Maxon doesn't move things higher up the shelves anymore. He still teases Becks. A lot. Calls her ugly. But he's not as touchy, as affectionate, as I-see-her-as-a-little-sister as before.

And Becks...Becks doesn't mind. Her room is cluttered with her boxing equipment, she steps out in the hallway in her neon joggers and with drool on her cheek, and...and she still looks at Maxon when he laughs. Just not as much as before.

Maxon runs with Sanders TTH mornings.

"Are you telling me Cal has been losing on purpose to me?" he screeches, pushing Sanders's shoulder. "What? So I'm not as good as I think I am? She can beat me?"

Sanders grins. Keeps running. "She can beat me. Not often, but. She can. Dude, come on. Becks is a sore loser. How dense were you?"

"I don't know, I was dense about a lot of things!" Maxon says, scrunching his eyebrows together. "I'm asking for a rematch. And no way is she losing on purpose."

So they do. Becks wins. Hands over the controller to Sanders and raises an eyebrow. "Can we get food now, please?"

Maxon is sulking on the couch. "I can't believe you've been holding out on me this entire time, Cal. I hate you."

"No, you don't," she answers lightly, shrugging, and Sanders can't believe her hair isn't straightened and she's wearing his shirt and she just crushed Maxon in a game, and she's asking him to go with her to get some food. Him. Not Maxon. Sanders. "Sanders?"

"Yes, yeah." He clears his throat and grabs his keys off the counter. "We're getting food. Text us what you want, dude."

"Fine," the soccer player grumbles.

Becks laughs. It fills Sanders's ears.

*

"You're not allowed to come home yet."

"Let me guess. You killed Lucianna's dog."

"No!" Becks huffs incredulously over the other line, and Sanders just knows she's rolling her eyes. "It was one time I tried to feed her grapes, okay? She was looking at me with her cute puppy eyes and I couldn't say no. How was I supposed to know they're poisonous?"

Sanders grins, pressing the phone in between his ear and shoulder as he ties up his shoelaces. "You sent her to the emergency room. And I had to chip in to pay for the fees. We were almost homeless. Homeless, Becks."

"I paid you back," Becks grumbles. "And please, don't be so dramatic, we were almost homeless countless times."

"True," Sanders agrees. "Which is probably not good for our track record with our landlady. I still think she finds me cute."

"Cut it out with that cute bullshit. Anyway. Not what I was going to say. Don't come home yet, you're not allowed to."

Sanders stands straight and puts down his foot from the bench. "Last I checked, my name was on still on the contract, and I still live with you and with dear Maxon Finlay. So why not?"

Becks is silent for a moment.

Rosen looks at him, raising an eyebrow, jutting out a thumb towards the exit of the courts. Sanders ignores his impatient ass and looks at his screen, wondering if she hung up on him, but she didn't, she's still on the call, and Sanders puts the phone back to his ear and asks, "Becks?"

"You forgot."

Sanders's brain freezes at those two words.

Oh, no. Oh, oh, no. What did he forget?

The little Sanders in his head start scrambling around, opening drawers, looking for files. There's a huge red alarm going off, and there are papers flying everywhere. Is it March? Yes, it's March. It's not Becks's birthday for another few months. It's not Christmas or Halloween, he turned off the stove this morning, he bought almond milk, he's pretty sure they still have meat and vegetables in their fridge and he did grocery shopping for Maxon and got maple syrup for Suho, too—oh, shit. Did he forget to boil eggs? Was that on the menu today?

"I can tell your brain is going in different directions right now," Becks says, sighing, and Sanders blinks. "Your face is probably doing five things at once."

"Was I supposed to boil the eggs...?" he tries, biting his lip.

"Sanders," she says, and Sanders can hear the half-scoff, half-annoyed, and half-amused tone in her exasperation, and she says, "it's your damn birthday."

"Oh." Sanders shuts his eyes, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He doubles over, chuckling, holding a hand over his heart to heave a loud sigh of relief. "Jesus Christ, you fucking scared me. I had to remember what month it was to know if it was your birthday."

Another pause. She keeps doing that. Why does she keep doing that? "You thought of me first?" she asks, and Sanders just knows she's scrunching her nose.

"I'm not twenty-one 'til tomorrow," he says, choosing not to answer her question. She knows the answer to it, anyway.

"That's in a couple of hours. Don't come home or else I'll slice your arm off and eat them for dinner," she says sweetly, and Sanders can hear her sarcastic smile.

Sanders sighs. "Fine. But—Becks. Please. Whatever you're planning, don't do it."

"Why not?" she demands.

"I mean this in the best possible way," he tells her, swallowing hard. "But my birthdays don't exactly go...as planned. Since you started doing the planning."

Rosen shakes his shoulder violently, frowning at him and jabbing his thumb towards the exit. Sanders pushes him off.

"Last year, I was just worried because I couldn't find you," Becks says, clearing her throat.

"You kept honking and shouting my full name across the street," Sanders deadpans. "And you got several noise complaints. And you were sent to the police station."

"In my defense, you were drunk, and I was scared I lost you. Mahika would've killed me. Hathai, too."

"And the year before that, I almost sent you to the hospital. Because I clocked your face when I tried hitting the piñata, and no one noticed you were bleeding on the floor because we were all busy getting money and candy."

"Money and candy are essential. In that order."

"Point is," he says, laughing once and shaking his head. "It's bad luck when you plan out my shit for my birthday. My moms are throwing me a huge-ass celebration on the weekend, anyway."

"It's different!" Becks insists. Rosen is pulling on his leg like a fucking kid. "Nothing bad is going to happen, okay? Just don't come home for an hour and don't eat. Go with Rosen and Adan and sit in a cafe or something. Don't eat. You can have coffee but that's it."

Sanders takes a deep breath and follows Rosen. There's no getting her out of this. "Fine. Can you at least send me confirmation that our house is still standing?"

Becks hangs up. Her message comes in seconds. [Attachment: 1 picture].

Sanders presses on it, and without thinking, an instinctive reaction, he smiles. That's not confirmation, that's a selfie. What's that white stuff on ur nose ? Cocaine?

Yes, she replies. >:^( See you later.

Sanders laughs. He throws his head back and laughs. See you. :)

He does. Sees her later. In her cargo shorts and baggy shirt, but she's wearing makeup and the curls of her hair are tied up on her head. She crowds Sanders against the hallway and closes the door behind her, eyes wide. "I said no coming home for an hour."

"It's fifty minutes since then, I'm starving," Sanders mutters, rubbing the nape of his neck. "You look cu—decent."

Becks doesn't even blink. "I'm in my cargo shorts. I have holes on this shirt."

"Yeah, so? Can I come in now?"

"No!" she yells, grabbing his training bag. It's heavy, but Becks carries it like it's effortless. "I'm putting this inside and then we're going out. Well, I'm changing, and then we're going out. You can't see what's in there yet."

Sanders heaves a deep exhale and raises an eyebrow. "I'm in my training clothes, Becks. I stink. I haven't showered."

"You look great." She comes close, really close, close enough to press her nose in his neck, and Sanders sucks in a breath in surprise, freezes like an idiot, stares at her when she pulls back. Becks nods, gives him a small smile. "And you smell good, it's fine. Stay here." And then she shuts the door in his face.

Sanders waits there.

He waits until Becks opens the door again, and she comes out in this—in this loose button-down and shorts, and she's grabbing his hand to lead him down the stairs. "Okay, come on, we have to catch it before they close."

"Are you sure I shouldn't dress up?" Sanders asks, worried, letting himself be dragged by his very small but very firm and strong best friend, still eyeing her outfit up and down. "Put on jeans or something? You should've told me, I'm in a jersey—"

"It doesn't matter, I just wanted to look cute today," Becks says, leading him to his motorcycle, long and bony fingers still wrapped around his wrist. "Okay, I'll tell you where to go alright?"

She takes his helmet and leans up on her tiptoes, putting it over his head, brushing his hair away from his face. Sanders has to lean down for her to do this, and he's smiling. "I can do it, Becks—"

"Shush," she tells him, snapping his helmet in place. Becks leans back and smiles at him, and he can see her eyes are bright and happy and excited. "Okay, let's go!"

"Helmet first," Sanders says sternly, frowning, grabbing her helmet. Becks doesn't even wait before putting it on herself, and she's slapping Sanders's shoulder, telling him to hurry up.

Sanders doesn't know where she's telling him to go. He almost misses a turn, actually. It's hard to hear her voice over the sound of the wind, the passing of the night, the quickness of his heartbeat and breaths—and the feeling of her cold hands in his stomach, her breath on the back of his neck.

Stop, he tells his heart. Fucking stop it.

It doesn't help that Becks grabs his hand to lead him to—to wherever she wants to take him. It's not unusual, it's not strange, and before—before all of their arguments, before the nasty feelings came into play, Sanders would've squeezed her fingers. Would've followed her everywhere.

Now, they just lay limp in her warmth, and they feel numb. Like his fingers have been starved of this.

He doesn't even realize they've stopped, that he's been staring at her hand in his, until Becks lets go and grins widely at him. "Happy birthday, Sanders!"

Sanders looks up. He's about to tell her it isn't his birthday for another two hours, but he sees the glowing lights and the colors, hears the laughter and noise inside, and he knows he mentioned this once to Becks, a long, long time ago, that he wanted to do this with someone, that he thinks it'd be fun and amazing to feel like a kid again—and she brought him to an indoor playground, and she has two tickets in her hand, and she's taking off her shoes and Sanders barely kicks his own off before she drags him inside. Sanders and Becks go on the trampoline park, the ball pit, the foam pools and the rock-climbing walls. (Becks kicks Sanders in the face. Accidentally. But he also kicks her in the arm. Accidentally. Sanders won.)

He almost forgets about his hunger, only remembers when Becks puts on her shoes again and drags him to the nearest Korean restaurant. (It's not cheap. Sanders knows. But Becks insisted on paying. Besides, he left his wallet in his bag.)

Finally, they get cotton candy from a stall Becks spotted on the way home. They sit side by side, picking pieces off of each other's cotton candy, and Sanders hasn't been this happy in a long time. He feels warm. Satisfied. Happy.

Becks's cotton candy is blue. Her tongue is blue when she says, "I have bruises from the park."

Sanders grins, kicking his feet in the air. "I pushed you a lot."

Becks sighs. "You did. But it's your birthday, so it's fine."

Sanders looks at her. "Nothing bad happened today."

"Don't jinx it!" she whisper-yells, glaring at him. "I still have the surprise at home, so don't rule it out yet. You could get food-poisoned or something."

"Jesus," Sanders breathes, and his cheeks hurt. His cheeks hurt from smiling, and his heart hurts from feeling—"It has something to do with food and I'm really fucking scared."

"I hate you," Becks says, pushing his shoulder, huffing.

Sanders smiles at her. "Why is it different this year?"

His best friend blinks. Tilts her head to the side, chewing on her cotton candy. "Huh?"

"I mean." Sanders shrugs. "Two years ago, we went to a club. Last year, we celebrated with my family. This year...why did you put so much effort into it? You know I've always wanted to go to an indoor park."

Becks looks away. Shifts her torso so she's facing the street, and she chews a little bit more of her candy before quietly answering, "I don't know."

"Becks."

She groans loudly and looks at him. "You already know why."

Sanders raises an eyebrow. No, he doesn't, actually. "No, I don't," he voices out.

Becks kicks an invisible rock on the ground and stares at it. "I've just been thinking about it," she mutters, and if Sanders wasn't so focused on her answer, he wouldn't have heard her. "I haven't exactly been the nicest to you, and you do so much for me, and I figured that you need a break from taking care of me all the time. I wanted to do something for you. And it's not just because of your birthday." She sucks in a deep breath. Still doesn't look at him. "I guess it's just a start."

Sanders blinks. "Becks. You make breakfast for me. You take care of me when I'm sick or hurt and I'm pretty sure I threw up in your dad's car and you didn't get mad, and you—"

A little scoff. "You do a lot more for me, and don't even try to argue."

"You're the one who's arguing, plus, it's not even a competition!" Sanders furrows his eyebrows and shifts his torso, facing her. And then his heart sinks, swallowing the lump in his throat when he asks, "Is this because you feel guilty? About...about our argument?"

"What? No!" she rushes to answer, shaking her head violently. "No, no. It's not that," she tells him, finally meeting his eyes, and Sanders knows they're being honest and sincere and open. "We forgave each other for what happened. It's not because of that. It's just...I wanted to. And you deserve it. So. Stop asking questions already."

Sanders's lips spread into a slow smile. "When did you become a sap?"

"Shut up, loser," Becks says, rolling her eyes. "Also. Here." She fishes out something from her pocket, and tosses it on his lap. "My gift," she mutters, looking away again, and Sanders can see the faint, faint blush on her cheeks.

Jesus. His heart can't take this.

Sanders picks up the box and rattles it curiously. "Please don't tell me you got a keychain with an embarrassing picture of me."

"That's a great idea, actually. I'll shelf it for next year."

"Very funny."

"Thanks, I try," Becks says, but she's still not looking at him, and she's focused on her cotton candy.

He pulls on the little blue ribbon. Opens the box and blinks. It's a simple, silver chain, and Sanders picks it up, brings it closer to his face, spots the little charm hanging off of it. It's a boxing glove.

"You might get recruited for the national team after graduation," she mumbles quietly, picking at the hem of her blouse. "And you'll have to train somewhere far away and I won't see you a lot. So. Just a reminder that I can still punch your ass if you decide not to call me. You don't have to wear it, of course." She laughs once. "It's just. Yeah. A reminder."

Sanders doesn't...he doesn't know what to say. But what stupid remark comes out of his mouth is: "You're the one who's going to get recruited for the national team."

"I'm prepared for that, too." Without looking at him, she sticks her hand inside her other pocket, and she holds it up, and Sanders barely catches a glimpse of it, but it's clear, it's so clear, that it's a volleyball charm attached to it. "I'm reminded you can spike my ass to the next dimension if I don't call."

Sanders's chest bursts. It bursts and he huffs out a loud laugh. It's a laugh he hasn't heard come from himself in—in so long, and it's a laugh that makes his stomach hurt, makes his insides feel like jelly, makes his heart burst open.

"That, I can do," he says once he's calmed down, and he doesn't see it, but Becks has been staring at him while he's busy laughing, and she's smiling at him and he's smiling, too, shifting closer. "Put it on me, come on."

Becks bites off the rest of her cotton candy and lightly smacks his shoulder, but she scoots towards him, too. "You always make me do shit for you," she mutters, looking up at him, but she's already clasping the bracelet around his wrist.

Sanders can see the red gashes on her knuckles. The callouses on her palms, and—and his fingers are itching.

When he looks up, he finds that he catches his breath, and Becks does, too, blinking at him.

It'd be so easy. It'd be so easy to just—lean forward and do it. Hand his heart over again in a silver platter and watch it burst open in her hands, like rotten fruit, mess everywhere.

Sanders wouldn't mind cleaning it up. The mess.

But he doesn't want Becks's hands dirty. So he tears his gaze away, focuses on the silver on his wrist, and grins. "What if none of us is recruited?"

"Well." Becks takes a deep breath. "Then we would've wasted our tuition for nothing." She stands up and holds out her hand. "Come on, let's go home. Oh, but before we do, I want to reiterate that I did my best."

Home. Where Suho, Maxon, Rosen, Adan, and Kaitlyn are waiting. They're all wearing party hats, and they all yell a poorly-coordinated greeting of, "Surprise!", and start blowing on their party horns that Sanders is sure Lucianna will be sending them a noise complaint the next morning, and one of them (Rosen, maybe), starts belting out the lyrics to Birthday Sex. But that's not what makes him catch his breath, or, or smile so wide that his cheeks start to numb—it's the hideous cake sitting on top of the kitchen counter, coated with chocolate (?), topped with sprinkles and rice crisps, with the candles 2 and 1 beside each other, and it's the hanged triangle banners on their ceiling with the letters spelling out H A P Y 2 1 R U S H ! W E < 3 U

"Happy birthday my dude!" Rosen yells, of course he does, and he grabs Sanders before he can react and ruffles his hair, starts crushing him to his body.

"Thanks," Sanders mutters fondly, pushing him off. "Thanks, guys. Wow. You didn't have to."

"This took four when2meet polls to happen, yes, we did," Becks chimes in, and Sanders just remembers she was standing behind him this whole time, watching his reaction. He wonders if she saw his face light up, eyes brighten. "Blow your candles and we can get to the booze, these guys have been waiting for hours."

Maxon and Suho bring him his cake.

Sanders raises an eyebrow and tries to keep his face neutral, catching Becks's eye. "This the food poisoning you were telling me about?"

"Don't attack me, I made it from scratch, and I said I did my best," she whines, glaring at him, drawing her thick eyebrows together.

Maxon chuckles. "Yeah, she did. I helped, but Cal did most of the work. From scratch. Almost cost us our kitchen, but."

"Hey," Becks warns him, narrowing her eyes.

Sanders knows Becks doesn't step foot in the kitchen when the recipe takes longer than just pulling out a bunch of different ingredients from the cupboards and shelves. So you can't really blame him when he asks, in disbelief, pointing at the (hideous) cake, "You baked this?"

"Give my girl credit, Rush!" Adan says, grinning, throwing an arm over Becks's shoulder and toppling her over. "She redid it three times."

"Shut the fuck up," Becks grumbles, huffing. She looks at Sanders and crosses her arms, and Sanders can see her cheeks heating. "Yeah, I did. Problem?"

"No," Sanders says, trying (and failing) not to smile. "No, absolutely not. Okay. Wish time."

Sanders takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Lord, he starts. Lord. What does he wish for?

He wishes for a lot of things when he prays in the morning. He wishes for a good day, for a good match and a good game, he wishes for safety and health and love for his family and friends, he wishes for lots of things for Becks, and—

And he's never wished anything for himself. Not in the sense that matters, anyway.

He takes a deep breath again. Lord. Thank you for everything. Thank you for the people around me today, thank you for my family, thank you for another year of life. My wish...my wish is to take better care of myself. To love the best and the awful parts of me, so I can love the same way I am loved. So I can love more if not to the most of my capability, so I can give my heart, like a fresh fruit instead of rotten, when I can be properly loved in return.

Sanders opens his eyes. Blows out his candles.

His friends cheer for him, and they cut a slice of cake for the celebrant first, and it tastes (surprisingly) edible and delicious, and they drink shots and play cards 'til morning and pass out on the couch.

Well, Sanders does. He's not sure, but he thinks someone is carrying him off the ground, and he blinks open his eyes blearily. "Ro'en?" he mutters sleepily.

"It's me," Becks's voice says. "You're fucking heavy, did you know that?"

In his half-asleep state, Sanders manages a smile. "Where're takin' me?" he grumbles incoherently, but Becks catches what he means, anyway.

"Your bed," she says softly, and Sanders thinks he can hear his door open and close, but he's not sure, it may be just the sound of his eyes opening and shutting. "Couldn't let you sleep on the sofa. Your neck will be cramped when you wake up."

Sanders can't find the will to respond. His hands find purchase on a soft cushion, and then he's drifting out of consciousness, but not before he feels his skin be brushed with a soft kiss and not before he hears, "Night, Sanders. Happy birthday."