There's only one brand of almond milk that Becks likes. The convenience store near the apartment doesn't run out of them.

The bells jingle loudly as Sanders enters, shoving his hands inside his pockets and shivering from the cool air of the AC—the November air outside doesn't help much, either. The cashier gives him a two-finger salute and Sanders does the same back to him. He's come to find out that his name is Terry. Terry is nice.

Sanders heads to the chilled section and eyes the display cooler. He does this every morning, trying to see if he'd want to grab anything else aside from Becks's milk. He doesn't.

Terry rings up the milk on the counter while Sanders rubs his hands together, blowing into them. Terry doesn't bother with change and goes back to his phone after Sanders pays for it. The bells jingle again as he leaves, and Sanders pulls his hood up and runs back home.

There's a note sitting on the kitchen counter with angry, bold letter. Sanders takes off his shoes, and sets the milk down. There's milk in the fridge for cal, i saw them at the grocery store yesterday!!! No need for your convenience store trips!! :D

Sanders bites his tongue. He crumples up the note and stalks to the refrigerator.

Sure enough, the brand Becks likes, the almond milk—there are about ten bottles of them, sitting beside each other.

Sanders has never seen this brand at the fucking grocery store. That's why he makes a stop during his runs.

He closes the refrigerator with more force than necessary and grabs the almond milk he bought, heading straight for Becks's room. She's lying face down on her pillow, but there's something wrong. Her legs are folded under her chest, and she's exhaling heavily, groaning softly in pain.

It's Cramps Day. Sanders walks closer to her bed and sits on the edge of the mattress, abandoning the milk on her bedside table. He runs a hand down her back. "Babe. Babe, it hurts?"

It's not every month. Most of the time, it doesn't even hurt. Becks says it's a hassle, and it feels annoying inside her training shorts, and she gets moodier than usual, but it doesn't hurt.

Sometimes, it does.

"Being a girl fucking sucks," she says, groaning again. She's clutching her torso, squeezing her eyes shut.

Sanders's lips curl up. "Being my girl wouldn't."

"No, it still would," she says irritably, twisting her head to glare at him. "I'd still be a girl, wouldn't I? Dumbass."

Sanders laughs. He pats her butt comfortingly. "There, there. You want me to get your pills?"

"Yeah. Water, too."

Sanders does as she says. Becks sits up and gulps down the pill, face scrunching in disgust. "I feel terrible," she croaks out, running one hand through her messy hair.

"Stay here," Sanders says. "Don't go to school. You look pale."

"No, I need to train, Coach will kill me, he's going to check my weight," she mutters, groaning. She flops back on her pillows. "I can't drink milk today, it's too..." she pauses, scowls, and makes a gagging sound.

"How'd your face do, like, three things at once?"

"Yours can do five. Don't test me. I've seen it happen."

Sanders clears his throat, pouts, and snatches the milk off the table. "No milk for you, then. Are you sure you can go to school? Won't you pass out or some shit? I can't carry you, Becks, you know that."

"I'm not going to pass out," she grumbles. "Just come pick me up after training, I'm going to need food. Lots of it."

Right. Right, there should be no problem with that.

There isn't usually a problem with that. Right, but the problem is..."Uh, I have plans after training today."

Becks raises an eyebrow. "Rosen? Your team?"

"Sort of."

"It was a yes or no question, Sanders."

"No." Sanders doesn't know why he's nervous. It's not like they're together or anything. "I have a have a date. Rosen hooked me up with someone. I actually have two—no, three dates? I'll have to check my planner."

Becks had this half-asleep, half-pained look. Now she's also half-confused. "You've never gone on a date before," she says, blinking.

"So I'm changing that starting today," Sanders says brightly, gripping the bottle of milk in his hand. "Isn't it great?"

"Yeah," Becks says. "Guy or girl?"

"Guy today. Girl tomorrow. Guy next week, too. We're just going out for food. But I can cancel if you want—"

"No, don't." She laughs once and shakes her head. "No, it's okay. I'll be fine. You go on your date and have fun."

Sanders grimaces at her response. "Are you sure? Won't you be in pain or something?"

"Nah, I have Adan if something goes wrong." Becks stands up and puts on her eyeglasses. Her eyes are darting everywhere, everywhere but Sanders. "It's fine, I promise."

"Okay..." Sanders holds up the almond milk. "Um, Maxon bought you a bunch of these. They're in the refrigerator."

"That's sweet of him. I'll thank him later." Then she disappears inside the bathroom.

Sanders thinks back to all the times he bought her milk (too many to count), and all the times she said he was sweet for doing so (zero).

He leaves her room, tosses the bottle in the trash bin and cooks their breakfast.

*

"How's it going?" Hathai asks excitedly.

"On a date," Sanders answers, chuckling at his own joke. He's looking at himself in the mirror. "Mom, do you think I should wear those ripped jeans I bought last month—"

"With—with Becks?" Mahika asks quietly.

"He's going on a date with Becks?" Siam's voice asks. He sounds angry.

Sanders smiles. "Nope. With this guy from the rowing team, his name is Charles. He's in the same year as me."

"Son," Hathai says. "You're not doing this to make Becks jealous, are you?"

"I doubt she cares," Sanders says, snorting. "And no. Rosen just said something...before. I signed for a temporary divorce. I'm too hung up on her and I can't miss chances to—I don't know—try to like anyone else? Hook up, if I'm lucky. Mâae, where are my fucking ripped jeans?"

"There is a child here, mind your language," Mahika says pointedly.

"Oh, may I knoweth the whereabouts of my fucking ripped jeans? Is it at home? Siam, did you borrow it?" Sanders asks distractedly, looking at himself in the mirror with disappointment. "I think I look too plain."

Someone sighs on the other line. He's off speaker. Sanders thinks it's Hathai. "Siam took them. And send us a picture of what you're wearing, I'll help."

"Mom, you're the absolute best."

"I have a divorcee for a son," she snaps.

Sanders laughs. They help him come up with a better outfit than before, and Sanders thinks he really shouldn't be putting too much effort into his appearance, but for some reason, he wants the date to go well.

His moms and brother send him a selfie just as he's leaving. Good luck sweetie!!

Sanders grins and sends them a heart back.

*

The date is shit.

Charles is a bit of an asshole. Sanders doesn't want to elaborate. He's mad at Rosen. "You said he was nice! I put on my best polo shirt, Rosen, he didn't deserve a fucking polo shirt."

"He is!" his best friend counters, sounding confused. "What went wrong?"

"I don't know," he snaps, parking the bike. "Maybe the fact that he interrupted me whenever I talked, bragged about himself, who the fuck cares if you can row, row, row a fucking boat, and then he stole all my chicken fingers, and he asked me if I wanted to fuck at his place. No, sir, thank you very much. I've had enough of my experience of you, I need a refund."

"Charles isn't a home shopping channel—"

"He could be," Sanders says, rolling his eyes. "I hate you. I don't trust you."

"Maybe you were an asshole, too?" Rosen tries. Sanders can hear him raising his eyebrows. "You're annoyingly obnoxious. You have this talent of turning every conversation around to Becks. Did you mention Becks?"

Sanders clears his throat. "I don't know. Once or twice."

"And you don't care if Becks steals your food. Somehow, that annoyed you with Charles."

"He's a gross eater."

"Becks is, too."

"Okay, but, Becks didn't ask me if I wanted to fuck—never mind," Sanders says quickly. "I don't know, I tried my best. I was really trying to have a good time. I tried to listen. I tried to like him. Really."

Rosen sighs. If he were here, he'd be patting Sanders's hair. "Somehow, even if you did like him, Rush, even if you had a great time, and even if Charles had been the perfect gentleman...I still don't think you'd want a second date."

"Because he's not Becks, I know, fucking annoying," Sanders grumbles. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Maybe Scarlet or Liam will be better for you!" Rosen says, and Sanders hangs up.

Maxon and Becks are sitting on the couch. There's a drama playing on the television, and they're laughing, holding cups of ramen in between their fingers. Becks has a blanket around her legs. There are chocolates on the table.

Maxon grins. "Hey, man. How was your date?"

"Good," Sanders says. To Becks, he asks, "How's the cramps?"

"Gone," she answers, smiling at him. "I didn't finish afternoon training. I got dizzy and went to the clinic, and, uh, Maxon picked me up."

Sanders stares at her. "You called him? Why didn't you call me?"

"You were on your date and I didn't want to bother you," Becks says, blinking. "How'd it go? Was he nice?"

"Yeah," Sanders grits out. He tosses his keys on the counter and heads to his room. "He was really fucking nice."

He shuts the door and lies down on the bed. His moms are texting him. Siam, too. They're asking if he's still with his date, if he's busy doing stuff with him, or if he's already home.

He sends them a simple reply. Home. Don't feel well. Night.

He turns it off and tosses it behind him. It bounces twice on the covers before it finally lands somewhere in his pillows.

Becks knocks on his door later. Much, much later. Sanders is already asleep, but he opens one eye and croaks, "Come in."

Becks shuffles inside. She's still wearing that damn blanket. "Are you okay?" she asks quietly. "You don't seem fine. Did he—was he not nice?"

Sanders sighs. "I'm fine, Becks." He sits up and offers her a smile. "I'm good. Seriously. You should go to bed. Are you sure you're okay? Your cramps are gone?"

She smiles back at him. It's a small one, but it's there, nonetheless. "Yeah. Yeah, they're gone. Um, listen. Maxon has a soccer game on Friday. We should come and watch him. We watched you the last time."

Becks wasn't watching Sanders. She wasn't watching the fucking game.

Plus..."I have a game on Friday, too," Sanders says slowly.

Becks blinks. "Oh."

Becks has never missed a single volleyball game. She has never—she's not—"It's cool," Sanders says. It's not. It's fucking not. One of the little Sanders up there is dying. Another one is doing CPR on him. "We'll see what happens, yeah?"

"Right." Becks nods. Purses her lips. "Okay."

"Was that all you ate for dinner? The noodles?"

A sheepish look crosses her face. "Uh, I ate a sandwich, too. I think."

Sanders tilts his head at her. "You think? But you're supposed to be putting on more weight. Your coach is checking. Aren't you hungry? I can make food—"

"No," she says, shaking her head. "No, I'm full. Thank you. Um, night, Sanders."

Sanders doesn't believe that. It's bullshit. It's bullshit how she watches what she eats around fucking Maxon. She's not supposed to. She's—she's not supposed to. "Night."

She leaves the room. The little Sanders dies, and the others are holding a funeral for him. It's that part with the eulogy.

*

Scarlet is fine. She's pretty. Delicate. She has a soft voice. She's a gymnast.

He has a good time. He likes her, and they even held hands. It's a soft hand. Small. Short fingers. It feels cold.

Sanders makes her laugh. It's a pretty laugh. It's high, and soft, and it sounds like breathing.

It's just. It's not the laugh he wants to hear. The wheezing, gasping for air, cat spitting out a hairball laugh. That laugh is not so easily-earned. It's a challenge, and, well, he's always liked challenges.

Scarlet's laugh is a two plus two question. A four plus one.

He tells her she's lovely, but he doesn't want a second date.

Rosen asks what was wrong this time. Sanders shrugs and says, "Nothing. She's just not Becks."

*

Sanders drops by the convenience store, but he doesn't buy anything.

Terry eyes him curiously, a questioning gleam in his eyes and in the arch of his eyebrow, but Sanders only salutes him and leaves the store.

Becks grimaces. Her face scrunches up in disgust. She pulls the bottle away, stares at it, and asks, "What's this?"

"The milk Maxon bought," Sanders says, blinking. "Why? Does it not taste the same?"

"No," she says slowly, furrowing her eyebrows together. "That's weird. It should. It's the same brand."

Sanders feels his lips twitching into a smile. "I'll throw them out, then."

"No, don't, I don't want to hurt his feelings," Becks says in a rush, wincing at her own words. "He was so happy when he said he found it at the grocery store. Just..." she sighs, shuts her eyes, and swallows down half of it.

Stupid. Sanders purses his lips. "You're a fucking idiot."

She glares at him. She still has that disgusted look on her face. "Be nice to me, please."

"You're a fucking beautiful idiot."

It reminds him of that time when Becks made toast for him. They were burnt. Sanders ate the whole thing.

"Ah, God, that tastes so different," Becks whines, putting the bottle down on her bedside table. "I'll tell him not to buy any more."

He puffs his chest out and raises his chin. "Good. Convenience store it is, then."

Before he can leave, Becks pulls his arm.

Sanders goes to her. His whole body freezes, he's that buffering video once again, with the loading sign on his forehead. Her curls are all over his face, but he doesn't mind. He buries his head in them, inhales her scent, wraps his arms around her small—small, but strong—body.

"Thank you for buying me my almond milk all the time," she whispers suddenly. She's kneeling on her bed, like she crawled over the covers to grab him before he can leave, and she's leaning forward, grasping his neck with her bony fingers. "I just realized I never thank you. And I know you said I shouldn't pay you back, but you're broke, and—"

"You are, too," Sanders whispers. Little Sanders are dancing. It's the Dougie this time. Normal speed. "But it doesn't cost much, Becks, come on."

"Thank you," she says again. Sanders can feel her breath on his neck. The hairs on his arm stand up. "Um, yeah." She pulls back, and, without looking at him, runs to the bathroom.

Sanders can feel his skin tingling. It's aching for more. He wants more.

He sighs and leaves her room.

*

Becks doesn't go to Sanders's volleyball game. She went to Maxon's.

It feels like a toothache. That toothache he had before. His tongue keeps prodding at that empty space to check if the tooth is still there.

Sanders keeps checking the bleachers. Becks isn't there.

*

please leave your thoughts for my baby boi sanders :c i'm literally hurting for him :c 

thank you so much for reading! ask me anything and message me/talk to me on twitter!