When Sanders is back in the court, he doesn't feel as good as he should.

His teammates clap him on the back—even his coach gives him one of his very rare smiles, often reserved for victory celebrations after games. Rosen promises to treat him to lunch after their morning training, a little welcome back to red wrists and sore calves, sweat drenching the back of his shirt and fresh gashes on the knees.

Sanders doesn't know why, but it's a little hard to show the relief on his face, holding a volleyball once again.

Because he doesn't. There's no relief. Admittedly, he gets winded after the first half of their drills—and instead of diving for a ball Rosen passes to him, Sanders lets it fall on the ground, and he's bending over, clutching his knees, catching his breath.

"Dude," his friend says, walking closer. "You just broke the alphabet streak."

"I know," he says in between pants, shutting his eyes.

"We've never broken an alphabet streak."

Rosen's right. Sanders has never allowed the ball to touch the ground whenever they're doing drills. But for some reason, his arms feel...they feel dead. And numb. Are they supposed to be like this after weeks of sitting at home and lying in bed?

"I'm tired," Sanders admits, raising his head and meeting Rosen's gaze. His friend's eyes are narrowed, worried with concern, and he's bending down at his level. "I'm—" Sanders swallows thickly. "I need a break."

Rosen grabs the nearest water bottle and helps him to the bench.

It's not the last time.

As soon as morning training is over, Sanders crashes on the sofa in his house and sleeps. He thinks he needs to eat, but he can't move. And his muscles argue about going to afternoon training, but he's missed out on a lot, and he needs to go back.

As soon as they're dismissed, Sanders goes home. Maxon and Becks are in the living room, they're yelling, and it's loud—they're playing a video game, and Becks tells him, "Sanders, come play! Maxon is being a little shit." And Maxon pushes Becks on the couch and Becks punches him on the shoulder, but they're jumping on the couch and yelling at the television, but Sanders doesn't have the energy for this. "I'm tired, guys, you go ahead. Becks, kick his ass," Sanders mutters, shutting his eyes, and heads straight to his room. Falls face down on his bed and sleeps, easily losing consciousness.

But then his door opens, and Sanders feels so, so tired.

"Sanders?" Becks's voice whispers. "Are you okay?"

Far away in his thoughts, he's surprised Becks paused the game for this. He's surprised Becks noticed his off mood, that she stopped in the middle of her killing spree in whatever game she and Maxon were playing, and—and even that. That she and Maxon were playing, and she came to check up on him.

"Fine," he mutters, voice muffled against the sheets.

His best friend comes closer. He feels his feet move, and then his shoes and socks are off, and then Becks is jostling him carefully, pulling the sheets over his body. The AC switches on. "I'll wake you up for dinner."

Sanders doesn't even get to respond. He's out.

When Becks shakes him awake, it's dark. "Time is it?" he rasps, feeling sore all over. His throat is itchy and he feels, if it's possible, even more tired than before he slept, and his head is throbbing, like it's smashing against his skull and threatening to leak juices out of his ears.

"Eight," Becks's voice says. The bed's weight shifts, and Sanders feels her hand on his forehead. "You need to get up and eat. And take a shower. Your sheets are stained with sweat."

Sanders is physically incapable of movement. "Sleep," he huffs, swatting her hand away.

"Sanders," Becks says, and it's firm. Firm, but shaky. She grips his wrist. "You need food—you haven't eaten the entire day."

Sluggishly, Sanders moves. Showers.

His body feels like it's fighting against his will. He's so, so tired.

Maxon made dinner. Suho's there, too. Sanders takes three spoons out of the meal, and he's ready to go back to bed, eyes drooping, but Becks says, "Two more spoons. Please. And then sleep."

He comes back to bed after two more spoons, and the sheets smell nice. They're a new color.

And it's not a one-time thing—a newly back-to-the-court thing. God. Sanders doesn't even wake up for his alarm—he's shaken awake by Becks, half an hour before training, and she tells him he needs to shower and change if he's going to school.

"Or just stay here," Becks says, biting her lip. There's a strand of curl falling over her face. Sanders wants to reach out and brush it away, but he feels too exhausted to raise his arm.

"I've been gone from training too long," he mutters, wincing when he sits up. "I need to go to school."

So he does. But Sanders has never asked to be substituted before. He has never—the exhaustion settles in, but only until after the game is over. When he's high on adrenaline, focused and concentrated with his serves and blocks and hits—Sanders doesn't feel the ache in his toes, the seeping tiredness in his bones.

He asks to be substituted. He can't stand in the court anymore.

Rosen sends him a worried look, but he goes back to the game, and Sanders shuts his eyes, dropping his head in between his knees, too...too frustrated to watch his teammates.

A huge Nike bag falls with a thud on the floor next to him. "Why aren't you playing?"

Sanders doesn't raise his head. Doesn't need to. His fingers pull the strands of his hair and he sighs. "I'm too tired," he mutters.

Becks sits next to him. Before he knows it, Becks has her hands on his face, angling it towards her, and if Sanders weren't so delirious with this...this exhaustion, he'd be shocked with the sudden but welcome roughness of her touch on his skin, and he'd laugh at how Becks looks—eyebrows scrunched together, eyes gazing from his forehead to his nose to his cheeks to his lips and neck, and her face pulls up in this half-scowl, half-pouty, half-irritated expression, and she's absolutely sweaty and red-faced, coming from her own boxing training, but in her big-ass shirt and shorts, hair in a low, messy ponytail (not even the cute messy, the kind of messy that entails hundreds of baby hairs out of place, strands of hair not even included in the ponytail itself), Sanders's thoughts come to a standstill.

Bells.

"You're not sick. You haven't been sick," Becks mutters, brushing his hair away and pushing her palm on his forehead, and then his neck. "What's wrong with you? Why are you so tired these days? Are you hungry?"

"No." Sanders's shoulders slump. He looks away from her and gently pushes her hands away. He can feel her eyes burning the side of his head in concern. "I'm just exhausted."

Becks doesn't say anything in response.

Sanders looks at her, and she's staring back at him. He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

She shakes her head. Snatches the towel hanging off of her shoulder and shuffles closer to him. "You're just sweaty all over. You might actually get sick."

Sanders is too tired to argue. He lets her rub the towel all over his face, his cheeks, the sides of his neck. He slumps on Becks's shoulder when he can't sit upright anymore, and Becks just sighs, lifts his shirt up to dry his back. "Baby."

He's tired. He's tired and he's close to dozing off, eyes losing focus, and he breathes in Becks's warmth, and he says, "Yeah?"

He doesn't even realize his mistake until Becks pulls away, keeping him steady with a hand on his shoulder, and she's rubbing the towel on his arms, and she says, "I was calling you a big baby. You're not injured anymore, you know?"

Sanders doesn't have it in him to feel embarrassed. He hums noncommittally and says, "How'd training go?"

"Fine." She pulls back and squeezes his shoulder. "Sanders. I think we should go home. You don't look so good."

"'Kay," he murmurs, nodding.

"You wanna sleep?"

"Mm."

"Okay." Becks takes her hand off his skin and stands. "I'm going to get your bag, stay here."

Sanders doesn't move a muscle.

Rosen jogs up to them just as Becks is shaking Sanders awake. "What's wrong with him?"

"I'm not sure," Becks says, and Sanders can hear her biting her lip. "Can you walk home with us and take our bags? I don't think Sanders can walk, he might fall over."

"I can walk," he says, standing up. As soon as he does, the ground tilts to the side.

"Jesus Christ," Becks grunts, falling forward to catch him, arms steady around his waist. "You fucking idiot, you could've fallen!"

"Sorry," Sanders breathes out, arm limply hanging off of Becks's shoulder. "Sorry, I'm just tired."

"Yup," Rosen's voice pipes up. "I'll walk home with you guys. You wanna switch? He can lean on me."

"It's okay, I got it." Becks drags Sanders along. "Come on, you big baby, let's go home."

Sanders sleeps for a long time.

He comes in and out of it—like a big, hazy cloud. Every time his eyes open, just the tiniest bit of crack in the darkness, his eyelids fall over and he's out of consciousness.

But. Finally, finally—sometime in the night, his eyes open. Fully. He's groggy, like he just crawled out of a cave in a million years. A groan escapes his mouth.

A head full of hair raises from the edge of his bed, and if Sanders weren't so delirious, he'd yell in shock.

Becks rubs the sleep out of her eyes and sits up. She's dragged his desk chair from his table and sat it beside his bed, and she's been sleeping on her arm. Sanders can tell there's drool there. "Hey," she croaks out. "You're awake."

"So are you," Sanders mutters raspily. "Time?"

Becks heaves a sigh and yawns, takes a peek at her watch before answering, "Three."

"Afternoon?"

"Morning. You want water?"

How long has Becks been sleeping here? The question doesn't make it out of his dried lips, so he nods instead.

When she comes back, she has her phone in her hand, too. "Can you drink without spilling?"

Sanders nods. His fingers are a little numb, but he feels—he feels a little better. Especially after quenching his thirst.

"I need to call your moms," Becks mutters, tapping on her screen.

That doesn't register as quickly as it should've. Sanders lets about five whole seconds pass before asking, "What?"

"You have been sleeping for almost three days," she tells him, raising an eyebrow, placing one hand on her hip as the phone rings. "I don't know what's wrong with you, and I know you wouldn't appreciate being brought to the hospital, so I called your moms earlier today to tell them what was wrong. They wanted to drive over, but they had an appointment with Siam and couldn't miss it. I told them I'd call when you woke up—even if it's in the middle of the night."

Every word from Becks's mouth filled Sanders with dread. He exhales heavily. "Am I in trouble?"

"Make a guess."

Shit. "No?" he tries, lips pulling up at the corners for a sheepish smile.

Becks isn't convinced. "Guess again. Yeah, hi Hathai, I'm so sorry for calling you at this time." A pause. "No, no, he's fine. Actually, he's awake, that's why I called. Do you want to talk to him?"

Sanders winces. He takes a deep breath before accepting the phone and putting it in his ear.

"Sanders Mongkut Chaimongkhon Rush," his mom says. And he's dead.

"Yes?" Sanders squeaks, rubbing a finger over his temple.

"What's wrong with you?" Hathai demands. "Your mother and I are worried sick. Why didn't you call? Why didn't you tell us? We could've picked you up! You could've been brought to a hospital!"

"I'm fine," Sanders says, sighing. "I've just been...I don't know, I feel sleepy a lot. I'm just tired a lot, Mâae. I'm sorry I didn't call, but to be fair, I didn't have time to eat, either, if that makes you feel better."

"Sanders—"

"Okay, I'm sorry!" He winces. "I'm fine, I promise, Becks has been taking care of me, I just—" Sanders raises his head and meets Becks's gaze. She's staring at him, impatient, worried, tired all at the same time. How long had she been sleeping on the edge of his bed, waiting for him to wake up? "I think it's just a slump," he finally mutters, shoulders dropping. He looks away from Becks, feeling ashamed. "After the injury. I don't know. I just think I needed rest."

His mom is quiet for a few seconds on the other line. And then, with a deep breath, she says, "Come home. We'll take care of you, honey."

He wants to. Sanders wants to.

He wants to take a break from volleyball. He loves volleyball, but he—he thinks he just needed to step back a bit. Breathe. The injury hurt. It hurt, and he—if Sanders is being honest with himself, he knows it can happen again. He can hurt himself again, even doing the sport he loves.

Sanders looks at Becks again. She's blinking at him, staring, and he stares back at the eyebags under her eyes, the worried press of her lips, the incessant tap of her fingers against her skin.

He'll take a step back. Not too far, though. "It's okay, Mâae," he murmurs, pursing his lips. "I'm fine, I promise. I'll give it a few days' rest."

His mom sighs, dejected. "Okay. Okay. Your mother wants to talk to you."

A loud groan escapes Sanders's mouth. "Oh, Jesus."

Mahika screams in his ear, too. Tells him she's worried, too. Asks him if he wants to come home, too.

Sanders looks at Becks and says, "No. I wanna stay here."

It's not so bad. It's not so bad to feel hurt about this—it's not as bad as before.

And it's just a feeling, but when Becks tucks him back in bed, promises to leave when he's asleep, and he wakes up a few hours later and still finds her next to him, sleeping on her arm, drooling on it—Sanders thinks that means she loves him.

It's just a feeling, but Becks stays with him 'til morning, and she goes out to get started on breakfast, and Sanders thinks the brush of her fingers on his hair before she leaves might mean she loves him.

*

It's just a feeling, but—

Becks stays with him. Sanders sluggishly moves from his room to the kitchen, and he thought she'd leave breakfast at the table, get changed and head to training—but. But she's still here.

It's noon.

"What about training?" he asks, rubbing his forehead, dropping down on the stool. It smells like chicken. "You should go, I can take care of myself."

"Coach won't kill me if I miss one," she tells him, grabbing his mug from the cupboards and filling it with water. "Eat up. I ordered takeout since I can't cook for shit, and Maxon is gone until later. And you better eat at least two drumsticks or I'll kill you."

Sanders, tired as he is, manages a small smile. "What'd you do this morning?"

Becks puts down his mug on the counter. She slides a plate towards him and drops two drumsticks on it, and dumps a cup of rice on it, too. "I prayed. Went out on a run. Got my almond milk, let you sleep, talked to your moms for a bit. And I did the laundry."

Sanders blinks. He watches her fill her own plate beside him. "You prayed? Ran?"

"In your place, since you haven't been doing it a lot lately. God misses you. And I ran, yes. I missed my morning training, might as well do it around the block. Maxon was gone by then."

Sanders doesn't know what she means. "I'm sorry," he blurts out, feeling his chest weigh with guilt. Becks has been—she has been taking care of him since his injury.

She turns her head to smile at him, and Sanders feels his stomach erupt with butterflies, but—

But. It doesn't hurt as bad as before.

"Just do that thing where you're breathing and we're good," she tells him easily, taking a huge bite of her chicken.

Sanders grins. Eats at least two drumsticks—three. For good measure.

(Later, Sanders finds out that Becks's coach actually killed her the next day. Made her do six rounds of sparring instead of four. Made her do a ten-minute plank and fifty jump squats, and made her fight against Jordan. Jordan won, landing three punches in Becks's gut, and they take her shoes. Becks walks home barefoot, but when she steps in the front door, and Sanders notices her shivering, Becks says, "Just cold wind outside. Have you eaten yet?")

*

It's just a feeling, but—

Sanders opens the door. It's dark, and quiet, except for the rumble of the AC.

"Becks?"

He doesn't expect her to actually wake. When Becks sleeps, she sleeps like a caveman—that's why Sanders wakes her every morning. Usually.

But the sheets ruffle, and Becks's head full of messy curls raises. She's squinting at him. "What 'appened?" she croaks, already throwing off the covers and putting on her slippers. "You okay—"

"Don't stand," Sanders says. Becks stops moving, blinking, and he swallows the nervous lump in his throat. He's stupid for coming here. He's never come here before at night. It's always the other way around.

But he's here, and Becks is awake, and he might as well.

"Can I come in?"

His best friend, confused, nods.

Sanders inches closer towards the bed. "I'm, um." He doesn't know how to say this. How does Becks usually say it? No, she doesn't say anything, she just comes in, and Sanders scoots over on his bed, and then she cries on his chest. Should he just stand here? Wait for her to—

"Your brain is so loud," Becks mutters, lips quirking upward, eyes half-lidded from sleep. She puts her feet back in the covers and lies down, closing her eyes. "I sleep on this side, remember? Get over here, it's cold."

Sanders thinks her bedsheets are soft. They smell like her.

He lies down on his back, stares at the ceiling. Takes a heavy breath.

This exhaustion thing...this slump thing. It's tiring.

Becks turns over. Hooks her leg around his, and Sanders inhales his gasp, and Becks slings her arm around his waist and buries her head on his shoulder. "This what you needed?" she murmurs sleepily.

One by one, like knots loosening, Sanders feels his body relax. This is familiar. This is comfort. He sighs, contentedly, and nods, brushing his hand down her hair. "Mm."

"Okay," Becks whispers. "Go to sleep. Goodnight."

Sanders thinks homes should smell like this. He decides to say so. "Becks," he whispers back. "I think homes should smell like you."

If there was a heartbeat quickening, it might've been his own—shocked by his own brave words.

(Maybe it was Becks's. Just a feeling.)

*

It's just a feeling, but—

Sanders can tell he's better when he wakes up before his alarm does.

Finally finds time to talk to God again.

Lord, he says, sighing, and smiling, hanging his head in relief and happiness. Thank you for another day. I'm sorry I haven't been talking to you a lot, but Becks says she's been doing it in my place. I hope that's fine. Thank you for...for whatever it is I'm feeling today. Thank you for my family, my friends, and my life.

Sanders is up before Becks is. That's great. She's been waking up a lot earlier than he's been, and she needs sleep and rest. She might not show it, during Sanders's slump, but she's exhausted, too. It's not easy taking care of someone injured, and then taking care of someone going through...whatever the fuck Sanders went through.

He's grateful.

Maxon is finishing his shower when Sanders comes in. He blinks, pulling the towel over his lower half. "Dude. You're awake."

"Yeah." Sanders grins and heaves out a heavy breath. He feels good. "I think...I'm better now. I'm going to take a shower, can we run together?"

"Of course!" Maxon smiles back at him, wide, and claps him on the shoulder. He shakes off the wetness from the tips of his hair. "Good to have you back, man. I'll wait for you outside."

The wind in his face feels amazing. Sanders hasn't been running in more than a month—the pain in his legs feel good, too.

"I was getting worried," his roommate tells him, panting, but smiling at him, and Sanders missed this. He missed his runs with Maxon. He never thought he could, considering he ran alone in the morning for two years before his roommate of a puppy came along, but Sanders missed this. "But Cal said you were fine, just needed to rest. I'm glad you're okay now, bro."

"Thank you," Sanders says sincerely. "This feels great. How's training? How's the fish?"

"The fish was worried, too. Kait, as well, and even Scarlet and Adan. Man." Maxon huffs out a laugh. "You don't know how worried everyone was. Cal, most especially."

"Becks is fine," Sanders says, wincing. His friends have all sent him texts and calls, and Sanders assured them he was fine, and that he'd be back as soon as he can. And Becks is...she's the one smiling at him and calling him a big baby, why was she worried? "She knew I was fine."

Maxon blinks at him. "No she didn't."

Sanders blinks at him, too. "Huh?"

"She didn't know what was happening to you," the soccer player explains, rubbing the nape of his neck. "We didn't. Not until you spoke to your moms. And she kept asking me to cook dinner and kept apologizing because her hands shook whenever she tried to help out. I told her to sit down and that I'll take care of it, but then she started crying out of nowhere."

Sanders blinks again. His run slows to a stop, and his eyes narrow. "What did you do?"

Maxon laughs once. Out loud. "I didn't do anything, I didn't make her cry," he says, placing his hands on his hips. "You did. Like I said, she was worried sick."

Sanders doesn't...he doesn't understand.

His roommate sighs and wraps an arm around his shoulder. They start walking. "Come on. I have training in a bit and you need to get her almond milk. Let's get lunch together today, okay?"

Sanders is asking the little Sanders up in his head to translate whatever the fuck Maxon was talking about. It was like he was speaking in another different language, and his brain is too stupid to learn a new language, as much as he wants to.

Terry brightens up when he sees him. Sanders grins and gives him a salute, and heads to the chilled section and eyes the display cooler, seeing if he wants to grab something. He doesn't. He doesn't get anything else aside from Becks's milk.

Terry rings it up on the counter, and then the bells jingle as he leaves, and Sanders pulls his hood up and runs back home.

Becks is already seated on the counter when Sanders comes in. She doesn't look at him.

Maxon is ready to leave, and when he puts on his shoes, he sends Sanders a warning look. "She's mad," he whispers, and claps him on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"What?" Sanders snatches the back of his shirt before he leaves him alone. If Becks is mad, that means Sanders isn't safe alone. "What do you mean?"

Maxon pushes him off and grins at him. "Good luck, dude."

And then he's gone.

The milk feels cold in his palm. Sanders takes a deep breath and walks up to her, hoping the milk will soften whatever blow's coming to him. He sits next to her and bows his head. "Becks, whatever it is you think I did, I didn't do it. After all these years, after all we've been through, where's the trust?"

Becks doesn't answer him, but she finally meets his gaze with a hard stare.

Sanders retreats. "Okay, yes, I did it. Whatever 'it' is."

Becks sighs. "Check your phone."

Sanders winces at her quiet mutter, and he knows better than to question her. It's been in the pocket of his hoodie, on silent mode, and when he turns it on, he gapes at the seventeen missed calls staring back at him, all from contact name boxing legend bff (she changed it a year ago from annoying roommate) paired with her hideous picture with noodles hanging off her mouth.

Sanders's features pull together. "Shit, I'm sorry. I should've texted you."

"I thought you fainted somewhere," Becks says. Coldly. Her stare is unwavering, and even like this, even getting scolded at like this, Sanders can feel his fingers twitch. Like they're itching. "If Maxon hadn't come back to tell me you went out on your run, I would've started rehearsing my lines to Mahika and Hathai to explain to them how I'd lost you. Jesus, Sanders. You couldn't have woken me up? You know how much I panicked when none of you were home? You have been sick for days, Sanders, you can't just disappear on me whenever you want to, I was going to take your bike and go out and look for you—"

If Sanders were more eloquent with his words, he would've known exactly what to say to apologize. He'd know what to say to calm her down, to say he's fine, he's more than fine, to apologize for worrying her over nothing and for not answering his phone when she needed to hear his voice the most.

But he's not. Eloquent.

So when his hand moves, on its own accord, Sanders doesn't stop it.

It's not the hands of a girl. Of what should belong to a girl, but Sanders doesn't mind. They're as warm and as strong as he remembers, and they're as shaky as the breath he exhales when their fingers touch, and Sanders can see and feel the callouses on her palm, the gashes on her knuckles, and they're shaking from worry and anger, and Sanders takes her left hand and squeezes.

They don't fit. Becks's hand is too large, her fingers are bony, and long, and Sanders can feel every trace of her palm, but the world is rushing through his veins. Each of his fingers are coming alive, like they've been waiting for this, touch-starved of this, hugging Becks's fingers with utter relief.

Sanders is vibrating. He's helpless.

He's not supposed to do this. Becks stares at him, the words dying in her throat, and Sanders can't read her face or her eyes but he's not supposed to do this.

Despite the yelling ache of protest from his fingers, his chest and his heart, the little Sanders in his head, he starts to pull away. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Becks, I didn't—"

Her fingers catch his before they get cold. She swallows thickly, looking down at her lap, and she staggers in a breath. "It's okay," she tells him quietly. "It's okay. Please."

She squeezes his hand, and Sanders thinks an emergency button is going off in his head.

It's silent, and then Becks says, "You know I can still punch you with this."

It makes him smile. Little Sanders are dancing. "I know."

"You scared me."

There's not a lot that can make Becks scared, but the total darkness is one. Maxon finding out about her secrets was another.

Sanders going out for his run after his slump, without telling her, without answering her calls—that shouldn't be one.

Sanders squeezes her hand. I'm sorry.

Becks swallows thickly. "Are you fine now?"

He nods. "Better."

"Okay." Becks takes a deep breath. "Okay. Hand me the milk."

She lets go of him. Sanders gets started on breakfast, and his heart is soaring.

*

It's just a feeling, but—

"Is this really necessary?" Sanders grumbles,

"First of all, yes," Rosen says, head buried in his closet. "Second of all, your sense of fashion is boring, so we need to spice it up a bit."

"It is not boring."

Suho is munching on a beef jerky strip. He's dressed up, too. "It kind of is."

"I thought you were my son."

The fish shrugs with one shoulder. Gives him a sheepish smile.

Rosen yells out in victory. "Aha! Found it. Okay, go dress up."

Sanders groans, hugging the pieces of fabric his friend tossed in his chest, and says, "Fine." Like he's not already heading to the bathroom to strip, hardly putting up a fight. If he really didn't want to, he wouldn't—he'd put on a shirt and a jacket and his ripped jeans, and he knows he'll look good, but for some reason, Rosen wants to go all out. And because he's grateful for his friend, he'll let him have this.

It's a boys' night out. Whatever the hell that means. Maxon is in the bathroom, too, he's just finished his shower and he's shaving.

Sanders, without a care, strips down his clothes, his original plan A, and puts on Rosen's choice of "better fashion".

"That looks good," his roommate says, nodding. He has shaving cream on his chin. "Leave the first two unbuttoned—yep, better."

Sanders sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "It's a very regular polo shirt."

"With a collar that shows off your collarbone," Maxon adds, going back to his shaving, while the two of them share the mirror. "And the stripes look good on you. Roll up the sleeves, it'll show your arms."

He raises an eyebrow and does as he says. "You and Rosen share the same brain cell."

"He wants you to get laid, and I do, too, that's why we know what looks good and what doesn't. Great, you look perfect, man."

Sanders gapes at him, jaw dropped. "What?"

Maxon grins at him and shoos him away. "Go, get your hair done or something."

Sanders is kicked out of the bathroom. He sighs, turning around, ready to head back to his doom, but Becks is in the kitchen, staring at him.

He waits for the quip about his get-up. Maybe something about the shirt. Or the ridiculously tight pants. Tighter than usual. Maybe even about the gel on his hair. You look weird, followed by that wheezy, cat spitting out a hairball laughter, reserved for when Sanders does something remotely out of character. He dresses up, sure. But he doesn't really go all out. With all of this.

But his best friend just stares at him in silence, the coffee she was stirring in her hand forgotten.

Finally, Sanders sighs. "Out with it. Get it out of your system before I find the energy to fight back."

But Becks just shakes her head. She gives him a small smile. "You look good."

"Oh." Sanders blinks. "Thanks, ba—Becks."

"Well." She clears her throat and looks away. "You usually look like an animal, so."

Ah. He grins. "Okay."

Sanders smacks Rosen behind the head when he comes back in, knowing of his plan to get him laid, but he also ruffles his hair afterward, because he's smiling, and he does look good, and it might've been the light, but Becks's cheeks were pink.

(She tells them to have fun and be safe. Call her when they're ready to go home and she'll pick them up in a cab.)

(Sanders almost kisses her hair in goodbye. Almost.)

*

It's just a feeling, but—

Sanders doesn't do one-night-stands.

He wasn't even planning to go through with Rosen's or Maxon's plan. But he kept drinking, and drinking, and drinking, until he's being pushed to the dance floor and he's dancing with his friends. And then the next thing he knows, he's dancing with a very cute, very sexy man, and he's shorter than Sanders, and he's a great dancer, and the next thing he knows they're kissing and Sanders has his palm around the other's neck, and he thinks, in his haze and the taste of alcohol and sweat, that his fingers don't find frizzy curls to sink his fingers into, and his eyes or lips don't meet dark skin, and he's about to pull away, find what he wants, but he's actually very hard and he doesn't want to leave.

And he owes himself this. He wants to do this without thinking of his goddamn heart, without thinking at all.

So he stays. Ends up fucking the guy on the bed in his apartment (how did they even get here?), his heart forgotten, and wakes up with bile in his throat, and very sore muscles, and his head is throbbing and his phone is fucking loud.

There are tangled sheets on his legs and a warm body next to him. Sanders sits up with a groan and takes the call. "'Ello?"

"Sanders."

Sanders is suddenly very, very awake. He stiffens at Becks's quiet voice, and says, "Yeah."

"Where are you?" she asks, and she sounds...she sounds fine. Worried, maybe, but fine. "You texted me to come get you."

"Oh." Sanders blinks. "I did? Hold on."

It's five in the fucking morning. Jesus Christ. His face crumples up when he reads his text messages, sent ten minutes ago:

hekkoooo cn u cme get me

ialredi came lol

pls come bedsheets smel awful

Becks replied not a minute later. Sanders? Are you okay?

yeah im fine justfucked someones brains out i need 2 go hom max and the other lil shits left me

Becks's reply comes a minute this time. They didn't leave you, you went home with someone else. But anyway, wehre are you?

When did he even wake up and text Becks these fucking stupid messages?

"Sorry," Sanders breathes out, already pulling on his jeans. "Fuck, Becks, I'm sorry. You don't have to pick me up, I'll go home by myself."

"It's fine, I'm glad you texted," she says, and it's...it's sincere. She's not lying. "And don't worry about it, I'm already in a cab, can you text me the address? Or just turn your location on if you don't know where you are and I'll find you."

Sanders feels like shit. He feels like shit, it's five in the fucking morning, and Becks is in a cab alone. He's shit. Fucking hell. "Okay," he whispers. Shuts his eyes. Feels his head throb. Sanders puts on his shoes. "Okay, I'll turn it on. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," his best friend says. "Wait downstairs, I'll be there in five minutes."

In the cab, Becks smells nice. She smells like her body wash, and she's warm, and Sanders feels like he's in a dream when his head slumps on her shoulder, drifting away once again.

And then Sanders wakes up again when the car slows to a stop outside their apartment building. Becks is opening his side of the door, and she leans down, peering over his face. He's too out of it, too hazy, too hungover to notice she's in her pajamas, a damn hoodie and gym shorts, and her hair is falling all over her face, but she's worried about him and she's fucking tired. Like she woke up when he texted her. Fuck. "Okay, we're here, Sanders. You good? You're not going to puke, are you?"

The cab driver lets out a grunt.

"I'll pay you extra if he does," Becks says through gritted teeth, glaring at him.

Sanders shakes his head and swallows his dried saliva. "No, I'm fine. Tired."

"I know," she says, voice softening, gaze softening when she looks at him again. "Okay, let's go. Hands on my neck, big baby."

It takes some maneuvering, mostly because Sanders is a useless deadweight at this point and he can't even walk straight, but he manages to get his arms around Becks's neck, and his best friend hooks her own under his legs to keep him on her back, and he lays his chin on Becks's shoulder and God. God. She smells so nice. So warm. Her skin is a beautiful color.

Becks carries him inside their building. Without thinking, Sanders leans down noses at her neck.

Her whole body stiffens and shivers.

Sanders sighs, lips brushing her skin. "Sorry for texting you. You had to pick me up, and now you're taking care of me. Sorry."

"I don't mind, Sanders," she says, careful with her steps. "You take care of me all the time."

"I woke you up."

"I was waiting for you to call, anyway," she mutters. "Worried when you didn't come back with Maxon and Rosen. They're all shitfaced. Suho crashed on our couch."

Sanders hums. "I'm really sorry."

"Stop apologizing. I wasn't asleep."

Liar, Sanders wants to say. But doesn't.

"I'm sorry I slept with someone."

"That's your business," comes Becks's quick reply. "Don't apologize to me, Sanders. Never apologize to me for anything you want to do. As long as both of you consented to it, it's not my business, and it's not selfish to act on your own needs and wants."

Sanders doesn't like that answer.

He knows it's the one he's supposed to hear. It's the one his head wants to hear—Becks has no right to be jealous either way. If she were angry, she had no right to be.

She's right. Sanders shouldn't apologize.

Still, why does he feel like she's lying?

He doesn't say so. Instead, he leans forward, intoxicated, sleepy, light-headed, and rubs his nose on her cheek.

Becks trips over her next step and flails forward. Sanders lets out a noise, tightening his hold on her, and she manages to fins her balance before the two of them topple on the ground.

"Sorry!" Becks squeaks. "Sorry, you good? Are you okay?"

"Mm." Sanders breathes out. "You can put me down if I'm too heavy."

"You're not heavy," she says, determined. Sanders, eyes closed, feels his mouth turn up into a grin. Always so stubborn, and competitive, and never backs down from a challenge or a fight and God. Sometimes, in the ring, Sanders hates it. He hates it.

But she's not in the ring, and Sanders's chest feels warm.

Becks unlocks their door one-handed and carries him inside. There's a lumpy figure on the couch. She makes a beeline to his bedroom, not even bothering to turn on the lights, and Sanders, in his hazy half-asleep state, finds himself on his bed, and Becks is pulling the blankets over him.

Sanders hums. "Can I tell you something?"

His best friend sits at the edge of his bed. Brushes his hair away from his forehead and nods.

He wants to tell her how their first time together was awkward. That they were laughing a lot, and they had to adjust so many times to find their pace and rhythm, learn what felt good to them and what didn't, and it was a mess but it was amazing.

Tonight wasn't a mess. It was with experience, full desire, no time for laughs and jokes. Just lust. Empty lust.

He wants to say all of those things. But what comes out of his mouth, is something he'll horribly, horribly regret. "You were a better fuck."

(Becks will allow him this. He's hung-over. He's tired. Post-orgasm. She's hurt him too many times. It's okay.)

(It's not.)

*

a long update for you all <3 how is it? let me know and thank you for reading <3