Sanders watches Becks train.
She's in a sports bra and shorts today. There are bruises coloring her dark skin. There's sweat pouring down her face, and her lips are pale, but her eyes are wild. Focused.
"Six," her coach instructs, and Becks grunts, delivering six simultaneous punches, left and right.
"Ten," he says, and Becks yells. Punches ten times.
That's fucking hard. Sanders can't believe Becks can do this for three minutes, four or five times, with only thirty-second breaks in between. It's tiring. It looks so tiring. And she's so hot.
"If you and Becks fought, who would win?" Adan asks, sitting next to him.
"Becks."
"True."
"Look at that. Shit, I'm getting turned on."
Adan laughs, and his phone buzzes with a call. It's Rosen. "What?" Sanders asks, eyes focused on Becks. He must look stupid. Starry-eyed or some shit. "I'm busy."
"You're literally just watching Becks," Rosen says, snorting. "I'm coming to you. I need food and you're going to treat me."
Sanders hangs up. He has, like, two dollars.
When Rosen enters the gym, some heads turn to him. Sanders snorts. Adan pinches his arm. "Who is that? Is he straight?"
"I don't know. He looks at me like he isn't. But he probably is. Rosen, Adan, Adan, Rosen," he says, keeping his eyes on Becks. "Please entertain each other."
"Do you have a girlfriend?" Adan asks.
Rosen blinks. "Um, no."
"Do you want a girlfriend?"
Sanders snorts again. Rosen looks flustered.
The bell rings. Becks groans loudly, and her coach stretches her arms behind her back. Sanders sits up, opens a water bottle, and holds a towel in his hands.
Rosen scoffs. "What a loser."
"Answer me," Adan says.
Becks jogs over. Sanders pushes the water bottle to her lips, and she hangs her head back, gulping it down. She's still catching her breath. She might be incapable of speech.
"Sure," Rosen says, blushing.
"Losers," Sanders says.
But then Becks breathes out, "That was bad. Fuck, I was so bad. What the fuck's wrong with me? My stance is off."
"You're doing great," Sanders tells her, wiping her face with his towel. "And you're amazing, the fuck are you talking about?"
"You're just being nice," Becks mutters, panting.
"No, look, my dick is getting hard. I can't fake that."
Becks laughs breathlessly. Sanders grins. He loves that. He loves making her laugh. Maxon can't make her laugh. "That's because of the sports bra," Becks says, smiling, raising an eyebrow.
"That, too. But you could be wearing your basketball shorts and a hoodie with fucking holes and I'd still find you beautiful."
Rosen chokes on his saliva. Adan laughs.
Becks rolls her eyes, but she's still smiling. "I hate you."
"Go." Sanders pushes her back to the ring just as the bell signals the end of the break.
"Ah," Rosen says, clicking his tongue. "You poor thing."
"Don't bring my financial status into this, I'm sensitive about that," Sanders tells him, narrowing his eyes. "Hey, actually. Now that you're here. Be honest with me."
His friend blinks. "I dropped your spoon once and didn't tell you and you proceeded to use it."
"You what? We'll unpack that statement later, but I was going to ask." He grabs his arm and pulls him next to him. Cups his face and stares into his eyes. Sanders puts on his best good-boy look. "Do I look like a puppy?"
"What the fuck."
"Like, will you pet me? Am I puppy enough?"
"I'm not a furry. It's fine if you are, though. Dude, I'm hungry. Can we go?"
Sanders grumbles and crosses his arms. Focuses his attention back on Becks.
"We have to wait for Becks to finish before food," Adan tells Rosen. "That's the way the world works for Rush."
Sanders pinches Rosen's wrist. "Watch her and give her compliments."
"And if I refuse?"
"I won't bail you out of jail next time."
Adan whips her head around to look at them. "Next time? Jail?"
Rosen clears his throat and crosses his arms, keeping his eyes on Becks. "Mm. Great. Punches. Strong. Better than Godzilla, I think."
Sanders puffs his chest out and grins widely.
(They get Chinese food after. They have cookies. Becks asks him what his fortune says. Sanders blinks. He ate the cookie whole. "My what now?")
So they're fine. They're fine. Even though she and Maxon watch Animal Planet late at night without inviting him. It's cool. He's not a quitter.
But one day, Sanders comes home from training. He takes off his shoes and blinks at Maxon. He's crouching, ear pushed up against the door, eyebrows furrowing together.
"Hey," Sanders says.
"Hey, you're home," Maxon says distractedly.
"Yeah," he says. "'Sup?"
"Oh." He laughs sheepishly and stands straight—wow, he's really fucking tall—and rubs a hand on the nape of his neck. "Cal has been in there for hours, I think. She brought her friend with her. I was curious."
"Adan?"
"Yeah? The one with the thick eyebrows."
Sanders walks over and puts his hand on the doorknob. It's locked. He looks at Maxon, and the soccer player clicks his tongue, leaning against the door. "She's trying on makeup, I think. She'll be embarrassed if we come in."
Sanders blinks. "She doesn't need makeup."
"She has a...date."
"Say what," Sanders says. His brain shuts off.
No, no, it's on fire. Like before. Someone pushed the emergency button. The little Sanders are all running around, waving their hands in the air. There's music in the background, he thinks. They're dancing! They're vibrating!
"Stay there!" a voice from inside yells. It's Adan's. "Mind your own businesses, males!"
Maxon shrugs. He heads off the kitchen to find something to eat.
Sanders puts on his shoes. "I'm going out."
"Where?" Maxon yells from the kitchen. "Buy me some food if—"
Sanders slams the door closed and runs.
Running at night. He never runs at night. Sanders hates it. The sky's dark and blue and gray, and the sidewalks are packed and it's loud, and the streets are choking with traffic and the air smells like cigarettes and the cold. His breath comes in small little wisps, and there are one, two, three street lamps as he runs past, and Sanders can't think. Those dancing little Sanders fell asleep. Or maybe they died. It was an emergency situation, after all.
Is she going on a date because she's trying to get over Maxon? Is Sanders as a distraction not enough? Is she not using him enough?
Or...or has someone seen Becks? Seen Becks? Gathered up all their courage, asked her out because they really, truly like her?
God, this hurts. Sanders hangs his head back and looks at the sky. As if God would answer him.
When he comes back home, Maxon is sitting on the couch, eating ice cream, and Sanders takes off his shoes and opens the refrigerator to grab a water bottle.
The door opens, and Becks steps out, shy, hesitant. Uncomfortable. She's in a dress. It's a brown turtleneck underneath a red, spaghetti-strapped plaid dress that ends mid-thigh. Her hair is down. It falls in wavy curls down her shoulders and back, and her face—her eyebrows are trimmed. They're perfectly even. And—and her eyes are big, but they're shaded in different colors, there's black somewhere, and some kind of nude thing going on, and there's a clip on her hair and she's wearing a dress.
He spits out his water. Sanders's face does five different things at once.
Adan is grinning widely behind her. "Pretty, right?"
Becks is wide-eyed. She's not looking at Sanders. She's looking at Maxon.
And Maxon—Maxon's jaw is open.
And then he laughs. He laughs so loudly. Throws his head back and everything.
Becks blinks.
"'Kay," Maxon says, wheezes out. He stands up, grinning, and claps Becks on the shoulder really hard, she stumbles a bit. He's still chuckling, like little laughs are coming from his chest, and he can't stop them. "'Kay, you need to stop. Put the cargo pants back on. You look really weird." And then he dumps his bowl on the sink and leaves for his room, still chuckling.
Sanders sees it.
He sees it. He sees her eyes shift—confused, embarrassed, humiliated, hurt. Angry. Circle all that apply. All of the above.
And then the flames go down. Like they're being washed out with tears.
"You look pretty," Sanders says quietly.
Finally. Finally, she looks at him. Her shoulders slump, and she tries to give him a smile. "Thanks," she says.
Someone picks her up. Adan sends her out the front door. Sanders is frozen in the kitchen, gripping his half-empty water bottle. His spit is all over the counter.
When Adan comes back, Sanders asks, "Who is it?"
She sighs and sits on a stool. "Some guy from the swimming team. They worked out with us the past week in the mornings."
The water bottle makes a sound. Like it's screeching. His fingers are hugging it too tight. Suffocating it. "Is he good?" Sanders asks.
Becks's friend smiles at him. It's the kind of smile that lets Sanders knows what he's feeling—sad. Upset. He feels like he has a toothache. "He's decent. They're just going out for dinner, Rush. Don't worry. And Becks can take care of herself."
Sanders is worried for himself. His tongue is poking at the empty space where the tooth just got pulled out. It aches. It's painful.
He fishes out his phone and texts her. Hey. Be safe. And call me if you need anything.
Becks doesn't reply. Sanders calls Rosen.
"'Sup, dude," he answers.
"Come pick me up," Sanders says. "I'm going to take a shower and we're going out."
"Deal. Be there in ten."
"Adan's here."
"Be there in five," Rosen says. "Don't tell her I like her."
Adan blinks at him. "Was that Rosen? Is he coming?"
"Yeah, he fucking hates you," Sanders says. He stalks towards the hallway. Kicks open Maxon's door. "The fuck do you have to be so rude for?" he demands, clenching his jaw.
Maxon looks up at him from his phone. He blinks. "Huh?"
"That—that thing with Becks," Sanders explains, breaths coming out in a rush. "You—can you believe the shit that comes out of your mouth? Can you see what it does to people? What's your vision, man?"
"Uh, twenty-twenty, I think—"
"No, your vision is being a fucking idiot," Sanders hisses. "You—dude. I can't fucking believe I'm spelling this out—you just said Becks looks weird. She's not used to it, sure. But did you really have to embarrass her like that?"
Maxon sits up. He looks confused, tilting his head to the side. "I'm—I'm sorry?" he rubs the nape of his neck, blinking rapidly. "I'm sorry, it was a joke, I just thought she looked uncomfortable."
Sanders is considering pulling his hair out. His own hair out. Why—why does Becks like this dude? Sure, he looks like a puppy. A Golden Retriever. But he's fucking clueless, and irritating, and all things considered, Sanders thinks he's not even that handsome!
"You apologize to her tonight when she gets back," Sanders says, shaking his head. "And I don't know, watch what you say around her. You forget all the time, but Becks is a fucking human, too. She's not just your bro."
He slams the door closed.
When Rosen comes, Sanders is pulling him out already, and Adan's giving him a glare, and Rosen looks confused, but he doesn't have a choice but to follow Sanders.
They walk. Rosen is asking him to explain Adan's stink eye. Sanders doesn't care, he's kicking an imaginary pebble.
He thinks...he thinks—he thinks—he doesn't know what to think. His bones feel like they're being crushed under a sinking submarine. He has that toothache.
Rosen keeps talking. He keeps talking, and talking, and talking, and then he decides he can't handle any more of Sanders's shitty attitude, and tries to get him to sing along to some country song, but Sanders really can't be bothered to keep up with Rosen's energy because he wants tea. He wants a hug. He wants to smell Becks's body wash.
Nothing particularly terrible happened today (before he found out about the d***). He woke up, prayed, showered, went on his run (it's Friday), bought the almond milk, woke up Becks, told her he loves her. He cooked up breakfast, he and Becks ate together, and they went to school together.
He went to the gym after morning training and grabbed lunch with Becks and Adan. Played video games at home before afternoon training.
But Becks has a d***, and it's not with him. Why isn't it with him?
No. No, this is good. Becks can—Becks can go out with someone else. She doesn't belong to him. She doesn't belong to Maxon. Whoever she gives her time and her heart and her smiles to, Sanders should be happy for that person. He should be happy for Becks.
But he's not, and that's fucking worrying, because he's selfish, and he's selfish and nasty and he wants his best friend to himself and he's fucking selfish—
"Okay, look, according to my very specific calculations," Rosen starts, slinging an arm over his shoulder, "I combined the three things you love doing. Eat meat, destroy me in bowling, wail some ballads and drink some beer. How's that for a night out?"
"Sure," Sanders says.
Rosen sighs, rubbing him on the shoulder. "You look soggy, man."
"Soggy?" Sanders asks.
"Like a sad spaghetti noodle or something. How're you feeling?"
"I'm so great," Sanders says, and starts crying. His whole face crumbles and everything.
"Oh, oh, oh shit. Man, are you crying? Rush, I'm so sorry, holy shit." Rosen stops to put his arms around him, slapping his back. "Do you wanna hear about my fear of penguins? I think they're cute, but I feel like they're gonna waddle after me or some shit, slap me with their flippers—"
A weird sound bubbles up from Sanders's chest. Something between a laugh or a wail, he's really not sure.
Rosen is caressing his hair. "Dude, I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Sanders says. "God, this is stupid. This is so stupid. I've been married to someone for three years, Rosen, did you know that?"
"No, why wasn't I the best man?"
"You were," Sanders says. "Siam, too. But you were wearing a white suit because you're an attention-seeker and you wanted it to match with your hair."
"Cool," his friend says. He's still hugging him. "Did I hook up with the maid of honor?"
"Yes."
"Spot on." Rosen sighs. Pats his hair. "S'okay, man. Come on, let's get some burgers in you, I know a place where we can eat fucking unlimited patties. We can throw up afterwards. Rush. Come on! You need to love yourself more!"
"But don't you hate yourself?"
"We're talking about you, stay focused." Rosen pulls back and cups his face. He stares into his eyes, narrowing them. "Have you even considered that maybe you need to look at other people? I know Becks is your best friend. Which is, rude, by the way. I'm hurt."
"You're my guy best friend. We have specific genders here, but the spectrum is large. We respect all genders."
"Okay. Nice. Anyway. And you've been apparently married to her for three years. Sure. But you've been hung up on her for so long. Why don't you go on dates with someone else? Hook up? Come on, use your penis, I'm sure it's big. Lots of character."
"Rosen," Sanders groans.
"Anyway." He heaves a deep breath. "My point is. Get some temporary divorce papers and sign them. And then go and vibe with some other people. Don't tell them about you being a furry, though. I mean, there's nothing wrong with that, it's totally valid, but it's not exactly a good conversation starter. I'll hook you up with some people I know."
Sanders glares at him. "I'm not a furry. And I only want to go on dates with Becks."
"That's why it's a temporary divorce!" Rosen cheers, throwing his hands up. "Okay? Yes? Deal? Deal. Let's go. Burgers are waiting."
Sanders eats seven burgers. Double patties, and all. Rosen eats eight. If Becks were here, she'd be able to eat nine. Ten, maybe.
Ah. Brain. Shut up. Really. Fucking shut up.
But when she calls him, just as he and Rosen are on the way to wail out ballads and sallow in their drunken misery, Sanders picks up. "Hey."
"Can you pick me up?" Becks asks. She's asking, but it sounds like a statement.
"Am I your driver? No," Sanders says. Rosen is grinning, cheering him on. "Ask your date to bring you home."
Becks says something, but it's incoherent, and Sanders can't hear her. "Speak properly!" he yells into the phone.
It's only then he realizes she's crying. "I'm, uh," she says, through her quiet tears, "I can't leave by myself. Please come and get me."
Sanders starts running home to grab the motorcycle. Rosen signals him he'll be fine. Sanders is worried. "Where are you?"
Becks tells him. Sanders is in a hoodie and joggers and he's pretty sure he has ketchup on his face, but that's not important. He speeds way past the limit, and tries to keep a cool head.
Which is. Pretty impossible. The little Sanders are all coming back alive.
When he finds her, she's seated outside the convenience store. She has a popsicle in her hand. Her face is blotchy, and red, and she has snot in her nose. She's swinging her legs, and she's barefoot.
Sanders takes off his helmet and stalks over. "Why are you here looking all pathetic?" Sanders demands, feeling his chest bubble up with worry, and—and concern, and pain—all from looking at Becks's wet cheeks. "Why do you always lose your fucking shoes!" Sanders kicks his shoes off.
Becks looks up at him. She smiles. She has ice cream on her lip. "Thanks for coming," she whispers.
Sanders bends down on his knees. Puts her feet in his shoes. He looks up at her, feels his chest tighten some more, and asks, "What happened?"
Becks is still smiling. "He, um, he took me to this fast food place. His friends were there too. It, apparently, wasn't a date. It was just a joke thing. They wanted to see me out of my training clothes. They said I could be a girl, too, if I wanted. But then the other guy, the one who picked me up, said, 'Girl? Are you sure? Her chest is flat!'. So, yeah. So, I, uh, laughed."
"Why didn't you punch them?" Sanders asks. His face is red. He's—he's barely keeping his anger in. "You're a fucking boxer, Becks. Why didn't you—"
"And prove their point?" Becks asks, finishing the last of her popsicle. "Besides. I can't use my strength on other people."
"Well, you can't go around crying like this," Sanders says. He bows his head, shutting his eyes. "What happened to your shoes?"
"They died. They're flats—I haven't used them in years. Oh, and also, I used them to break side mirrors."
Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Sanders isn't sure if he's laughing or crying. "Did you really break their side mirrors?"
"Yes."
"Becks. You—you need to stop hanging out with jerks. You can't piss me off like this. I've been emotional all day, I've been signing divorce papers, I—please. You can't go around crying, you can't go around breaking your shoes and breaking side mirrors, you can go to jail, and I swear to God I don't have the money to bail you out. Please, for the love of God."
Becks is smiling. It's genuine now. "Sanders. You look proud of me."
"I fucking hate you." Sanders exhales heavily and leans forward, harshly pulling her to his arms. "Fuck. You scared me. You're fucking insane."
"I know," Becks says. "Isn't it great?"
"No. You can't do this to me. I need some names."
"They're not worth it," Becks says against his hair. She smells nice. She smells like her body wash. "Did you mean it?" she asks quietly. "Earlier. What you said."
"I said a lot of things, I was vomiting words, please specify."
Becks pauses. And then, "When you said I was pretty. Were you just being nice?"
Sanders tightens his arms. Buries his head on her shoulder. "I meant it," he says. "I'm not used to it. You aren't, too. But, Becks." Sanders manages a small laugh. "Come on. You know—you should know me better than that."
Becks nods. She sighs against him. When her chest rises, Sanders's chest rises, too.
But it's unfair. It's unfair how her heart isn't nearly beating as fast as his is. "Can we go home?"
Sanders pulls back. He kisses her hair. Leaves it there for one, two, three seconds. "Aren't you hungry? You wanna get some food first?"
"Yes please."
"Okay," he says, pulling her to her feet. "I'm sorry, I was trying to be a gentleman, but I just realized I need the shoes if I'm gonna drive the bike."
Becks laughs. The hairball one.
Sanders drives them to a fast food joint. Becks lays her head on Sanders's shoulder.
(Maxon apologizes. Becks waves him off. "It's fine, a lot of people laughed at me today, too. Don't worry about it," she said, smiling at him. At Sanders. Not at Maxon.)
*
thank you for reading, please leave your thoughts in the comments!! x