♥ ♥ ♥
I'M NOT OVERLY SURPRISED WHEN KAJAL answers my knock. Dima's trendy L.A. apartment sits over Hollywood Boulevard and Kajal Shankar basically lives there.
I'd called the one-bedroom a bachelor pad when he'd first gotten it right after high school graduation and asked him if I should kiss his ass goodbye from Calabasas in the event that he joined any fraternities at UCLA. But that isn't my best friend and I knew it.
True to Dima, the apartment is home to book shelves bearing more comic books than classics, all the MCU movies arranged in chronological order beneath the television set, the walls bedecked with framed, limited-edition sci-fi movie posters. He even has a record player that plays the Star Wars theme. He also keeps a Spock bobblehead doll next to the French press. Kajal fits in well in his little world.
Kajal blinks at me, blinks at the toilet paper in my arms, the one I'd dropped as I made to knock the door since her good-for-nothing cousin didn't help me and she blinks at Aryan. In that order.
"Where's Dima?" I clear my throat. I feel Aryan's gaze at the back of my head.
He lounges against the wall behind me, arms crossed. He got quiet since Target and it makes me uneasy in ways I don't want to dissect. I should be glad he finally shut the fuck up. Yet, I keep having to restrain the urge to glance at him and try to figure out what he's thinking. I think he disapproves of this plan. I don't care what he thinks. But why do I feel the burn of his gaze on the back of my head and want nothing more than to turn around?
Dima appears behind Kajal, hazel eyes squinting behind his glasses at me in that way which tells me he's been reading too long.
"You're going to go blind," Kajal tells him as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peers curiously at the sight before him.
Dima shakes his girlfriend off as his eyes go to Aryan over my shoulder first. Not like the countless rolls of toilet paper in my arms aren't profoundly more interesting. My irritation for Aryan Shankar spikes.
Diverting Dima's attention, I shove five rolls of toilet paper into my best friend's chest without warning.
"Yeah, she's right," I tell him as he grabs the rolls, blinking, accidentally dropping one to the floor. Kajal picks it up. "You read too much, you fucking dork."
Dima ignores my slight and glances down at the toilet paper in his arms. "Really, Mira?"
I offer him a wry, crooked half-smile.
It's not an Aryan Shankar grin. It doesn't light up my entire face. It's sarcastic and cynical, half a grimace. But it's mine and Dima can read it well enough.
"Alright," he says and clutches the toilet paper in hand.
"Alright what?" Kajal is still out of the loop.
Aryan is still very much a quiet presence behind me. Did he fucking disintegrate into the wall? I make the mistake of turning. Nope, he's still standing there. Back pressed to the wall, forearms over his chest, head tipped back slightly and eyes on me. I look away first.
I shove down the nest of feelings that course through me. He doesn't get to do that. He doesn't get to drive me to Target, buy me the damn toilet paper and shitty chocolate and then have the audacity to look at me like that.
"We're gonna toilet paper Hollywood's finest," I say to Kajal.
Understanding flares in her dark eyes as she catches on. Then, she has her hands at her hips and glances between Dima and I. "Neither of you have ever toilet-papered a house, have you?"
Dima and I blink at each other.
However, Aryan speaks up for the first time, tone surprised at his cousin. "You have?"
"My art teacher in high school failed me because I used too much yellow and not enough white," she explains with a shrug. "So, I gave her more white. Maybe it was a little petty—,"
"I love it," I find myself saying. I never really thought Kajal and I could be friends. To me, I felt she'd always be Dima's girlfriend. But I find myself half-laughing at the idea of a teenage Kajal Shankar pissed off enough about paint that she toilet papers a teacher's house.
Dima looks like he wants nothing more than to kiss her.
"Clearly, you need my experience," Kajal observes with a click of her tongue.
"Experience in vandalism, Kajal?" chimes in Aryan.
Dima interjects, "Hey, I have experience in vandalism. I keyed a car when I was fifteen. Mira helped."
My stomach twists at the memory.
"It doesn't count if it's your brother's car," Kajal shoots at him.
I recall Dima vengefully scratching curse words in the Cyrillic alphabet onto Ivan's shiny white Mercedes because his brother was going through an overly pretentious Pushkin phase back then. Russian curses for Russian poets. Me, helping by drawing a dick beside every mudak and blyat.
In those days, their brotherly feud was at its highest, both of them under the same roof as teenage boys who clashed at every turn— it was no surprise that the first thing Ivan had done when he turned eighteen was hightail it out of Calabasas. There were no doubts as to who the culprit had been and who helped him. In their grand feud, I'd always been Team Dima. Until I wasn't.
Dima's father is a lawyer with his own firm who's keen on brushing things under the rug so he just bought Ivan a new Benz. Dima's grandmother, on the other hand, was likely to beat us both with a rolling pin so we avoided her for an entire week afterwards. But Eastern European grandmothers hold grudges and she still brings it up to Dima to this day. Though, I don't think my usually peaceful best friend will ever regret it.
Proving this, Dima crosses his arms and says, "It was really spectacular vandalism on my part."
"You know nothing, Dima Nazarenko," accuses his girlfriend.
I know who's been rewatching Game of Thrones. The reference makes Dima look like he could kiss Kajal. I've only been here for seven minutes and he's worn that look twice. Simp.
Kajal turns her attention to me. "Doesn't he live in like a mansion?" She waves her arms about as if a mansion would sprout from the action. Maybe Kajal Shankar believes in magic and that's why Dima is so smitten with her. Maybe Kajal Shankar is magic. "The four of won't be able to TP an entire mansion."
I know what she's saying. I meet Dima's eye. I've never been much of a team player. I've never had many friends aside from him. Definitely not friends who are girls. Kenna gave me a scrunchie and I keep forgetting to give it back to her. Dija gave me cookies and I nearly short-circuited. Charles even called me out on it earlier and I'd snapped at him for being right. I recall ditching the invitation to Charlie's sweet sixteen at Nobu to go to the premiere of The Last Jedi with Dima. I'm not open, I'm not easy.
I look from Dima to Kajal and decide, "We need backup."
♥ ♥ ♥
"DIMA, YOU CAN'T JUST TYPE AVENGERS ASSEMBLE in the group chat with no context," Kajal tells her boyfriend with a pinch of her nose.
"Why not?" he asks.
I catch myself smiling in the dark and then I catch Aryan between me and the window. He's still quiet and now, with Dima and Kajal in the back seat, I can't curl my fists and insult him until he snaps back.
It's dark, the sky a fading grey. Kajal's second piece of vandalism advice was that we can't toilet paper a house during daylight hours. Hence, we're parked in the shadows of the evening on some random Beverly Hills street, rising mansions behind heavy gates surrounding us.
I don't look away from him this time. He's in the driver's seat again. No one commented on this. No one asked why he was with me to begin with. I think it's because we go together, the four of us, like puzzle pieces, locked in place. Except, in this grand picture, Aryan Shankar and I should be indifferent to each other. We shouldn't be sparring across the brunch table. We shouldn't be kissing. We definitely shouldn't be having a silent conversation right now.
Yet, I throw him the look anyway. It's becoming a signature of mine. Almost like his grin. The What the fuck do you want, Shankar? look.
I get no answer. He looks away first, eyes on the sky, brows knit as his wrists rest pensively on the wheel.
I hope he sees my second signature look out of the corner of his eye. The Fuck you, Aryan Shankar look.
"What if they don't come?" Kajal worries away in the backseat.
Dima's reply is easy. "They literally replied. They're coming."
"But what if—,"
A quick glance in the rear view mirror tells me that Dima has successfully ended Kajal's worries with a kiss.
"Aren't you an experienced criminal, Kajal?" Aryan taunts when they break apart, his fingers rapping at the wheel. "Why so nervous?"
I grit my teeth and stare out the window as he talks. Usually, I do this because I want him to shut up. Now, I'm doing it because I want him to talk to me.
"You should've moved here sooner," she tells him. "Maybe then you could've gotten the full American high school experience. Toilet papering your teacher's house is part of that."
"I don't think that's how it works, you felon," Dima affectionately informs her.
"You and Mira went to fancy private school. It doesn't count."
"Excuses, excuses," sings Aryan. "Will they hold up in court though?"
"Are you gonna narc on me, Aryan?" Kajal accuses. "We're blood. You're not supposed to sell out your family. Plus, our grandmother would flay you for it. We all know she has a soft spot for me."
"Yes, she does." Aryan interjects, "But I'm her favourite."
This must be true because in the rear view, Kajal crosses her arms, rolls her eyes and says, "It's because you're a boy."
"No, it's just my charm and good looks, Kajal. Oh, and my disarming intellect. Don't feel too bad about it." With that, Aryan grins, a pure asshole grin, a Fuck me, Mira grin for my Fuck you, Aryan Shankar stare.
My head is in the fucking gutter. I look out the window again.
I'm saved by the glare of Toyota headlights rolling up the street. I spot Kenna leaning between the front seats, waving her hands at Charlie and Raf. Raf lowers the headlights.
"See? They came," Dima says to Kajal.
Charlie pulls up beside us and I roll down my window as he does.
Before either of us could utter a word, Kenna exclaims, "Listen! I need to know! Are we the fucking Avengers or are we Charlie's Angels or are we Aryan Hate Club?"
"Shade Room," I correct, biting back a smile.
"Right," she says.
"McKenna," Aryan's voice pulls over me. "Shut up."
The backseat window of the Toyota rolls down and I wonder what the excuse on the Porsche was. Kenna sticks her head out the back window and I spot Dija's small smile beside her. Wow, Avengers Assemble really worked.
Sufficiently out the window, Kenna's reply is a simple, "No."
Aryan rolls his eyes at her.
"Anyway," she converses, "if we're the Avengers, I call dibs on being Thor."
Raf cuts in, "I thought you wanted to fuck Thor."
She ignores him and points a finger at me. "Mira, you're the witchy one." I internally cringe at that classification. But Kenna goes on, waving her hands to emphasise her point. "You know, because she tears hearts out."
Dima sounds concerned. "Is she talking about Scarlet Witch?"
Kenna beams. "Yes! Her!" She points at Aryan. "You're Captain America."
"I'm not even American."
"No shit, Sherlock."
Aryan sighs heavily.
"He thinks he's Iron Man," I observe, jumping in knowingly.
"He is so not Iron Man," Dima chimes in agreement from the backseat. It's at times like this I'm grateful for Dima Nazarenko as my best friend.
"I'm literally an engineering student," Aryan argues with a scowl.
"Yeah, whatever," Kenna shoots back. "But that's America's ass."
Herrera's impatient grumble tears through the debate. "Are we fucking doing this or not?"
"You're just mad you don't have America's ass, Raf," sighs Kenna.
♥ ♥ ♥
"BE HONEST," Kenna beams down at Dija as she hoists a leg over the wall. "Did you wake up this morning and think you'd be trespassing into an Oscar award-winning actor's Beverly Hills mansion?"
"You don't do this everyday?" Dija's curls are pushed below a black cap as she grabs the wall after Kenna, grinning. Charlie's quick behind her, his hands falling to her hips to help her up. The hat does a good job of hiding Dija's bright-eyed reaction to that small touch.
There's a rough thud on the other side of the wall as Kenna falls over. Rising Spanish curses follow. The thud turned out to be Rafael Herrera.
Aryan slaps a hand onto the stone wall between us and them and tells Herrera to shut the fuck up. That only makes Herrera cuss more. Unsurprisingly.
Kajal, with Dima and the toilet paper contraband on the other side of the wall, manages to shush Raf in a less hostile way than her cousin. However, Kenna's voice filters through, "Calm down, you big baby. It's not like you broke any bones."
The cursing reignites. At least he's quieter this time.
Dija's perched on the high wall like a cat and she flashes a smile at the three of us, mostly at Charlie though.
"Don't fall on Raf," Charlie cautions her, his eyes shadowed by a dark cap much like hers.
Kenna had tossed caps at all of us and professed that we required disguises to commit felonies. Aryan told her that a baseball cap wasn't much of a disguise. Dima jumped in to say that it worked in nearly every Marvel movie.
Needless to say, my best friend was the first one to tug on the hat and scale the wall, living out his fantasies as Spider-Man, probably. Mine, yet to be worn, hangs at my side, pulled through the belt loops of my shorts.
Dija seems to be enjoying herself as she salutes us and hops over onto the other side of the wall. The lack of cursing tells me that she didn't fall on Herrera.
Charlie grins after her, shoots Aryan and I a look, then he clambers onto the wall.
"Be careful," I call after him sweetly. "Don't scratch your Gucci rings, Charlie."
I find myself glancing sideways at Aryan Shankar, his cap in hand, for his reaction. There's a slight twitch of his lips.
I look away just in time to meet Charlie's crooked smile. His eyes glitter between the two of us and I have a strong urge to step away from Aryan just so Charlie could stop looking so smug. I don't though and that makes his smugness grow.
Charlie peels a hand off the wall and flexes his ringed fingers for show. He presses a kiss to his knuckles and says to me, "I wouldn't dream of it."
I roll my eyes as he scales the wall with ease, Gucci intact.
I'm about to follow after Charlie, assuming Aryan has returned to his silence. He hasn't voiced it but I think he's against this entire scheme. But he's here. So I have no idea what to make of it. I'd rather have him snarl and call me a brat for toilet papering my father's multi-million dollar mansion out of spite though— I'd take his shouting over the silence.
But he catches me clean off guard, reaching forward so suddenly and grasping my hand as I step toward the wall. My heart tumbles in my chest. Down, down, down.
I brace myself for the fight as I twist around to him. Aryan squares his shoulders below the street lamp, hand in mine, as if he prepared for a fight too when he grabbed my hand. I want a fight. But neither of us land the first blow. For a slender moment, we hold each other's stares and no one moves.
His eyes lock onto mine below the artificial glow of the street lamp overhead. White light frames his dark hair and slides along the contours of his shoulders, washes brightly onto his cheekbones, competing with the stars in his eyes. The shadows of the surrounding night leaves half of his expression shrouded though. I've seen him in daylight and in shadows, seen him grinning, seen him shouting, seen him through lowered lashes and seen him through narrow-eyed glares. But I don't know what to make of the look in his eyes.
He doesn't give me the chance to anyway. Finally, he cleaves through the silence and asks again, "You sure about this?"
I pull my hand away from his then.
Aryan blinks at me once as I lean forward threateningly. He wants the fight too. But I simply reach forward steal the cap out of his hands. I rise to my tip-toes and drop it onto his head, flattening the dark tendrils. With a quick tug, I fasten it in place, locking eyes with him before his gaze is lost below the shadows of the cap. I draw back but not before challenging, "Are you?"
Are you? I shoot back, just to make him say it out loud.
But he's infuriating and he doesn't answer.
Instead, gaze darkened, his right hand drops to my hip and tugs me nearer. My pulse speeds up even if his touch it casual, his fingers quickly undoing the cap strung to my side, tugging it free in a smooth motion.
It's over my hair in a quick second as he returns the favour. I tilt my head back instinctively, peering at him through narrowed eyes below the shadowed brim of the hat.
He twists the cap into place, unfazed by my stare. I want to snap at him. I want him to snap at me. He only drops his hands to my hips again and twists me around in one smooth motion. My breath closes in my throat, starkly aware of the brush of his chest behind me. He's warm and he's quiet. Aryan Shankar doesn't need words to tear my apart.
"Let's go, Zahed," he says and then he's lifting me over the wall.
♥ ♥ ♥
IN A STREAM OF WHITE, the roll sails through the air, cutting a clean line over the towering, brick-roofed Beverly Hills home. That'd be a bitch to clear up. So would the neat criss-cross pattern of toilet paper that Kajal and Dima had teamed up to work on over the pool. Kenna had offered to help then she'd accidentally dropped two rolls into the pool.
"Oops," she'd said, not the least bit sorry and I'd grinned. Actually grinned.
Kenna and I are currently running about the bushes, creating a maze of toilet paper between branches and thorns while Raf and Aryan fling rolls over the house. I'm pretty sure they're competing to see who can go higher. So far, Aryan is winning.
Kenna almost trips over her own feet to my left and she laughs, dropping her roll, cheeks flushed red. "This is so fun," she half-wheezes, waving her hands about. "You know what, Mira?"
"What?" I ask, tossing the roll over a tree branch.
We've kept our chaos mostly to the back yard. The back of the house is a drifting phantom, strands of toilet paper caught in the nighttime breeze. The yard isn't much better, a chaotic labyrinth of unfurled toilet paper rolls. Charlie and Dija are off somewhere by a gazebo, supposedly wrapping TP around the posts. I smirk at our handiwork.
"From now on," Kenna declares, hands planted on her hips, "every time a man disappoints me, I'm TP-ing his house. No exceptions."
"That's one-hundred percent valid." I nod along with her.
"Promise me you'll toilet paper a frat with me one day, Mira Zahed." Kenna unfurls a new roll and wraps it over her shoulders like a shawl. She looks less like Madonna and more like a mummy as she bats her lashes at me.
"Cross my heart," I say to her.
"You have a heart, Zahed?" Aryan interrupts our moment, a scowling Raf in tow. I think the scowl is Herrera's default expression, honestly. He's the king of the Resting Bitch Face.
I shoot Shankar my very own RBF.
"So," Kenna spears in, "when are you two going to stop being mean to each other as a form of flirting?"
Before I could even hope to answer that, Aryan throws a toilet paper roll at her. It thumps against her head.
"Shhh, Kenna," he tells her, finger to his lips. "You're not making any sense."
"Why are you throwing the damn toilet paper, Shankar?" growls Raf. "We came here because we're running out."
Eyes on the fallen roll, Kenna crosses her arms and humphs. "In that case, I'm not giving you shit, Aryan." She shoots me a look like Get in, bitch.
"I wasn't planning on sharing either," I say plainly, clutching my toilet paper close.
Raf and Aryan exchange a look.
"You know what that means, Herrera, yeah?" His eyes flick my way.
Kenna straightens instantly, eyes narrowed. "Oh, hell no."
"What?" I ask but Kenna has already started backing away.
Raf takes a step forward and she darts away, toilet paper in tow. "Run for your fucking life, Mira! Men are crazy!"
I blink after her.
"That means we'll have to steal it ourselves," finishes Raf and then he takes off after Kenna and I realise what's going on.
My glare hardens on Shankar.
"Give me the toilet paper, Zahed."
"Why?" I ask, sliding around a tree behind me. "So you can miss when you try to throw it over the roof?"
Aryan's eyes spark at me, an arrogant smirk tilting his lips. "I don't miss, Zahed."
Fuck me.
"Fuck off," I snap and then I'm bolting away from Aryan 'I don't miss' Shankar and his fucking godamn smirk from hell.
My heart picks up as I race through the maze of toilet paper Kenna and I created amidst the bushes and trees. He's chasing me. What the fuck?
Is this what Kenna puts up with every day in that house? Men are crazy. My legs burn.
Granted, I'd never been friends with many girls, never had those slumber parties where they paint each other's nails, Dima and I never exactly chased each other around the yard like animals either. It was more I paint my own nails black while Dima holds the television remote for me, scrolling through Netflix and offering intellectual commentary on everything, from Captain Kirk's hair to the poetic nature of 'Hulk Smash.'
Needless to say, I don't run very often. And he's fast, literally on my fucking heels with determined racing steps of his long limbs. Why the fuck is he so fast?
Right, soccer.
Motherfucker.
I need to start running more often. I'm breathless by the time I dart out of the trees, feet hitting the stone of the pool area.
I hear Kenna and Raf but I don't look for them since I'm literally running for my life. Aryan Shankar wouldn't kill me. No, I'd kill him and then I'd have to deal with fucking life in jail. So, I keep running.
I nearly trip in my tennis shoes and I hear his wild laugh behind me. Oh my god. He's near. Shit. I bolt around the edge of the pool and Raf and Kenna's voices grow louder.
"Don't break your pretty legs, Mira," I hear and then he's grabbed me by the waist.
I guess it's killing time. Dima can bail me out of jail.
I twist in his hold, prepared to gouge his eyes out. My nails are sharp. And deadly. I think he should know that. Red lines drawn neatly down his back.
He's not even remotely threatened, seizing my assailing hand in a warm hold. His eyes are dark and wicked as they peer down at me, pressed close at the pool's edge. "Toilet paper, Zahed," he threatens.
"I'm going to push you in the pool, Shankar," I spit back venomously.
However, Kenna beats me to it.
A loud splash pierces the air. There's a canon of water streaming up into the air and over the edge of the pool and then, a dark head, soaked, darting above the water, followed by round of cussing. Rafael Herrera is definitely Hulk. His Fuck you, you fucking motherfucker McKenna is just as poetic as Hulk Smash.
Aryan and I pull apart just in time for Raf to grab Kenna by her ankle and drag her vengefully over the edge.
She yelps, the sound echoing through the night, before she canons into the pool right after him. More water splashes onto the deck, ruining Dima and Kajal's handiwork and drawing toilet paper into the pool.
"What the hell is going on?" Dima bounds over to us from the darkened gazebo behind the pool to our left. Kajal follows in tow and blinks at the mess of pool water.
Aryan and I don't answer him. We're too busy laughing.
Raf is still cussing up a storm in the pool, fierce, angry swears that pierce the night. Kenna still hasn't come up and I'm starting to wonder if he's holding her down under there and suffocating her. I know I've lost it when the thought makes me laugh harder.
"I leave you alone for thirty fucking minutes," I hear Charlie say, coming our way.
I don't feel too bad about my thoughts because Kenna breaks the surface a moment later and roars with laughter. We've all lost it.
"Is she okay?" Dija asks and I clutch my chest, shoulders shaking under the moonlight.
Aryan is visibly glowing, lips twitching. "No," he says. "She's Kenna."
"You ruined my TP crotchet, Rafael!" Kajal calls out accusingly.
"It wasn't me!" He shouts back, splashing water at the laughing blonde. "It was Kenna!"
She splashes him right back and then she splashes in Aryan's direction for good measure. "These assholes started it. Mira can attest." Aryan steps back but I'm satisfied to see water pool at his shoes anyway. I consider shoving him into the pool. For justice. "Fuck men," Kenna howls into the night.
My urge to shove Shankar into the pool intensifies with that but then there's an unfamiliar voice, faraway, making us all pause.
"Daya, there's someone in the fucking pool."
A worried rush. "What?"
"There are people in the yard!"
"Naz, where are you going?"
Dima's eyes cut to me. I've never actually heard their voices, never met them and I know them by their full names more than anything— Hidaya and Nazmiya. Naz and Daya. I recall being six years old and replaying the names in my head. My father's other daughters who, as far as I know, should be attending a Swiss boarding school, not crashing my plans to TP their dad's house.
"Busted," I hear Kenna whisper as she and Raf start to slowly, quietly inch out of the pool. It sparks a smile to my lips.
"To see what's up, obviously," Naz answers her sister.
"Is that a good idea?"
"Probably not." A door swings open at the back of the house and all I catch is the small form of a fourteen year old girl outlined in the doorway. She has her hands on her hips, her hair a curly halo at her shoulders, squinting into the night. She can't see us really.
But then her sister snaps, "I'm calling security."
That spurs us into action. I stare at Kenna and Raf, dripping wet, the former sporting a wild grin. I throw a final glance at the house and the outline of the girl on the back steps. "Run," I tell everyone.
They don't need to be told twice. I hear Nazmiya say, "Who? Bob? He's probably sleeping at his desk, Daya."
"He's on his way," replies Hidaya.
There's a loud round of footsteps as Kenna and Raf race toward the wall, water flying with each of their steps. Dima grabs Kajal and slings her onto his back and she giggles, a floating sound through the night. Charlie and Dija are on their heels, tearing toward the wall.
"Hey!" This is a grown man's voice. Bob woke up. "Stop right there!"
His footsteps race toward the wall where my friends are swiftly escaping. Dima all but throws Kajal over the wall.
Aryan and I are still at the pool and we share a look.
Hidaya's voice rings past Bob's warning shouts. "Come back inside, Naz!"
A door slams and I hear two new sets of footsteps, brushing past the toilet-paper wrapped garden. "I hate you," Daya mumbles then it spears off into a gasp. I freeze. "Bob! There are still people at the pool!"
That diverts Bob's attention wholly and allows Raf, the last one standing, to grab the wall. He flips off Bob behind his back before he goes.
"You two, go inside," Bob tells the girls only for Naz, the one with impulse control issues, to stomp her foot firmly in the dirt of the garden.
"Like hell," she says.
Bob flicks on a torchlight and starts toward the pool and Aryan grabs my hand. He jerks his head quietly and I follow his attention. A quick nod and we're hurriedly sliding away from the pool, ducked low in silence.
We make it to the gazebo and Aryan pushes me into a column off the side. My back knocks into the wood and I'm about to snap a complaint but he's expecting it.
His body draws flush against mine and a hand comes right over my mouth, shutting me up.
I'm going to kill him.
His breath feathers down on my cheeks, head cocked to the side in challenge. I read his gaze.
You're going to kill me and risk giving us away to Bob?
I step on his foot in reply.
He doesn't even flinch. Instead, he draws closer, punishingly, painfully closer. My back digs into the hard column of the gazebo as Aryan presses harshly against me. There's no air in my lungs as I glare up at him. I'm aware of every lick of him, the hard contours of his chest firm against my soft, the strong ridge of his hips digging into me. I can feel his heart too. It's racing in his chest and I'm not sure if it's because we're hiding, or because he's pissed at me for stepping on his foot or if it's because we're close enough that we're stealing each other's air.
"Where did they go?" Bob asks. I catch the twist and turn of his torch as he searches near the pool.
The girls mumble I don't know's and he starts to search. Aryan and I hold each other's stare in silence, breathing each other's oxygen.
He tenses against me when there's a brush of feet near the gazebo. We're off the side, cloaked in shadow but not hidden enough and Bob has a torch light.
"Bob!" Daya's cry rings out and I tense as well.
"You two should go back inside. Your father—,"
Naz interrupts him, "I think they went around front!" Her voice rises. "Oh my god! There they are!"
I stare around the columns as Daya's head whips around to where Naz is waving. "Where?" She frowns.
Naz keeps waving her arms. "They're in the front! Bob!" She draws her sister away from the gazebo. "Oh my god! Is that a gun?"
At that, Bob sprints toward the front of the house and the girls trail after him, Nazmiya sufficiently ignoring his, "Get inside now!"
That leaves Aryan and I and after a beat of silence, their voices fading to the other side of the mansion, he pulls his hand away but remains close.
He regrets it instantly because I start to laugh, my entire body trembling with it. I clamp my own hand to my lips but it glimmers behind my eyes as I trace the remainder of our toilet paper chaos, scattering the gazebo, strands swaying behind Aryan's shoulders like fairy wings.
He pulls me off the column with his hands on my hips. His heart is still racing. So is mine.
And though he doesn't laugh with me, I catch the small twitch of his lips as he holds me to him.
♥ ♥ ♥
i was too lazy to edit this forgive me
anyway, i started watching wanda vision and my marvel brain is awake so avengers assemble why not