Cameron is ecstatic that I'm transferring to a university in Toronto. The whole family is, really. Hailey might even be more excited than he is.

The night I get back, Ms. Beckett makes spaghetti for everyone, and it feels like the old days, if just for a little bit. We eat and then watch an old movie, Veronica braiding Hailey's hair, Cameron and I doing the dishes. It's weird to be home, really home, and still feel so far away. Cameron flicks soap on me, and I flick hot water back. He took a puck to the face in practice so his eye is bruised faintly, the skin above his cheekbone purple and tender.

"Maybe we can all go ice skating together sometime," says Ms. Beckett from the couch. "As a family. How does that sound?"

Hailey's eyes widen and she bounces up and down excitedly, making Veronica frown. "Hailey, stay still."

"Ice skating! I wanna ice skate!"

Cameron nudges my arm as he scrubs a plate. "I can show you some moves."

I smile. "We all know I'm the better skater here."

I expect a retort, but he kisses my cheek instead.

It feels so much like home, and it doesn't.

~

The next day, Ms. Beckett has work, Tom is sleeping at home, and Hailey and Veronica are at school, so Cameron and I have the house to ourselves. He doesn't have to head back to the city until tomorrow.

It's snowing outside, and we're too lazy to go anywhere, so we spend most of the afternoon in his room, reading and watching movies and dozing off. Cam's wearing a purple sweatshirt that brings out the color of his eyes, and with fabric so comfy and warm that I like to rest my head on it.

I head to the bathroom, and when I come back Cameron has moved from the spot we were sleeping in and is flipping through a course catalogue. He glances up when I walk in the room. "Do you want to talk about Toronto? And you smell good, Jesus."

"It's the soap. Vanilla sugar something. And no, I don't."

Maybe there was something in the tone of my voice, because stands up and puts his hands on my shoulders. His eyes search my face for something. "Okay, I'm sorry. Don't be upset."

"I'm not upset. I just don't want to think about university."

"Okay."

"I applied to a few places. There's nothing else I can do but wait, right?"

"Right." He tilts his head and smiles softly. "I'm just excited."

I feel bad. I know he is. I lean into his chest and he breathes in my hair. "I know," I say. "I am too. I'm just tired, is all."

"I get that."

I pull my head away and smile to show that I am excited, or at least trying to be excited, and Cameron leans in like he's going to kiss me and then stops.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, and there's a smile in his voice.

"Yes."

And then he kisses me, backed up against the wall, and I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back. And I love him. I do. But I feel horrible.

His fingers find my waist, pressing gently against my skin, moving to my hip, and I grab his hand. "No."

He immediately backs down, his face softening into concern. "What's wrong? You okay?"

"Yeah. It's not that."

"No one's home, if that's what you're worried about."

I jerk my head away and glance out the window.

"Sam, what's wrong?"

"I just - I feel bad."

"You feel sick?"

"No, I feel bad. You don't deserve this. I mean, you deserve someone better than me."

Cameron exhales deeply, pushing himself off the wall so there's some distance between us. "Oh, Sam. Not this again."

"Cam, don't be mad."

"I am kinda mad!"

"I'm sorry."

"You always say shit like this. I choose you, Sam. I want to be with you."

"But you don't really know me."

He makes a face, frowning. "Don't really know you? I've known you for a year and a half now. Technically, I've known you since we were kids. We were in preschool together. My mom has the pictures to prove it. So fuck that."

"But -"

"And I know you like stuffing your hands in sweatshirts. And you're shy and polite and protective and funny, and you're good at math and science and making eggs, and your favorite book is War and Peace, and your favorite hockey player is me."

I don't know how to make him understand. "Those are only the good things. Those are the good parts of me. There are bad parts though that you don't - you don't know -"

"So tell me."

I look at his eyes. They're green and sharp with anger. "I kissed a girl," I say.

His jaw clenches. "I know that."

"I'm probably bisexual."

"I - I know that too. And that's not bad -"

"My uncle was sick and I left him for a prestigious school that I wasn't good enough for."

Cameron tries to find my hand but I pull it away. "Sam -"

"I failed my classes. I wasn't a good friend to people. I was selfish. I was stupid. When I was little, I was a bully and I was mean. I was mean to my teammates and I was mean to my neighbor, and I was a shitty person. I made them sad. I've been beaten up and I've deserved it. And my parents died, and if they were alive I don't think they'd be very proud of me. I am depressed. I am a burden. I switch schools and I take scholarships that other people deserve, and I don't think about anyone else's feelings. And a kid died in the hospital thinking I was good. People think I'm good. You think I'm good!" I don't realize I'm yelling until it's over, and I try to turn away but Cameron grabs my wrist tightly.

"Fuck, Sam, you are good! You are a good person! Why is that so fucking hard to understand?"

"I'm not -"

"Tom loves you. My family loves you. I love you, for fuck's sake."

"And I love you all too, I just feel like that love is meant for someone better -"

"No one is asking you to be perfect!"

I yank my hand out of his grasp. "I could have been perfect! But I fucked up! Again and again!"

Cameron goes quiet for a second. "I fuck up too," he says.

"No, Cameron! You don't fuck up! You're a hero! You were the top pick for the draft. You're one of the best players in the league. You're kind and witty and sweet and a good son and a good brother and a good boyfriend. You're good with people and you always know what to say. Everyone looks up to you. You're not a fuck-up, not like me."

Cameron stares at me, his eyes shimmering with tears, and only then do I realize my own cheeks are wet. I brush them off with the back of my sleeve, blinking fast, and angrily.

"Those are only the good parts," he says. "Okay? Those are only the good parts of me, Sam. I'm stupid at school. I make stupid decisions at practice, and in games, and during interviews, and I fuck up in front of millions. I'm anxious and I lose focus. And I'm angry at my father. I'm angry all the time. This bruise isn't from a puck, it's from fighting, okay?" Cameron throws his hands up. "Is this what you want? Does this make you feel better?"

I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything, and I don't try to wipe away the tears this time.

"Why don't you get it?" says Cameron, mad at my silence. "I'm not perfect! No one is perfect! You were never perfect, Sam, and you never could have been. But you have always been perfect to me. Why don't you understand? We're good for each other."

I try to talk, to shout back, but words are stuck in my throat.

"We're good for each other," he says again, quieter, and runs his hands through his hair. "I like who I am when I'm around you. We're less imperfect when we're with each other. I'm not angry at the world when I'm with you, Sam. And I'm not as anxious. Okay? I choose you." He gestures towards the door. "But if you think you don't deserve me - then fucking leave me! Walk through the door! You do it. Because I won't leave you."

Everything goes quiet, and there's a ringing in my ears. Cameron sits down on the edge of his bed and I watch his chest rise and fall, and his eyes are narrowed and focused on a spot on the ground, where the floor meets the wall, and I know that's where he used to sit last year, flipping through comic books, when I would tutor him.

I sit down beside him and the bed creaks. My hands are shaking so I tuck them in my sleeves. "I'm sorry you got into a fight," I say, but it comes out as a whisper. "Was it bad?"

He glances at me. "Not so bad. You should've seen the other guy." And he smiles slightly, crookedly, to show that he's teasing.

I study his face. His jawline and nose and cheeks and lips, sharp lines and soft corners at the same time, like the artist smudged the sketch a little. He studies me back.

"I'm sorry," I say. And then I kiss him, my lips finding his easily, because I've done this before, we were sitting right here when I kissed him for the first time, and I can taste the salt from his tears. And then I say, "You are perfect to me."

He kisses me back, harder, and takes me by the back of my neck, his hands warm on my skin, and I push my fingers through his hair and his breath hitches slightly, and I never want to stop.

Maybe we are less imperfect when we're with each other.

He tastes like the stars.

A/N ;)