When Sanders come homes for the weekend to celebrate with his family (Becks can't come, she has extra training with her coach), his mom pulls him aside to ask him to drive her to her tennis match.

Except, of course, with Mahika, it's never just a drive to her tennis match.

It takes them a drive-thru for coffee and donuts for her to speak up. Sanders knows she's been holding it in, her and Hathai, ever since they went to dinner at Hugo's almost a month ago, and they haven't...really touched on the subject again. It's a little...touchy.

Then. Not anymore. Sanders is fine.

"So," his mom starts, munching on her donut, and Sanders takes another look at her bright pink pair of a tank top and track pants, and he can't keep himself from smiling. "How are things? How's school?"

"Mom, you can just ask me about Becks," he says, shifting the gear stick to park once the light turns red. He glances at his mother and takes a sip of his coffee. "I know you've been wanting to. You and Mâae aren't exactly subtle."

She huffs. "Fine. How are things with Becks? Yes to the wedding? No to the wedding...?"

Sanders shrugs with one shoulder. "We're fine. We're...getting back on track? I don't know, I've decided to tone down my feelings a lot. We're best friends."

"Huh." Mahika's eyebrows draw together as she leans back on her seat, but she faces her son and lifts one leg up. "You sound indifferent."

"Not indifferent, Mom." He smiles at her and places his drink back in its cupholder. "Look, she got me this." He raises his wrist to show her. "And she planned a whole celebration for me, baked me a fuckin' cake and everything. Anyway, we're good, I'm good, we are fine."

She nods slowly, not entirely convinced. She has brown powder on the corner of her mouth, and Sanders wipes it off with a tissue. "Okay..." she says slowly, pursing her lips. "Okay, if that's what you say. The light's green, sweetie."

"Right." Sanders steps on it. "Right."

Mahika puts a hand on his arm, and Sanders shoots her a one-second glance, as fast as one heartbeat, and he sees that she's worried, and loving, and kind. "Sanders. I'm just worried for your heart. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," he says, laughing, putting a hand over hers. "Yeah, Mom, I know. But I promise I'm fine. My heart's fine."

Or so he thinks.

Maxon and Kaitlyn are in the kitchen, they're cooking up something delicious for dinner, and Suho's eating straight from the peanut butter jar with a spoon, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Becks comes out of her room, freshly-showered, in a sweater and basketball shorts, and her curls are still a little damp and frizzy on her head, and she flops down on the couch beside Sanders and he smells her body wash, but he doesn't take his eyes off his phone as he's scrolling through his social media, and he doesn't move until Becks pinches his arm.

"Hey," she says, and Sanders looks up, blinking.

"What?" he mutters.

"You have a game this Friday, right?"

Sanders didn't even remember. He pauses the video playing on his screen and sends her a small smile. "Yeah. You remembered."

She shrugs and kicks her feet up, puts them over his lap, and Sanders freezes like a fucking idiot, stops breathing, but she lies down on the armrest and sighs. "'Course I remembered, you dumbass. It's a big game, lots of national team recruiters. I might probably be late, we're ending training just as the game's starting, but Adan and I will be there before the second set."

"Okay," Sanders says.

"Peanut butter?" Suho asks, holding the jar over him, offering it to Becks.

"Thanks, buddy." Becks raises her head to smile at him, and she takes the jar. "You steal a lot of our food, but I'll let it slide since you're cute."

Suho's cheeks heat. "You're cute, too."

"No flirting," Sanders pipes up, slapping him away. "You're our—you're a kid," he says, clearing his throat. "Go get me water."

The fish doesn't even hesitate. He stands up to trudge to the kitchen.

Becks is staring at him.

Sanders raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"You do that a lot," she mutters, keeping his gaze, playing with the strings of her sweater with one hand while the other holds the peanut butter jar with Suho's spoon in it. "You think I don't notice but I do."

"You're not making any sense," Sanders says, rolling his eyes. "By the way, did you see this—"

His phone suddenly vibrates twice with a call, and Sanders squints at his screen, and it's Scarlet. Sanders answers it. "Hello?"

"Hey, Rush!" the gymnast greets him brightly. "Not sure if you were back in Bellevue already, but if you are, I wanted to ask if you were free for dinner and maybe some drinks after? I heard it was your birthday a few days ago. My treat."

"Oh." Instinctively, a smile makes it way on Sanders's face. "Yeah, I'm back from home, and that sounds good. Um, where should I meet you? Do you have a ride?"

"I'll text you the details!" she chirps. "And yeah, don't worry, thank you for offering. Oh, happy belated birthday, I guess."

Sanders laughs. "Thank you. Long overdue, but thank you."

Suho comes back with a glass of water, puts it down on the table, and grabs the peanut butter jar back from Becks, who doesn't even flinch.

"Hey, I would've greeted you sooner if I'd known," Scarlet counters. "But, anyway. Making up for it tonight. I'll see you in fifteen?"

"Sounds great. See you."

"Bye!"

Becks is staring at him.

Sanders stands up. "I'm going to change." To Suho, he says, "Please throw away that peanut butter jar when you're done with it."

Kaitlyn is setting up the table when he comes back out, and she smiles at him. "Going somewhere, Rush?"

"Yeah, sorry 'bout dinner." He rubs the nape of his neck and takes a look at the stove. "That smells amazing. Give my share to Becks. Oh, no, to Suho. The kid eats way more."

"Will do!" Maxon says, turning to glance at him. Then, he double-takes, and he narrows his eyes. "You meeting a date?"

"Scarlet, actually."

Kaitlyn gasps. "Really?"

"Yep, just getting food and drinks. Birthday thing. I'm heading out, see you guys later!"

Becks is waiting for him at the doorway with a frown on her face just as he's putting on his shoes.

Sanders looks at her and sighs. "Will you be okay? I know I'm leaving you alone with Max and Kaitlyn. Suho's leaving in a few."

"It's fine, don't worry," she mutters, doesn't meet his gaze, and he knows she's lying. "It'll be fine, it's nothing new. Um, don't drink and drive."

"Obviously."

"Sanders." Becks puts a hand on his shoulder and frowns more deeply, and she has a scrunch in between her eyebrows. "I'm serious."

"I am, too." Sanders smiles and twirls his keys around his finger. "Don't worry, Becks."

She purses her lips and nods once. "Text me if you need anything. Be safe."

His smile grows wider. "I'll be back tonight, 'kay? Eat a lot."

And before. Before, he would've leaned in and kissed her hair, just the spot above her forehead, delicate face in his hands. One, two, three seconds.

Sanders steps back and turns around.

*

Scarlet is great company.

She is, she really is. It's just.

Her laugh is not the laugh he wants to hear. Hand isn't the one he wants to hold.

He's lost count of how many times he's had to tell his heart to get its shit together.

He even kissed her. But Scarlet pulled back and said, "Rush. Stop forcing yourself. I can feel how hard you're trying."

"Fuck." Sanders groans. Lets his head fall back. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Scarlet. I—you're a great person, and I like you, I do, you make me laugh, and I—"

"Am in love with someone else?" she tries, smiling, eyes twinkling. "It's okay, Rush. I get it. I like you a lot, but I don't want to be just a distraction. Or a rebound. It's not healthy for you and definitely not good for me."

Sanders takes a deep breath. Meets her gaze. They're warm, and caring, and kind. "Scarlet, I'm sorry. I really am."

"Don't apologize." She leans up on her tiptoes and kisses him on the cheek. Then she puts her hands on his shoulders, steps back, and says, "I know you were trying, but...whoever has your heart should feel extremely lucky. Come on, walk me home, I'm scared to walk alone in the dark. And it's your job as my date."

Sanders, despite his lame attempts and failures at 'getting his heart to get its shit together', laughs. Falls into step beside her. "Okay."

Scarlet bumps her shoulder with his and smiles at him.

*

His bed is occupied when he comes in.

Sanders squints at the figure, and his hand travels to the light, but he doesn't want to disturb whoever...whoever decided to crash in his space.

But he doesn't have to. He creeps in closer, and the figure on his bed stirs, and Sanders sees the curls first, and sees the rest of her body and face, and she's blinking at him sleepily. "You're back," Becks rasps, confused.

"Yeah," Sanders whispers, taking off his jacket and chucking it somewhere behind him. "What're you doing here, Becks?"

Oh. Oh, wait.

Sanders inhales deeply. "Something happen? With Maxon and Kaitlyn?"

Becks shakes her head slowly. "Why're you back already?" she rasps again, half-asleep and still so confused.

"Because we just went out for dinner and drinks..." he tries, scratching the back of his neck. "Did you expect me to not come home early in the morning? Or not at all?"

Becks stirs, pulling up the covers to her chin, and her eyes are half-open. "Yeah," she whispers back. "Yeah, I thought you'd be spending the night with Scarlet."

Sanders pauses.

If...if Scarlet had kissed him back. Had not cared about...about his feelings and his heart and had just wanted fun and a night of no-strings-attached—would he have agreed? Would he have followed her to her place, walked in through the door, actually strip off his clothes? Paint her skin with his lips, paint his skin with hers, forget about Becks for a night he so rightly deserves to himself?

"I didn't," he decides to say.

Becks stares at him, blinking sleepily.

"What did Maxon do?" Sanders asks quietly, pursing his lips.

"Nothing," she says, burying her head further in the pillows. "Nothing happened. I didn't even—when we were baking your cake, he helped me a lot. We had a food fight and he put flour in my hair and face."

"Oh," Sanders says. Doesn't know what else to say.

"But I was baking your cake," Becks continues softly. "And I didn't even feel...I don't know, my stomach didn't have the usual butterflies. I was too focused on getting your cake right."

Sanders doesn't know where this is going.

"And tonight," she says, closing her eyes, "I know he felt awkward being with Kaitlyn in front of me, but I kicked him under the table and mouthed that I was fine. Because. Well, I really was. I wasn't stabbing my food or anything with my fork."

"Becks, I don't understand."

"What does Scarlet call you?"

"Huh?" Sanders is fucking confused.

"What does Scarlet call you?" Becks repeats slowly, and Sanders can feel her slipping back out of consciousness, and no, no, he needs her awake, he needs her to explain the shit coming out of her mouth because he doesn't understand—

"Rush," he says.

Even in the dark, even in the dark, Sanders can see the moment Becks's lips turn up into a small smile. "'Kay. Get dressed and go to bed," she mumbles.

"Becks. Can you tell me what you meant? I don't understand."

It's quiet. It's too quiet, and it takes several deep breaths, and Sanders thinks she might've fallen asleep, might've not heard his question, but then she does, and her voice rings across the walls, "I'm not sad because of Maxon, I didn't come here for him, because of him." She takes another deep breath. Doesn't open her eyes. "I just came here because...because I wanted to."

Sanders doesn't move.

He doesn't move for a long time. He sits there, on the edge of his bed, hearing those words swirl from his left ear to his right ear, back to his left ear, all around his mind and thoughts, the words hanging up on a banner over the little Sanders's heads. They're running around, typing on Google, don't know what the fuck she means.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asks quietly, her voice ringing across the empty walls.

Sanders's answer is immediate. "No."

He can hear her exhale. He can hear her staggering breath of relief, and Sanders doesn't know what the fuck that means.

God, he calls, looking up at the ceiling momentarily. Help me out here.

Of course, like all things (case in point: when he prayed for a good day and Maxon had been in his kitchen, stealing his coffee), God isn't listening. Or maybe he's just impatient.

Sanders sighs. Stares at the mop of curly hair spread all over his pillows, and he knows his sheets are going to smell like almond and vanilla orchid and cashmere musk tomorrow, and he knows they're going to be wrinkled, and Sanders doesn't mind.

He takes a shower, gets dressed, comes to bed.

(His heart doesn't get its shit together. "Sorry, buddy," it says, shrugging.)

*

Sanders loves volleyball.

He wouldn't go to a sports university if he didn't. Wouldn't take up volleyball if he didn't—no, of course not, now that would be a dilemma.

Sanders has loved it ever since he sat on the bleachers in his high school gym, fawning over his crush, watching him sweat and play volleyball (he wasn't very good at it but Sanders didn't mind, he was very cute). He's loved it ever since one of the players needed to go home, and they needed one more person to even out the teams, and one of them spotted him watching and called him over, and he didn't know what to do but he'd been watching enough games and Haikyuu to know that the ball shouldn't touch ground.

It was a gruelling process. It was very tiring, at first, to run after the ball, to jump after it, to send it over the other side of the net. It was very tiring but Sanders didn't want to leave the court, didn't want to go home even when his parents were blowing up his phone. He came back the next day, and the next, and the next, and he wasn't very good at it—it was a gruelling process to know how exactly his stance should be, his arms be positioned, at what point does he run to spike the ball, how hard must he hit it to serve and send it flying to his opponents, how does he set the ball and what does he do to keep it alive and bouncing. He went through a lot of volleyball games after school, he went through sports fests and intramurals and finally to the varsity team, and he couldn't stop playing and playing and playing.

His parents (Hathai and his dad, at the time) thought it was a one-time hobby. He'd get over it as quickly as he fell in love with it.

But Sanders...when he loved, he loved. He loved fiercely, and he did not let love go easily.

He had never been good with anything math. He hated numbers, hated having to think about them, barely passed his exams. He's fine with science, breezed through his exams, but once he learned it, he didn't have that thrill to learn more. Sanders can't even be bothered to remember what his grades were in history, music, philosophy, social sciences. He thinks he did pretty well, enough to graduate high school and never fucking look back.

But point is. Sanders loves volleyball and he's pretty fucking great at it. Now. It was a gruelling process before to get to where he is now, to get to his skill level and stamina and endurance and strategy and team communication (because, unlike boxing, volleyball relies on the team), but it's still a gruelling process—he still has a lot to learn, a lot to train for.

Doesn't mean he's not going to pass out after five sets of the alphabet.

Sixth now. "F," he moans, passing the ball back to Rosen.

"G," Rosen mutters, eyes unfocused, but still managing to send the ball back to him.

"I," Sanders moans again, and his arms are too weak that he sends the ball far from where Rosen is standing, and he winces as Rosen dives to catch it.

"It's H next, you moron!" his friend chokes out, and the ball is back to him. "H!"

Sanders gives it back, grinning sheepishly. "I."

Rosen gets to his feet. His face is lined with sweat, and his cheeks are red, and his knees are busted and there's no more strength in his arms or the way he stands. "J." The way he says the letter sounds like a mere breath.

"K," Sanders says, keeping the ball at a firm level so his friend doesn't have to die for him again.

They finish their sixth set of the alphabet with wobbly bones and short breaths, dragging their feet to the benches for water and a towel. Sanders's hair is dripping wet with sweat, and his skin is wet, and he looks and feels absolutely drenched in sweat that he needs to jump in a pool to cool himself down.

"Coach is killing me," Rosen groans. With difficulty. In between those words, they're still catching their breaths.

Sanders is busy gulping down his water. Ah. Fresh, cool water.

Their other teammates aren't much better. Some are just finishing their fourth, and they look like they're ready to give up. Some are lying down in the middle of the court, trying to even out their breathing. Some are...well, some are ogling at him. Sanders sends them a wink and they blush.

He knows why they're being pushed to train harder, to run more laps, to do more drills and to absolutely break their bones and gash open their knees to keep the ball in the air. Recruiters are coming to the game on Friday, and all of them are possible national recruits. The seniors, most especially, are very anxious and wary, and they have to stay past training hours to do crueler drills and crueler workouts, like using the agility ladder. Sanders shudders just thinking about the agility ladder.

"I'm not worried," Rosen voices out, spreading his arms on the floor, turning his head up to the ceiling and closing his eyes. His chest rises and falls with every short breath he takes. "My legs hurt. What about you?"

Sanders kicks off his shoes. Coach promised them a ten-minute break after finishing six sets of the alphabet, and then they're playing one last game, best of three, before they're dismissed (except for the seniors, of course).

It's nearing six and they still have a game to play.

Sanders fishes his phone out of his bag. Just as he'd predicted, there are messages waiting for him from his roommates.

Getting dinner w Cal, we'll wait for u at the gate!

Sanders sighs. He reads the other message. I'm with Maxon, we're waiting for you. are you done? I'm hungry :^( what do u wanna eat?

Sanders's fingers are weak when he types his response. The skin on his forearms are red and bruised. Not done, prctice game. Go w/o me . Craving kfc tho. Will ordr at hom :(

Becks reads that immediately. Sanders watches the three dots in her message bubble dance. Her reply comes a second later. U ok?

No i'm dead . can't feel my legs

Ha ha. Coach training u babies too hard?

Sanders exhales loudly and presses his towel to his face before sweat drips down on his phone screen. u have no idea . see u later have fun w max and eat a lot

Becks reads that but doesn't reply.

Sanders tosses his phone in his bag and takes off his shirt. It's too hot. He can't handle it, the fabric's sticking to him like glue and it is absolutely disgusting.

Without opening his eyes, Rosen sighs. "You took off your shirt, didn't you?"

Sanders grins. "Not my fault I'm better-looking than you."

"I suppose you are good-looking. I'd argue with the use of the term better, though. Adan will fight you on that."

"Adan's dating you, idiot, of course she's going to disagree."

"Shut the fuck up, moron, you don't know what letter comes next in the alphabet unless you sing it!"

That—that's kind of true, but man, Rosen didn't have to come for him like that. Sanders scoffs incredulously and rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

They have the practice game. Sanders is very exhausted. A lot of his spikes are weak, and his blocks aren't as sharp as they should be, and his hits aren't as precise as they should be. Rosen pushes him and clamps a hand down his shoulder. He looks at him and snaps, "Focus, Rush!"

Sanders takes a deep breath and crouches, anticipating the serve from his opponent.

He doesn't notice when Becks comes in. His eyes are on the ball and he's determined to win. Like he always is.

The thing about volleyball...Sanders is competitive in nature. He knows this. He wants to win, he wants to win all the time, he hates losing—even during a rockclimbing event for his third year sports fest, he kept going even when his knee had slipped and sprained itself, and he had to get through the rocks, hissing from the pain, just to get to the top. He hates being on the losing team, and he—he loves the glory of it. The winning. The acceleration, the recognition that he one-upped his opponents.

That's what he wanted to feel—competing against Maxon. For Becks.

But it stopped being a competition and when—when did it, stop, exactly? When did he stop caring about winning her attention and started caring about what she meant to him, what he meant to her, what he meant to himself, and what they meant to each other?

It's not a competition anymore. It hasn't been for a long time.

And Sanders. Sanders can make peace with the fact that he loves her, and she loves Maxon, and maybe he'll get over it, like what his parents said to him about volleyball, maybe he won't, like he didn't, with volleyball, but Sanders is—he can make peace with his heart. He can make peace with it, concede to it, let it not get its shit together.

This is what's on his mind when they score the last point, and his teammates run, engulfing each other in a tight hug, jumping around in joy.

Sanders loves the glory of winning, but there's a glory in losing, too. You did your best. You tried hard. You played well. All about perspective.

So when he notices Becks sitting next to his bag, wearing only her sports bra and shorts, a headband to keep all her baby hair in place and waving two take-out bags from KFC in her hand, Sanders couldn't care less that she chose Maxon. Loves him.

She's Sanders's best friend. And Sanders will not compromise any sort of winning, any sort of glory, for that.

"Thought I might just bring the cravings to you," she says, holding out the food to him. "You looked out of it during that first set."

Sanders smiles and flicks her forehead. "You were watching the whole time?"

"It was very difficult to ignore the smell of chicken and hotshots and fries," she says, nodding and sighing, "but I made it through. You did better during the second and third."

Sanders sits next to her and opens his mouth. Becks rolls her eyes but tosses two pieces of fries in there.

"Thanks," he says, grabbing his towel and running it over his face. "I'm starving."

"I know. Here." Becks clears the bench and opens up the bags. "Sit on the floor."

Sanders stops suddenly. He blinks, tilts his head to the side. "What happened with Maxon? Did he say something?"

"No," she answers. "I told him to go ahead without me and went here. Can we please—oh, put on a shirt first, you're very disgusting."

Sanders can't process her reasoning as quickly as he should. It passes through his mind, unnoticed, and he sits next to her, grabbing his spoon and fork. "It's hot," he whines, and takes a whiff—and almost moans out loud. Fuck, it smells really good. Almost enough to cover up the smell of sweat and wet socks in the court.

Becks scrunches up her nose and slides a container of gravy to him. "Yeah, but you're sweating all over. At least—" she stops, groans in exasperation and snatches the towel from his shoulder. "Such a baby," she mutters in annoyance, roughly rubbing the towel against his chest, and torso, and stomach and arms. "You're going to get sick if you leave your back sweating, are you an athlete or not? Turn around."

Sanders hides his grin and does as he's told. His teammates are watching him as they pass, heading to the locker room, and Sanders winks at them.

"Aren't you grossed out?" he asks, curious.

"Should I be?" Becks asks flatly, slowing down on the rubbing now. It's surprisingly gentle, Sanders notes, the way she touches him. "I've seen you in everything and nothing, there's nothing about you that can gross me out."

"Not even if I stuck my foot in your face?"

"Do that and I will personally shove this gravy down your throat."

Sanders laughs. He has no doubt about it.

"Okay. Done." She tosses the towel in his lap. "Let's eat."

Without thinking, Sanders leans in and almost kisses her forehead in gratitude. Almost.

He used to do that a lot.

Sanders leans back and clears his throat, and Becks is staring at him, eyes wide and blinking, and Sanders can't read her. He almost never can't.

"Sorry, thought you had a cockroach or something in your hairline," he says lamely, facing his food. "Okay, let's eat."

Becks doesn't bring it up anymore, and Sanders is grateful.

On a second thought, he might talk to his heart a bit more about getting at least half its shit together. Maybe they can compromise on that.

*

comments pls i luv reading them :c and talk to me on twitter if you'd like! @/arrowheadswp <3