Sanders keeps his distance.

The first time, he's back from his run with Maxon without almond milk in his hand. Instead of heading straight to Becks's room, he goes to the kitchen to start on breakfast. He's not an asshole—he's going to cook her a plate, too. But just because they're roommates, and nothing more.

He and Maxon are already eating when Becks comes out, and Sanders almost spits out his water. It's the first time in almost a year Becks steps out of her room without her hair combed and straightened, and in her ratty sweatshirts and basketball shorts.

"Morning," Maxon says cheerily, grinning at her.

"Morning," Sanders echoes, giving her a smile.

Becks is staring at Sanders. "You didn't..."

Sanders raises an eyebrow, chewing his food loudly. Becks doesn't continue the rest of her sentence. "I didn't...?"

She swallows the lump in her throat and turns around. "Nothing. I'm going to wash up."

Sanders asks her if she wants a ride with him going to school. Becks says no, she's going to make them late. Sanders shrugs and leaves on his own.

The second time, Sanders stays in the volleyball courts long after training ended. Rosen is with him, and they're talking about grabbing food once they've gathered the energy to stand up.

And then his phone buzzes, and it's Becks. Hey. are we getting dinner together?

Sanders types his response. If you want to, I'm with Rosen, too :)

It takes a minute. Sure. uh what do you want to eat

Sanders always eats whatever she wants to eat. Sure. Fine. chicken wings down the corner? We'll meet you at the gate

Rosen raises his eyebrow. "You're not picking her up from the gym?"

"What's the point of going there if we're going to the same place anyway?" Sanders asks, shrugging, shouldering his bag. "Come on."

Becks is in her big jersey and shorts. She has sweat all over her face, and callouses on her knuckles. Becks isn't as mad as she was before, but the tension around them is palpable and Sanders's hands feel empty from not holding her boxing gloves. Or her hand.

He sits beside Rosen at the restaurant instead of beside Becks. Becks notices this, because she slid over to give him space before Sanders sat down.

The third, fourth, fifth time—Sanders keeps his distance. He'll keep his thoughts and usual flirty remarks and hands to himself. It's not hard to do.

He's watching television on the sofa when Becks sits way too close to him—and, and Sanders pre-argument would've welcomed it, would've buried his head on her shoulder, swing his legs over hers.

But now he just realized—it's trespassing Becks's boundaries.

So he moves away. Keeps his distance. Adjusts his position on the sofa and kicks his feet up the table.

It feels so foreign.

It feels foreign to not stop by the convenience store during his runs. Sometimes, when he comes back, Sanders's feet move on their own in the direction of Becks's room, but his mind catches up with his feet and then he's turning around.

And Becks has been leaving her room without washing up. That's foreign, too.

Talking to her—foreign. Sanders has had to bite his tongue once, twice, thrice. Too many times to count. He's had to think about what he's going to say before he actually says it. He's never done that before with Becks.

But...it's not that hard. It's not as hard as he expected it to be. It's actually easy—doing these new things with the reminder that Becks may feel uncomfortable or disgusted...it's easier.

Sanders decides to go to the soccer field one day and catches Suho. He walks closer, and when the fish sees him, his eyes widen, and he's turning around and running.

"Fish! Come back here!"

It takes a while, but Maxon helps. Suho is a fast runner. Sanders and Maxon feed him with McDonald's.

He still can't look Sanders in the eye. He's munching on his fatass burger and he can't look up.

Sanders snaps his fingers in front of his face. "Hey. Kid. You wanna talk to me before you eat?"

"No," the fish mumbles, mouth full of lettuce.

Maxon huffs out a laugh and takes a sip of his soda.

Sanders raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "I already told you it wasn't your fault."

Slowly, Suho raises his head. He looks at Sanders with fucking—fucking puppy eyes. Jesus. "Is Becks smad?" he asks quietly.

Sanders grins. "I knew you were my kid. And, nah, dude. You can come over and play video games if you wanna see her."

So he does. Becks hugs him, and Suho is sobbing uncontrollably on her shoulder, mumbling incoherent apologies, and he's getting snot all over—is that Sanders's shirt? (Yes. Yes, it is.)—her and Becks is rubbing his back awkwardly.

And then the three of them play video games and Sanders doesn't high-five with Becks or pick her up in joy like he usually does when he wins, and Suho's right in between them and Sanders opts for grabbing the kid in a chokehold and ruffling his hair fondly.

Becks tosses her controller on the couch. She hates it when Sanders wins.

So. Everything's new, everything's fine and dandy.

And then his door creaks open, and it hasn't creaked open in weeks, and Sanders is sleeping but he's always been a light-sleeper, and that sound of the door creaking open has been so tuned to his ears for the past three years and he knows that it's Becks coming in because she's having a Sad Day.

No. No, no, no.

The bed dips with additional weight and Sanders stiffens. Becks crawls up the mattress, and before she can touch him, Sanders throws himself off the bed. "I'm sleeping in the couch if you're going to sleep here," he says sleepily, grabbing his pillow.

Becks snatches his arm. It's dark, he can't see, but he knows her voice is trembling when she says, "Sanders. Please."

So she's asking. She's asking, she needs it. It's not unwanted.

Sanders lets go of his pillow and lies back down.

He's a fucking clown. He's a fucking clown and he's pathetic and he's never going to be able to keep his promise to his heart because he's a fucking clown, and his muscles are weak and the first touch of his skin on hers and he's gone.

The shaky breath Becks exhales when Sanders wraps his arms around her shatters his bones. He feels that breath sink into his skin like rain, feel it seeping into his chest and shoulders and arms and fingertips and stomach and legs.

He closes his eyes and tries to remember the last time he hugged her.

He can't.

"Why do you do this to me," Sanders asks. It's not a whisper, or a mumble, or a quiet question of hurt and confusion and touch-starved emotions. It's a simple question asked in a very flat tone—loud and clear. "Why do you this to me, Becks?"

"I'm sorry I hurt you," she mumbles. Sanders can feel her crying. "I'm really sorry."

That's not the answer he wants to hear. "Why do you do this to me?"

"Because I didn't mean what I said. You—you act so differently around me now, and you're my best friend, and it's hurting me that I hurt you."

"I don't know what it is you want me to do," Sanders snaps. Becks flinches in his arms, and he sighs, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "You said you were sick and tired of my feelings. I'm trying to get rid of them. You said you didn't want me to touch you. I don't, and here you are, asking for it. Where do I stand? What are my boundaries? What do I have to do to make it hurt less for you, Becks?"

"Can we just—" she stops, inhales a trembling breath, chokes on a sob, "can we just go back to being friends, please? All of this is just—it's too much for us and you know before anything else, we're best friends. We're best friends, Sanders, it's been you and me since we were fish, and I—" Becks inhales again. Staggering and shaky. "I just want my best friend back and it hurts that we've gotten to this point and it was my fault and I'm sorry."

Before anything else, he's her best friend.

Forget his feelings. Sanders sighs. "When can I touch you and when can I not?"

"Please stop thinking about that," Becks starts to plead, shaking her head, tightening her arms around him.

But Sanders says, "No. You said I made you uncomfortable and pressured. I never want to make you feel that way again. So tell me or else I won't agree."

It takes a few moments.

It takes a few moments in silence before Becks finally says, "When you hold my hand out of nowhere. It just feels funny."

Okay. Okay. No hand-holding.

"When you kiss my hair and neck. I know it's not on purpose sometimes, the one on the neck, but—"

"I'm sorry," Sanders says. Honestly. "I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to make you—"

"Just those two," Becks cuts in, shaking her head. She swings her legs over his and scoots closer, burying her head on his chest. "Just those two. Everything else—please, don't—you've been acting like touching me will set your skin on fire and it really, really hurt me."

You really, really hurt me, Sanders wants to say. But he doesn't. "Okay. What about those things I do before breakfast? Everything okay except for the last one?"

It takes a few moments.

"Yeah," she finally says. "Yes. I missed you. I missed you so much and I'm sorry."

I missed you too.

"I'm sorry, too. Get some sleep, we have school tomorrow."

Sanders doesn't cry. This time. His breathing slows alongside Becks's, and he feels really warm.

*

His feelings end there.

Somewhat.

*

"Stop sticking your spoon inside, that's gross."

"You're the one who drinks straight from the bottle," Becks retorts, stabbing her spoon once more in the tub of mint chocolate ice cream they share. "And puts it back in the refrigerator."

"What?" Maxon shrieks, pointing an accusing finger at him.

Sanders sinks against the couch. "S'okay, dude. Not like I don't stand outside the shower naked while I wait for you to finish. Come on, we've seen each other's packages, are we really going to cross the line at saliva sharing?"

Becks sighs. Maxon face-palms.

"I did not need to know that," she mutters, rolling her eyes and shoving a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. Carelessly, she tosses Sanders the remote control.

Sanders tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. "I thought we were watching Avatar."

"AKA the greatest show of all time," the soccer player chimes in, sticking his hand in a bowl of potato chips.

Becks shrugs. "You always complain about it being boring—which I take great offense at, by the way—so you choose. And make sure it's not boring or I'll deck you."

"Me too," Maxon says, huffing.

A slow grin stretches across Sanders's lips. "Guys. I swear to God. You have to watch the greatest cinematic masterpiece of all time—and the soundtrack is fucking bomb."

(They watch Twilight.

The baseball scene is fucking amazing. A cinematic masterpiece.

Becks is Team Edward.)

When she falls asleep on the couch halfway through the third movie, Maxon gets up. Sanders frowns at him and says, "Where are you going? It's not done, we have the whole newborn army versus the Cullens to get to."

His roommate presses a finger to his lips, furrowing his eyebrows together. "I'm getting a blanket for Cal," he whispers, already turning around.

"Seriously," Sanders says. Flatly.

Maxon stops. Palms his forehead. "Fucking—yeah, you're right. Sorry." He inhales deeply and faces him again, scrunching his face together. "Sorry, I got used to it."

He crosses his arms over his chest and sags against the couch. "I get it, I got used to a lot of things, too," he mutters, stealing a glance at his best friend. Her curls are all over her cheeks, and her mouth is wide open, and her neck looks like a cramp tomorrow morning. "But you're right, we should probably let her rest."

Sanders stands up.

Maxon stands next to him. "Are you going to carry her, or..."

"No," Sanders says, scoffing. "No, we just talked about our boundaries and shit. No way."

Maxon tilts his head to the side, rubbing the nape of his neck. "Well, I'm not going to carry her. And you always—"

Sanders leans forward and shakes her violently. "Becks! Wake up! Go to your bed!"

Maxon pushes him. "Are you crazy! She's going to kill us for waking her up—"

(She did. But it was better than Sanders tucking her to bed. Feeling something again.)

*

Terry salutes him when he comes by the convenience store. Waking Becks up, this time, is just throwing the covers off her body and yelling really loud in her ear.

It's effective.

But sometimes, Becks makes breakfast. It's for him and Maxon.

(Sometimes, she says it's just for him.)

*

"How're you holding up with Maxon?"

Becks shrugs, cupping her drink between her gloved hands. It's particularly cold, and Sanders is thankful he brought a jacket, and that he reminded Becks to bring a jacket, too. They were just going to get ice cream down the store (Becks finished the tub of mint chocolate), but somehow, they just ended up here. Sitting on dirty benches facing the soccer field, sipping on juice boxes. "I don't know," she mutters, looking at her feet. "Somehow...I feel better. About it. Than I ever have in the past four years, and I'm not sure why. Like it's...easier. Or lighter."

Sanders leans back against the bench but retracts his palms immediately, hissing. "Fucking hell, that is cold." He's blowing air into his palms, shuddering.

"Idiot," Becks mutters, rolling her eyes. She puts her juice box down and takes off one glove, tossing it in Sanders's face. "There."

Sanders grins. "Aw, bab—"

He catches himself. Nope. No flirty remarks. No feelings. Nada. Zero. Non.

"—baboons, Rosen is a baboon," he continues lamely, looking away. "Yup. That thought just crossed my mind. Anyway. Thanks for this." He waves the glove around awkwardly. "Hypothermia would be more of a hassle to deal with—you know, the inconvenience of sending me to a hospital, rather than us sharing one half of two gloves."

Becks raises an eyebrow and looks at him. "You know, I was trying to remember what you looked like with purple hair while you were babbling."

"Glad to know you were listening," Sanders scoffs, fitting his fingers inside the glove. "But I looked pretty bomb with fucking purple. Rosen said so."

"Why is Rosen the basis of your attractiveness? That's not an objective point of view."

"It is when he's not into me. You can be the basis of my attractiveness." Sanders shifts and scoots closer to her, narrowing his eyes. "Come on. What do you think?"

Becks sticks her palm in his face and pushes him back, but it's not a harsh shove—just a playful one. A get-out-my-face-you-turd one. "You look like an animal."

"Okay...but which animal? A puppy? I can accept a puppy. It'd be going too far if you answered, like, a gremlin. My moms called me and Siam a gremlin, but I think Siam's the only one who fits the category."

Becks huffs out a laugh. Her breath forms a wisp of cold air. "How are Mahika and Hathai, by the way?" she asks quietly, glancing at him, taking a sip out of her half-empty juice box.

They hate you, Sanders wants to say. But he doesn't. They actually don't. They just...don't talk about her with him, anymore. They know it makes him sad. Sanders takes a deep breath and smiles. "They're fine. More in love than ever."

"And Siam's not a gremlin, please." Becks snorts, sticking her straw in her drink. "He's cuter than you."

"I'd normally take your insults as your way of flirting, but I'm a changed man." Sanders puts his hands behind his back and spreads out his legs. Sighing, he closes his eyes. "And I actually agree. My little brother's fucking cute. Don't let him know I said that, though."

Becks doesn't answer him.

Sanders cracks open one eye. She's staring at him. "What?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "I have lettuce in my teeth or something?"

Becks shrugs. Stabs her straw in her juice box again. She's facing him, legs crossed underneath her, and she looks ridiculous with her beat-up basketball shorts, large shirt with holes and a hoodie with stains from God-knows-where, sporting a low ponytail barely gathering all her hair in one place, with loose strands of curls falling across her forehead and chin and neck, and she has dark eye bags under her glasses and her lips are chapped, and Becks isn't pretty.

No. No, she's not pretty. She's not. Not the kind the word evokes, anyway. But his body betrays him, and his mind is helpless, fucking helpless, because why...why does his heart skip a beat? Why are the little Sanders in his head playing goddamn bells?

"Just missed this," Becks murmurs, picking at a thread in ridiculous fucking shorts. "I don't know. I just felt like...with Maxon around, we didn't really...you didn't talk to me a lot, and I didn't talk to you, and it felt like I was focusing all my attention on keeping my secret from him, and you were...God, I don't even know. You were being a jealous shithead."

"A jealous shithead is an eloquent way to put it," Sanders says, smiling. He hangs his head back and looks at the sky. It's really, really dark, and it's cold, but it's fine because Becks isn't. "And about what you said...about feeling easier and lighter. Correct me if I'm wrong, but maybe it's because he knows and it hasn't changed the way he felt about you. Still treats you the same. Which, by the way, is a fucking relief. I love Maxon, really. He's my dude. But if he made you cry again, I would've—"

Fucking—

Why. Why. Why can't he just fucking sew his mouth shut while he's at it?

"You would've?" Becks asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sanders exhales heavily. "Nothing," he says. "Never mind. Lost my train of thought. Anyway. You know what we should do?" He stands up and dusts off his shorts, picking up his juice box. "What do you think about tag and a trip to the shop?"

Becks's eyes light up, and Sanders's breath catches in his throat.

If he were more poetic...if he were more poetic...if he were—

"The shop?" she asks excitedly, raising both eyebrows. "And blind tag? No peeking, okay?"

Sanders looks away and tries to ignore the sudden wave of...of whatever the fuck it is he's feeling in his head, his chest, his lungs, heart, fingers. Fingers. They're twitching. She's close.

"Yeah, the shop, and blind," he answers her, going down the bleachers. "And you were the one who cheated last time!"

"Because you did it first—oh, shit—"

Sanders almost, almost turns back. Almost offers her a hand.

But no hand-holding. No—she wouldn't take it, anyway. So Sanders keeps going down the bleachers by himself. "What do you think about a tattoo after the shop?"

Becks is laughing. It's not the hairball one yet, but it's a sound that fills his ears. He hasn't heard that in a long time. "You're fucking crazy, Sanders Rush."

"I know," he answers, facing her, walking backwards and spreading his palms out. "Isn't it great?"

(They don't have blindfolds, so the sleeve of their jackets will do, wrapped around their eyes. Sanders cheats. Becks cheats, too. They run around the grass in the soccer field, chasing each other.)

Becks loses.

"Stop peeking at my sheet," she hisses, slapping his hand away.

"I'm just grabbing a crayon," Sanders says, snickering at her petty ass, grabbing the blue. "Loser."

Because she lost, she's only allowed five crayons to color her sheet, and Becks is pretty mad about it—she had to grab the crayons blind-folded, too, and in her hands are gray, brown, yellow, black, and peach. The peach is fucking useless on a white surface.

Sanders got a pretty cool princess to color.

"Shut up," Becks says, glaring at him, keeping her arm around her sheet. "Is Siam judging?"

"He's probably asleep now, let's send them to Suho. Oh, wow, that is a hideous castle."

She huffs, shoulders slumping. "I have five colors to work with, alright? Go easy on me."

"Here." Sanders grins and tosses her the red. "You have a minute to maximize your favorite."

"Don't need your pity," she mutters childishly, narrowing her eyes at the crayon.

"It's a fucking crayon, don't be stupid."

"Fine." Becks grabs it. "But just so you know, your princess is hideous, too. And you had a lot of colors to work with."

"Her name is Princess Sugar. Show some respect."

"Loser," she says, rolling her eyes, but she's smiling down at her coloring sheet.

"Idiot," Sanders bites back, grinning, too.

(Suho judges. Becks wins—which is. Fucking unfair, by the way. You can't even see the peach!)