i'm sorry it's been so long! here's the long-awaited update. two chapters to make up for my absence!

please don't hate becks ;-; put yourself in a position where her secret is outed to maxon by sanders when she's kept it for four years by herself :c (and i promise, she will get better!)

leave your comments, i love reading them <3

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Sanders's coping mechanism is answering BuzzFeed Quizzes. Wanna know which Barbie leading man is your favorite? Just plan your ideal date to find out (Prince Aidan from Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus)! It's time to find out if you're Shrek or Donkey (Shrek. Huh)! This personality quiz will reveal which drink you are (Lemonade. You're sweet as you are sour)!

That, and pretending nothing happened.

The thing is. That argument—that full-blown, nasty, crying and screaming argument with Becks—that was not how he imagined losing her. Not even losing to Maxon—Sanders could care less about her choosing Maxon, about her heart never making space for him—but. But. Losing Becks. His best friend.

Why are those two words put together? They sound like a scream. They sound like a cry falling on deaf ears, like a 52-hertz whale calling with its 52-hertz frequency—the loneliest whale in the world. The words are not even supposed to be strung together, they're not supposed to be near each other. Sanders didn't think, when he dyed his hair purple (because Becks's parents wouldn't let her dye her own without someone to match hers), when he let his Overwatch character die to stay on FaceTime because Becks couldn't sleep during last year's winter break, when he learned a stupid TikTok dance with her (which they had to retake a million times over because they can't get the damn choreography right), when she kissed him for the first time and he's wanted her fingers on his face and skin and the dip of his spine and hips every moment since then—that he can lose her.

Forget about his feelings. Forget about his feelings—his palms are clammy, his mind is racing, and he thinks he's about to lose her, his best friend, and he will never forgive himself if he does.

So. Pretend nothing happened.

He has the almond milk in his hand. He goes in Becks's room without as much as a second thought, and gently shakes her awake. "Hey, morning."

Becks blinks blearily. Confused, half-asleep. It takes a few seconds for her to realize it's Sanders talking, that he's sitting on her bed, after a nasty fight of confessed feelings and suppressed emotions and crying—but. But. No. Sanders built his very own mansion to see if he belonged with Harry Styles or Louis Tomlinson (Louis Tomlinson), he designed his own coffee shop to see which Starbucks secret item he should try (Cinnamon Roll Frappuccino), and he chose foods to put ranch on to see what gemstone will be in his engagement ring (Why would pizza have ranch? Disgusting. Also, a diamond. Which is fucking expensive, but BuzzFeed tells him his taste in ranch is timeless. So. Acceptable. Diamond it is). "You're back," she rasps, rubbing her eyes.

There's drool on her cheek. "Yup, just had a sleepover at Rosen's. Here you go." He hands her the milk and throws off the covers. "I'm going to make breakfast, go wash up. Or not, Maxon isn't here." Sanders smiles at her and stands.

He can feel her eyes at the back of his head, but Sanders keeps walking. Makes breakfast and coffee. Slides a plate across the counter when Becks comes out, hair in curls, face washed, ratty old shirt and basketball shorts falling off her hips. Maxon isn't here.

She's staring at him when she sits down, hesitant, and, and confused.

Sanders sits beside her and eats his sausages.

There are a million things wrong in this scenario, and the quiet isn't even one of them. Sanders and Becks have had no problems with the quiet before, they can sit or lie in silence for hours without the two of them talking, just watching Avatar and sleeping and just being in each other's company.

The one thing wrong is that Sanders doesn't know how to act around Becks. Becks, his best friend. More than anything else—his best friend.

And it's clear Becks feels the same, too.

He scarfs down his sausages as fast as he can and brings his plate to the sink, cupping his mug in his hands. "You're going back to training on Wednesday, right?"

Becks raises her head to look at him, startled by his voice ringing against the empty walls. "Yeah," she says.

"How's the eye?" This is fucking ridiculous. Her eye has healed a few days ago. Sanders should know, he was the one who changed her bandages, cleaned it up, made sure it wasn't infected. Why the fuck is he asking about her goddamn eye.

"Still functioning."

"Your bruises?"

Becks puts her fork down and levels him with an even stare. "Are we not going to talk about last night?" she asks flatly.

"Last night? It was cold as fuck," Sanders says, shrugging, taking a sip of his cold coffee. He's not being an asshole. He just made a deal with his heart and promised it he'd take better care of it. This is not taking better care of it. "Oh, yeah, where's my jacket?"

Becks inhales deeply. Her eyebrows scrunch together. "In the laundry."

"You didn't have to do that, but thanks." Sanders dumps his coffee in the sink. It's cold, and, and fucking disgusting. He pours it down the drain and fills the mug with tap water. "Leave your plate in the sink, I'll wash it later."

"I'll do it," Becks snaps, pushing her stool back. "It's not like I have training today."

"Cool, thanks." Sanders grins and starts walking to his room. "I'll see you later, then."

"Sanders," his best friend rushes to say before he can disappear. Sanders looks back at her, jaw hurting from his smile. Becks swallows the lump in her throat and clenches her hands. "Are you just going to keep being a dickhead? Maxon—"

"Yeah. Maxon," Sanders says. Insists. Smiles. "How's that going?"

She tightens her jaw. "Pretty fucking well. He doesn't know what to do with me."

I don't know what the fuck to do with you, Sanders wants to say. But he doesn't. Becks doesn't care. "I'm sorry for telling him about your secret. It wasn't my place, and it was a dickhead move."

Becks stares at him. "Yeah. You were a dickhead. And you're a dickhead now, too."

Sanders keeps his easy grin. "I made you breakfast, babe."

Becks's voice shakes. "You're acting like nothing happened."

"I took some BuzzFeed quizzes if that's what you're asking. Turns out I'm more of an Alice Cullen than a Bella Swan, and the Itzy song that best matches my personality is Dalla Dalla, though I'm not sure what my favorite dessert has anything to do with that."

Becks is silent. Her fingers curl into fists. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out, and she looks like a fish gasping for air.

"I'm going to school," Sanders says, turning around for his room. "Text me if you need anything."

Rosen brings the ball down with a harsh spike, and Sanders dives for it, legs stretching across the floor. "How're you feeling?"

"Great," Sanders says, smiling even as he's panting, watching the ball bounce back and forth between them. "Absolutely great."

"You mean you've resorted to BuzzFeed because you have no idea how to face your emotions."

Adan texts him. Says Becks is in the gym. She's not supposed to be in the gym yet.

When Sanders comes in, she's facing a speed ball, and the sounds of her hits make him wince. It's so loud, and consistent, and repetitive—Becks's fist doesn't miss the ball going back and forth. She swings her arm repeatedly, hits every time the ball bounces back, punches with no grace or finesse or calculated strength—it's all fervor, and just strength. Anger.

"You're not supposed to be here yet," Sanders says, coming to a stop next to her.

Becks keeps her eyes on the ball. Keeps punching back and forth, left and right arms this time. "I'm imagining this as your penis, don't test me."

Sanders sighs. "We're going home."

"I'm not going home," Becks grits out. "Especially not with you."

"Alright, cut it out."

"You cut it out!" she snaps, finally pulling her arm back, facing him. She's so—she's so angry, and she's catching her breath. "Why are you making this out to be my fault? I wasn't the one who told Maxon about my shitty feelings!"

"It's not your fault," Sanders says calmly. "They're not shitty. And I apologized. Becks, I'm sorry. I really am."

"You justified it with your shitty feelings."

"I'm sorry for having shitty feelings," Sanders says. "And I'm sorry for trying to justify what I did with them."

Becks stares at him. Her shoulders slump, and she purses her lips, like she was expecting him to argue. "Why are you acting like this?" she whispers.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm the only one hurting between us," Becks says. "Like you don't care."

"I have shitty feelings, Becks," Sanders tells her. The corner of his lips lift up into a small smile. "So we're not going to acknowledge them. I hurt you, I betrayed your trust—that's what this is. I'm sorry."

Becks faces the speed ball again. Punches it one last time—it's the loudest, and the strongest, and she takes off her hand wraps forcefully, and Sanders follows quietly behind her while they walk home.

Pretend nothing happened. Maybe—if Sanders watched Avatar without falling asleep, would she forgive him? He'd cosplay Zuko and everything. Paint a scar over his eye. Talk about his honor or some shit.

Becks whirls around suddenly. Sanders stops, almost bumping into her, but thankfully catching himself before he touches any part of her body. Becks doesn't want any part of his body touching hers—she'd rip off his skin in a second.

"What do I say to Maxon?" she asks him coldly, pressing her lips into a thin line. "I'm worried about talking to him when I live with him."

It's Sanders's fault. It's his. "You can act as you normally would around him," he mumbles, swallowing hard. He doesn't know where to look, Becks's eyes are stony, and hard, and unforgiving. "I think he'd do the same, too."

"You say that like it's so easy."

"It's not easy," Sanders counters calmly, taking a deep breath. "I didn't say it was easy."

"Why are you still here, anyway?" she snaps, raising an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why are you following me?"

Sanders tries to swallow down his hurt. "We're walking in the same direction, Becks," he whispers, pursing his lips, finally meeting her eyes. They're unforgiving, and angry, and as hurt as his are. "Do you want me to go somewhere else? I won't come home if that's what you want."

Becks doesn't answer. She turns around and stalks away.

Sanders sighs. He clutches the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and trudges after her.

It's too quiet, but Sanders knows Becks's head is loud. He knows this because she isn't watching where she's going—she's leaning over the sidewalk, foot hanging off the ledge, and a motorcycle almost crashes into her if Sanders didn't reach out and pull her by the back of her shirt.

She stumbles on the sidewalk, and then she's pushing him off in a heartbeat, eyes wide and wild. "Don't touch me."

Sanders sighs. "Can you please watch where you're going?"

"So? Don't fucking touch me, I swear to God, you always do this, you always find ways to touch me even when I don't want it—"

"Hey," Sanders almost yells, furrowing his eyebrows. The hurt and anger and frustration rises in his chest. "I know you're mad. You have every right to be, but Becks. You don't have to be mean—I don't think I deserve being treated like a piece of shit. I have never touched you without your fucking consent. When did I do this? When we cuddle every night? When I hug you and you hug me back? When I hold your hand and you squeeze mine back? When we had sex and you consented to everything—"

She clenches her jaw and yells, "I'm just tired of your feelings for me, Sanders!"

On their own, his feet stagger backward. He steps back like he's been slapped.

That felt like a wave. A wave that just pulled him under. It's suddenly so hard to breathe.

Sanders's shoulders slump. He takes a deep breath. One. Two. Three. "I'm sorry I can't turn them off," he says honestly, keeping his eyes on hers. "I'm sorry my feelings make you uncomfortable. Disgust you. Whatever. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you."

Becks blinks. Then, she shakes her head, like she's dazed, and she's stepping forward. "Wait, no, I didn't mean—"

"And I'm sorry I touched you and made you feel uncomfortable or violated. I won't do it again, I'm sorry," he says honestly. "I'm sorry."

Her hand reaches out like she's about to touch him, but she stops midway, and she's blinking hard, like she's still processing what happened. "Sanders, wait, I didn't mean that."

"It's okay," Sanders says. "Really. Thank you for telling me. It's what you feel, Becks, I can't fault you for that. I really am sorry."

"Sanders," Becks says again, and her bottom lips trembles. She puts her face in her hands. "I really didn't mean it. I was angry, and hurt, and your feelings aren't shitty, and I'm not sick of them, I'm just—I feel pressured, and I don't get why you love me, but I'm sorry I said it, it just came out, I don't know what—I don't know what came over me."

"It's okay." He smiles at her. "Really. Stop apologizing. Let's go home, I'm kinda hungry."

Sanders keeps his distance. Maxon smiles at them from the kitchen and tells them he cooked dinner. Becks doesn't even look at him, she's still staring at the back of Sanders's head, but Sanders smiles at his roommate and sits at the table, digging in.

In his room, he can't even find the strength to cry. He just lays there, on his back, staring at the ceiling. He feels numb, and his muscles are sore, and he feels like his entire chest is frozen.

Who can he come to when he has Sad Days? He's always been so in tune with Becks that he's always provided her with everything she needed—warmth. Comfort. A laugh or two. Someone to watch Avatar with. Someone to talk to so she can go to sleep.

He decides to call his mom. Hathai answers in two rings. "Hey, sweetie."

"Hi," Sanders says.

"What's wrong?" she asks, worried. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm really sad," Sanders says. He shuts his eyes, and—and he feels his face crumple, and his cheeks are suddenly wet. His fingers come to clutch his shirt, where his heart is weakly beating, and he curls his fingers in a fist, about to tear the cloth apart. "Mâae, I'm really sad. My heart hurts."

"Oh, baby," she whispers. "You wanna come home? Your mom and I can pick you up."

"No," he says. Pathetically, he huffs out a laugh and says, "Becks might need me. She's having a Sad Day, too."

"Worry about yourself first," Hathai snaps. "We can be there in about an hour and we can go get some food at Hugo's. How's that sound?"

That sounds amazing. He just ate, but that sounds amazing. Sanders wants to hug his moms. He wants to hug them. He wants them to pet his hair and he wants to hug Siam, too. His heart just hurts. "Okay," he says. "Don't pick me up, I'll meet you guys there."

"Okay, sweetie." His mom's voice is gentle. "Drive safe. See you soon."

Sanders wipes his tears and sits up. His head hurts, his heart hurts, his body hurts. But maybe being with his family for a night is just what he needs.

He stands up and grabs his wallet and keys, turns off the light in his room. Before he leaves out the front door, just as he's putting his shoes on, Becks steps out in the hallway.

She hugs herself and whispers, "Are you going somewhere?"

"Yeah," Sanders answers lightly, jiggling his key in front of her. "Just going out for a bit."

He turns around, but Becks grabs his arm.

Sanders wishes he can tell his body to stop feeling...whatever it is it's feeling when Becks touches him. He wishes he can tell his heart to stop picking up the beat when she touches him. He wishes he can just...stop.

It's not fair.

He looks at her, and Becks pulls her hand back, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry about what I said."

"It's not a problem, Becks, I told you already." He grins at her.

"Stop lying to me," she says, and her voice breaks, and her face suddenly crumples, like she's about to cry, too.

"I'm not lying," Sanders says. "It's really okay."

It's not a lie. It's what Becks feels, and—and Sanders understands that.

Sanders isn't shy about telling Becks he loves her. He tells her every morning, shows it every chance he gets.

And he thought about what it felt like if the roles were reversed. If Becks was the one who kept pushing her feelings towards him. If Becks was the one who told him she had a Google Sheet about him, that they were married (now divorced) in her head, that she had wedding colors planned and shit. If Becks was the one who kept going to the courts even though he didn't want her to, if she was the one who touched him again and again even when he felt uncomfortable.

He'd be...he'd feel pressured, too. Annoyed, too. Wishing she would stop, too.

But it would've been his best friend. If the roles were reversed...if Sanders didn't love her, and she loved him, he wouldn't feel disgusted. Or sick.

Just sad he couldn't return her feelings—that he was hurting her.

But to each their own. Becks's feelings are her feelings, and Sanders has no right to invalidate that. She wouldn't have said what she said if she didn't mean it. And Sanders understands.

So. It's really okay. It's Sanders's fault. He shouldn't have told her. He shouldn't have asked her out. Maybe then he wouldn't feel as sad as he is now.

But. It's not Becks's fault. It's not. It's Sanders's.

"Do you know why I'm so mad?" Becks whispers suddenly. "Because it was you who told him. I trust you more than anyone else, Sanders. I trust you. And it hurt me that it was you who told him."

Sanders knows that. He knows that, it's his fault.

"But I'm also angry because...I know you told him because you love me," she says, meeting his eyes. "And I can't fault for you that. You don't want me getting hurt, or—or injured, and you care. And I don't know why—I don't why I'm taking it out on you—"

"I broke that trust, Becks," he says, giving her a small smile. "That's why you're taking it out on me. But it's fine—like I said. It was my fault. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

"Can you stop apologizing for one second!" Becks shouts, voice cracking at the end. "You keep apologizing to me even when I've been a piece of shit to you! Why do you do that!"

The simple answer would be because he loves her.

But he's not going to push his unwanted feelings anymore. He's not going to make her feel uncomfortable, or pressured, or disgusted with him anymore. Sanders can keep everything to himself—it's not that hard to do.

So, he says, "I don't know. I just want to. And I need to. It was my fault, Becks. You can't say it wasn't."

"But I've been so—"

"And like I said—it's understandable, and it's fine. Look, Becks, I don't want to argue anymore," Sanders says, chuckling once, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Let's just end it at that. I'm going to be late, so don't wait up, okay?"

Becks blinks. She blinks thrice and says, "Are you—" she inhales shakily. "Are you not coming back tonight?"

Sanders shrugs. Honestly, he says, "I'm not sure. I'll see you tomorrow if I don't, okay? Bye!"

"Drive safe," is the quiet mutter he hears before he shuts the door, and he's whistling as he's walking to his bike.

When he sees his moms, he hugs them first. They smell good. Like flowers and baked cookies and shampoo.

Mahika kisses his forehead. "Oh, baby. You okay?"

And it's not a lie either when he says, "Better now. Can we go eat? I'm starving."