you since fucking high school!"

Maxon stares at him.

"She didn't want you to find out about boxing," Sanders says. He doesn't know what he's saying. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's angry, and worried, and Becks is injured. Cornered. Hurt. "She hid it from you because she wanted you to stop looking at her like your fucking bro. She took it hard when you found out, and now—you show up here. You—she's a girl, too," he says. "She's a girl, too. She doesn't want you to see her like this, Maxon. She doesn't want you here."

Sanders leaves, stalking back inside the arena.

Maxon doesn't come back inside.

There's a doctor at Becks's corner. She's looking at her eye. It's swollen, and closed, like it's sewn shut. Becks is panting, shaking. She's looking straight ahead.

She's crying.

"She couldn't get out of the corner," Rosen tells him, heaving a deep breath. "She—her eye is pretty bad. They're calling it a TKO."

The doctor talks to the coach. She's shaking her head.

Becks's lips form a 'no'. She's yelling.

"I can fight," she's saying. Screaming. "I can fight, I'm fine, I can still fight!"

They don't let her. The judges decide on a TKO—her opponent wins. She's brought to the first aid tent.

Suho is apologizing. Sanders doesn't hear him.

When Becks is free to go, a bandage over her eye, and instructions from the doctor to take her medicine, Sanders kneels in front of her and says, "Becks. Let's go home."

She doesn't look at him. She stands up and walks out the tent. Sanders follows closely behind her, holding his hands out, ready to catch her, in case she falls.

Rosen takes his motorbike. Sanders books a taxi. Becks isn't speaking, isn't looking at him.

In the car, Sanders says, "Are you hungry?"

She's leaning against the window.

"We can order in food," he tries again. He's digging his nails into his palms. The sight of that white bandage around her head—the countless, other bandages in her torso, the bruises over her jaw and lip—and the red, angry, gashes on her knuckles—Sanders shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. It's shaky, and staggering, and he's not the one who's hurt, but his lungs can't breathe, and he can't look at Becks. He stares at her bag on the floor, swallowing the lump in his throat. "McDonald's. Or, or something else. I can cook, too. What do you want?"

Becks doesn't answer him.

Sanders carries her bag as soon as the taxi drops them off. Becks walks inside the apartment, a little shaky on her feet, and Sanders grabs her before she can fall. "Shit, Becks."

She yanks her arms away. Continues walking.

Sanders clenches his jaw and follows her inside.

Maxon is sitting on the couch. He stands up when they walk in. "Hey—Cal. Are you—are you okay?"

Becks goes straight to her room. Closes the door.

Sanders stands outside her room. Closes his eyes when he hears her crying.

Maxon takes a deep breath. "Rush, maybe I should—"

"Leave her alone," Sanders says, slamming his own door open. "Leave her the fuck alone, Maxon. Please."

He sits on his bed and runs his fingers through his hair.

He doesn't know how long he stays there. Head in between his knees, breathing shallow and low, the only sound in the room, his fingers in his hair, threatening to pull his own roots out. He can't feel his bones, he feels like he's going numb. His head—heart, lungs—they're all quiet.

*

Becks sleeps for a pretty long time. She's not allowed to go back to training for three weeks.

She takes her medicine when she's told to. She eats when she needs to. She lets Sanders change the bandages on her eye, on her body, when he needs to. And then she goes back to sleep.

She's not talking to anyone. Adan has tried. Her parents have been calling her, too.

And Sanders—Sanders doesn't know what to do.

"And Maxon?" Rosen asks quietly. They just finished jumping the Gray Stairs thirty times. It was Sanders's fault—he wasn't focused enough. He hasn't been focused for weeks. "I thought you guys ran together in the morning."

"We do," Sanders says, choking his water bottle. "I just don't talk to him."

Suho has been missing, too. He sent Sanders a message, weeks ago, an apology, a million apologies, and Sanders can hear the kid crying while typing the message (it was filled with typos and sad emojis).

Sanders answered him. Not your fault, buddy. S'okay.

Suho didn't reply. He's been missing since then, too ashamed and guilty to show his face.

Sanders can't worry about him right now. Right now, these days, the past few weeks—awake and asleep—he's been worrying about Becks.

When he comes home, she's in her room. Maxon's there, too. In front of her. The door is ajar, Sanders can see her bottom lip trembling, he can see she's clutching the hem of her shirt—it makes the red of her knuckles apparent. It looks like her hand is about to tear the cloth apart.

Maxon raises his head, and in a terrible, terrible second, he meets her eyes.

Sanders wants to take it back. He shouldn't have said it. It's been on his mind since the match—it wasn't his place to tell him, it wasn't his secret—and now, now, what's in his eyes—Maxon is looking at her with guilt, and pity, and Sanders knows she doesn't want to see it. She's been terrified of seeing that look for four years.

Maxon wasn't supposed to know.

"Cal, I'm sorry."

"I know you didn't mean to," Becks says calmly. The quietness of her voice rings across his ears. "I know you didn't mean to, Maxon, but it was hard not to fall in love with you."

Sanders isn't supposed to be hearing this. He should leave. He should turn around and go.

"You made it hard," Becks says.

"Cal, I'm sorry," Maxon whispers again. "I'm sorry, I was—I was too thoughtless, and I wasn't thinking, and you—taking care of you just came natural to me—"

Sanders doesn't hear the rest of his sentence. He turns around and puts on his shoes. Runs into the night.

His head is too quiet. It's too quiet.

Sanders runs for a long time. He ends up somewhere in the campus. He runs across the oval, too. He runs up and down the Gray Stairs. Doesn't stop even if his knees are screaming, even if his muscles are yelling at him to stop, even if his chest feels like it needs to catch its breath. His head is too quiet—so he doesn't stop.

Becks is sitting outside their apartment when he comes back. His mouth is dry, and cold, and his legs are barely holding him up, but he comes to her, taking off his jacket. "Becks, it's cold out here," he mumbles in between breaths. They come out in small, little wisps. He puts his jacket over her body. It envelopes her completely. Ah, it's cold. "Why're you outside? Come on, we should—"

"Why did you tell him?"

Sanders stares at her. "What?"

Becks raises her head. She stares back at him and stands. "You told Maxon. You told Maxon I liked him."

He's scrambling for a response. He doesn't know what to say. Her eyes are too angry, too hurt, too betrayed, Sanders can't look at them, and his head is too fucking quiet—"Becks, I—"

"He kept apologizing," Becks says. "He kept apologizing to me. Do you know how horrible I felt? He kept apologizing—it's his fault because he doesn't feel the same, because he loves someone else. He kept apologizing, Sanders, why did you tell him!" she screams, pushing him.

Sanders stumbles. Her hands on his chest were forceful. Harsh. Painful. Becks's voice is raw, and scratchy from her tears, and it rings through his ears, echoes across his head, and it hurts. "Who the fuck do you think you are," Becks whispers. It stings his chest. Spreads quickly like a disease. "Answer me. What, did you think it was funny? You had enough of me making a fool out of myself? Is that it?"

"Do you think," Sanders starts, and he doesn't know where he finds the words, but they keep coming, flowing out from the bitter taste on his tongue, the coldness of his lips, "I covered up for your lies, tried to make you feel better every time you cried over him, and told him about your feelings because I found you entertaining? Because I was bored? Do you think I'm a fucking joke?"

"You weren't supposed to tell him!" Becks yells, crying, and the sting across his chest spreads quickly through his torso, his neck. Like a disease. "It wasn't your place to say, it was mine! I kept it to myself for years because I didn't want him to—I didn't want him to apologize, to feel bad because he can't return my feelings, because I know he's in love with Kaitlyn—and you—you tell him and it was my secret, it wasn't your place to say, it was mine, Sanders, why the fuck did you tell him!"

"Because you were getting hurt!" Sanders shouts. Screams. Shaking and shivering from the cold. Fingers going numb. He's glad he gave Becks his jacket. At least she isn't cold. "You were letting yourself get hurt, Becks, I couldn't—"

"So fucking what—"

"Yeah, so fucking what!" Sanders's lips are trembling. His eyes are wild, and his toes and fingers are numb, too cold. "So fucking what if you get hurt, right? You don't care if you're hurt, you don't care if you're hurting me, so long as Maxon doesn't feel bad, right? Right? It wasn't my place to say. It wasn't my secret. But you were letting yourself get hurt and you don't fucking care if you're bleeding out so long as Maxon doesn't feel bad about it, right?"

"You—"

"Sure, I told him because I love you. And because I love you, I couldn't stand seeing you get hurt, but so fucking what! You don't care."

Becks is panting. She closes her mouth, swallows down whatever bitter words she has to say.

"And I'm sorry for loving you," Sanders says. It's cold. It's cold but it's fine. Becks isn't. "I'm so sorry I love you, Becks. I'm sorry I told Maxon. You're right, it wasn't my place to say. I shouldn't have."

He turns around and runs again, and he finds himself at Rosen's door.

"Can I crash?" he asks.

Rosen opens the door wider.

And then he's crying, and Rosen's patting his back and caressing his hair.

Ah. It's really, really cold.

*

;-;

gudbye