Alex is trying new things

How could you not see the signs, so glaringly neon, aggressive as pop-up in a dodgy website? How had you not jumped off the caboose before the train wreck? How was it, you wondered in quiet and externally impassive desperation at the corner of the kitchen at yet another house party you had no interest in being at, that you had let Dean Di Laurentis sweet talk you into giving everything and receiving very little back?

It started with simple touches and whispered flirtations at the back of a classroom and you decided then that it all felt innocent enough to entertain, as long as you did not let it fester.

It evolved into his bedroom on a weeknight, sheets smelling like the both of you and his hand heavy on your hip where it drew abstract shapes. Your eyes were open many hours before his as you dissected every interaction you shared to see if it all could still fit inside the casual box.

Your inability to decide that night should’ve been the first clue that it was time to step back. But Dean matched every retreat of yours with two steps forward, confident and careless like a brakeless race car. Every time you said you couldn’t come to his place, he showed up to yours with takeout and the password to all his streaming services. Every time you felt out of place between his friends, he draped his jersey on your shoulders like a patriotic flag and dragged you into the conversation until you were privy to all their inside jokes. And every time you felt unseen, he pulled you into his arms and whispered into the crook of your neck until you felt achingly seen, arguably too seen and from every angle you overanalyzed your circumstances they all pointed towards the same conclusion: this was something real. It had to be.

Needless to say, you got run over. 

“You’re doing okay over there?” you heard Logan ask over the pounding music, leaning close to where you stood with a beer in his hand and an arched, inquisitive brow.

“Peachy” you answered with the sort of aloof tone you always assumed when your emotions got the best of you, when you didn’t have the needed amount of time to properly understand them, so you deflected them. “Why do you ask?” 

Logan shrugged. You always thought that out of all the boys, he was the best at picking up on your moods and dealing with them in the quiet and detached manner you needed. A kindred spirit, an overthinker himself. “You’re looking at Dean like you want to snap his neck and hide the body in our backyard.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’d never be stupid enough to hide the body in your backyard.”

Logan smirked. “Yeah, Dean has always been the stupid one out of the two of you.” 

“I don’t know about that”, you took a sip out of your own lukewarm beer, no longer cold after holding it for too long without taking a sip. “I think he’s smarter than I gave him credit for.”

While you were too busy stuck in your own head, praising yourself for how careful you had been, Dean had sidestepped your every defence and lodged himself inside your ribcage while avoiding the titles and labels you got so used to having for every aspect of your life. And now, weeks later, he seemed to have decided he had had his fun. It was time to leave.

And once more, he had been much more clever than you assumed he would be, diluting his absence in many tiny actions, slowly taking longer and longer to text back, spacing out invitations to see him until you found yourself at a frat party only to see him instead of hiding under your covers.

And saw him you did, unable to look away from where he was pressed against some girl’s body on the far side of the living room, her hips leaning against the air hockey table. From the outside, one would think you were staring at an equation you could not solve, head tilted sideways like you were confused. On the inside, things were much more catastrophic than that.

But your thoughts were only yours and you liked to keep them that way, so you took another sip of your warm beer and blinked away from Dean and What’s-Her-Face. You’d get to feel sad for yourself in the privacy of your own dorm, where his friends were not all looking at you with the pity you hated like they expected you to start crying. No, crying would only come with the right soundtrack, the perfect TikTok edit and the correct low-lighting.

Too focused on your after-party plans, you did not see Tucker elbowing Dean and pointedly gesticulating at you with his head as if to ask “Dude, what are you doing?”, but you did hear Dean’s answer of “What? It’s not like she’s my girlfriend or something.”

And thank God for that answer! It had just the right amount of inattentiveness for your feelings to push you to the other side of the Fuck You precipice, replacing any sadness with resentment and any tears with a purse of your lips that had Logan wincing at your side. And Dean must’ve seen something in your eyes, a gleam of sorts or the threat to shave his head in his sleep, because before your next blink he had side stepped his Tucker and walked towards you and Logan, who seemed unable to look away from the car crash about to happen, wondering about Dean’s sense of self-preservation. 

“Y/N” he said, soft in a way that had you clenching your teeth. “We good?”

A hundred different ways to get revenge flashed before your eyes, from Dean’s gleaming bald head to his number leaked to unsavory websites. We good?, he asked after showing all the ways in which there were no we. She’s not my girlfriend, he says after somehow mind tricking you into doing things you would only do for a boyfriend, after caring like only a girlfriend would for months.

But you had always been, for better or for worse, a very analytical person. And in the second it took you to answer, you had written over every good memory with all the ways he had let you down in the past few weeks and developed your exit strategy. 

You smiled pleasantly. Logan winced again. Tucker hid behind a pillar. Dean looked deliciously uncomfortable. “Of course. Actually, I’m glad you came all the way here to ask because I really needed to apologize.”

“Apologize?” 

“Absolutely. I can’t stop thinking about how uncomfortable I must’ve made you this past few months.”

Tucker peaked out of the pillar. Logan looked at you like you had grown a second head. Dean shifted, looking more and more unsettled.

Great.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’ve been inserting myself in your life in a way you did not ask for. I mean, having lunch here with your friends?” he asked you to. “Wearing your jersey?” he begged you to. “And, oh my God, the matching costume for your party and all that sleeping over here?” he whined until you accepted both times. “Those are all things that I only do in, like, a relationship. And you made it clear that we are not in one” he certainly did not. 

He knew all of that. His friends did too.

You held his hand, eyes wide, teary and sincere in a way that should’ve won you a fucking Oscar. Dean’s face paled at your expression. “I’m not your girlfriend. I’m sorry for acting like I was. I can’t imagine how I must’ve made you feel. I feel like such an asshole!”

Dean stammered, nervous and uneasy and you breathed in his distress. It fueled your fire, pyre fed with bitterness, indignation and the newest Olivia Rodrigo album you could not wait to listen to after this shit-show. “You’re not- I mean-”

“But don’t worry!” You smiled and patted his shoulder gently. Behind you, Logan whispered something that sounded a lot ‘psychopath’. “It won’t happen anymore. I’ll step back and give you all the space you need. No more hanging around. No more sleep overs.”

Dean had the nerve to look upset. As if he still expected you to stay after all of the stunts he pulled. As if he could have his cake and eat it too. “C’mon, Y/N, you know that’s not what I-” he started, but you did not let him finish.

The head shaving idea seemed more and more enticing. But no. He wanted to be single. Free. He wanted space. Well, you were about to become fucking NASA.

“Hey, it’s fine. We’re good, right? So good. So go have your fun”, you let your smile harden just enough for him to see you didn’t mean a single word that came out of your mouth, ending with what was just ambiguous enough to pass as a threat: “I will too.”

And with that you turned around, ready to leave despite Dean’s voice calling after you with the slightest hint of panic. You felt good about your exit, but Fate was a woman and suddenly she had your back, deciding you deserved an even better one, sending you slamming straight into someone’s body. Big, muscular arms wrapped around you to keep you from flying back and you looked up into the only smiling face that could add salt into the wound you happily created.

“Are you okay?” asked Hunter Davenport and you smiled, feeling the exact place behind your back where Dean was staring daggers at.

Now, one might ask if he hadn’t fought for your relationship, considering you were, in his very own Shakespearian words, “his pookie”. And of course he would! He had fought much harder for much less, e.g the Great Kikufuku Fistfight of 2010. He would’ve hung outside your window with a boombox playing every Glee song until your neighbours threw stones at him; he would’ve bought you a whole ass Pop Mart so you could open every single surprise box until you forgave him; he would’ve… He would’ve… He would’ve worked on himself - grow by your side and become a better version of the man you initially fell in love with. He would evolve from his current ever-hungry, sassy manchild state to an… Well, ever-hungry, sassy manadult (?).

If only you gave him a chance! Instead, you had disappeared from the face of the earth as soon as you shut the door behind you, gone without a trace much like Nanami’s side bangs and just as missed. Suddenly, Satoru couldn’t find your socials, reach your number or contact your friends and family. If it wasn’t for a couple of belongings you left behind, he would’ve thought he dreamt of your relationship in a vape and Red Bull induced haze.

Now, years later and much more mature, no longer leaving his wet towel on the bathroom floor or smoking tutti-frutti summer tropical e-cigs, he still carried your vacancy like a scar, the weight of all the love he had stored for you sagging his posture. And despite his easy laughter, lazy smiles and concerningly odd gait, his stare was always a bit disconnected or dissociated, daydreaming of the day you would come back to his arms, all sins forgotten and forgiven.

Well, when that day finally came, it did not go exactly as he had planned or written down on his journal with crass stick figure illustrations depicting your first night together in a way that had even his stoic friend suguru blushing to the roots of his luscious hair. No, it happened when he was in the ER after swallowing a small Happy Meal plastic toy (don’t ask) and a young child with striking blue eyes sat next to him, legs kicking underneath the too high chair, looking chastised.

“Tough day?” he asked the child as if they were both salary men complaining at an izakaya.

The boy nodded grimly. “Ate too much candy”, he admitted. “Threw up. Scared momma.”

Ah, the wonders of childhood. “Yup” Satoru agreed “Been there. I once ate 3 packages of fruity pebbles in one day.” He refrained from telling the child that happened when he was in college, as that information was inconsequential.

“Momma doesn’t let me eat so much candy.”

“She seems like a smart lady. I had a girlfriend who didn’t like when I ate too much candy too.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend anymore?” the boy asked and Satoru suddenly felt as if he had met the smallest therapist ever for a free session.

“No. She left.”

“Because of all the candy?”

Satoru paused. Oh my God, could it be because of all the candy? “I… I don’t think so?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t eat candy,” the child mused. “I don’t want momma to leave.” 

Satoru looked around for the possible mother of the tiny shrink. “Where is your mother, by the way?” 

“Hiro!” a voice called. “There you are baby!”

Satoru had several thoughts at the same time, his epiphany pulling out a gasp from his throat that lodged the fucking toy even deeper in his airways. 

The first thought, intrusive and instinctual, was of how pretty you looked. Older and matured, filled out in all the right places. You paradoxically looked exactly the same, but somehow better.

The second thought was about how he was never great at math nor at telling children’s age. But even he could add two and two and come up with an educated guess at that boy’s parentage, considering the lazuli eyes and the worrying taste for forbidden candy. 

The third and final thought was of how lucky he was to already be in the ER, because he was about 76% sure he was having a heart attack.