MAYA

he takes his vows seriously. celibacy isn't a sacrifice for brendan. it's a relief. his body has only ever wanted one person and that person is gone and the vow of celibacy isn't a cage. it's a lock on a door he was never going to open anyway. why would he need to forsake physical love? he forsook it at sixteen when he realised that every mouth on earth that isn't yours tastes sickens him. the collar just made it official.

the guilt though. the guilt is a big old cathedral of its own. because he didn't choose God. he chose absence. he chose the priesthood because it was the most structured, most complete, most airtight way to bury himself alive, and every morning when he puts on the collar he knows, in the part of his brain that catalogues uncomfortable truths alongside comfortable ones, that the collar is you.

the collar is the ring he never gave you. the black cloth against his throat sitting in the exact spot where your hand rested once, at a bonfire, in 1987, when you touched his neck and said you're so tense, benny, relax, it's ok.

he hasn't relaxed since.

and bobby visits. sometimes. bobby who never went into the backrooms in this version. bobby who married someone else. bobby who has kids and a camera and a life that moved forward. bobby sits in the pew and watches his twin brother deliver a sermon and the wrongness of it presses against his ribs because brendan in a collar is brendan in a costume. brendan in a collar is a man who put himself in a box labelled GOD because the box labelled YOU was already closed.

"you're not happy," bobby says after. in the vestry, watching brendan hang up the vestments with careful, practiced hands.

"I'm at peace."

"that's not the same thing."

"for me it is."

and bobby wants to argue but he can't because he knows. he's always known. about the diary. he found it years ago. he knows about the wanting. about the five years of silence that were louder than anything bobby ever said.

and then.

and then you come back.

walk into his church on a sunny wednesday. mid-afternoon. the light through the stained glass painting the pews in red and gold. brendan is alone, arranging hymnals, his back to the door. and he hears the footsteps and turns to greet whoever's come in with that gentle, practised, pastoral smile.

and the hymnals hit the floor.

because it's you. standing in the aisle. older. different. the same. the light in your eyes different, wrong, sharp. your bag strap sliding off your shoulder the way it did in homeroom, 1985, twelve minutes late, and his entire carefully constructed life cracks down the middle like a cathedral hit by lightning.

you don't know what he feels. you've never known. you're standing in his church because you're lost, looking for something you can't name and the universe, in its cruelty, sent you to the one place where the one person who has loved you most completely is wearing a collar that says he can't.

"benny?" you say and the sound of his name in your mouth after all these years hits him so hard his knees almost give.

"hello." his voice steady, but his hands are shaking, the hymnals scattered at his feet. "it's been a while."

and now it's a horror story. now it's the worst possible version of his life. because you're here. in his church. in his space. and you're going to sit in his pews and come to his services and seek his counsel after what you've been through and touch his arm the way you always touched his arm and his body is going to respond the way it always responded (the only body, the only touch, the only frequency that makes the static stop) and he is wearing a collar that says he can't.

he made a vow. to God. to the church. to the structure that has held him together for years. and the structure is shaking because you said benny the way only you say it and every brick he laid is vibrating.

and of course the confessional. you come to confession because you're carrying guilt (for leaving, for surviving, for the years you can't account for and the horrors in them that changed you) and you sit on the other side of the screen and he can smell you. still the same. vanilla and warmth. and your voice is in his ear through the lattice and you're confessing and he's supposed to be a vessel of God's forgiveness and instead he's gripping the armrest so hard the wood splinters because your mouth is three inches from his ear separated by a thin wooden screen and his body is abandoning every vow he ever made.

"forgive me, father, for I have sinned."

his collar is choking him, his knuckles white on the armrest, his mouth forming the correct responses while his brain screams.

and the tension. the tension. your hand on his during a parish dinner. you asking him to pray with you and your heads bowed together, foreheads almost touching, and he can feel your warmth radiating across the gap and his prayers are disintegrating into please, please, please directed at a God he chose as a substitute for the woman kneeling beside him.

you find the notebook eventually. the old one. he kept it. it's in his desk in the rectory, underneath his bible, and you're looking for a pen and you find a notebook full of crossed-out I love yous and ink warped by tears and your name unwritten but all but clear.

"benny." standing in his office, the notebook open in your hands, your eyes wet. "benny, what is this."

and he looks at you holding the documentation of his destruction and his collar is tight against his throat and his hands are shaking. for the first time in his priesthood, father brendan bennett franklin has no idea what to say.

because the truth is blasphemy and the lie is worse and you're standing in his office with his heart in your hands and the answer to your question is: that's why I'm here. that's why I wear this. that's the reason for the collar and the vows and the prayers and the careful, structured, God-shaped box I built around the brendan-shaped hole you left. you are the reason I'm a priest. you are the reason I will die a priest. because the only alternative was loving you and the loving was going to kill me and I chose a slower death.

he doesn't say that. he says: "it was a long time ago."

you look at him. the notebook in your hands. the collar on his throat. and you understand. everything. all at once. five years of silence decoded in a single moment.

"benny," you whisper. "was it me? the whole time? was it—"

"please don't." barely a sound, his eyes closed, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. "please. I made my vows."

"you made your vows because of me."

the silence that follows is the loudest that's ever existed between you.

priest brendan. the girl who came back wrong. the collar as a love letter. the vows as a funeral. the confessional as the closest he'll ever get to hearing your voice in his ear in the dark. a man who gave himself to God because God was the only thing large enough to fill the space you left behind.

Being the first to walk into orientation four years ago and seeing 20 chairs neatly arrayed in a conference room was exciting, right up until the room started to fill. You found your chair on the end of a row, and stuck on the cheesy 'Hello, My Name Is' name tag that sat waiting for you, already displaying your name in black Sharpie. The minutes ticked by and the room started to fill with a steady trickle of 18-year-old boys, the majority of them boasting summer coding program t-shirts and basketball shorts you could tell they had owned since middle school. When the boy entitled to the name tag in the chair next to you walked in, it felt a little possible that you could actually have a friend in your program for the next four years.

Your first look at Walter McKey inspired a slight, and embarrassingly awed spark of hope. At least, more hope than the current crowd of your fellow developers instilled in you. His presence once sat in the chair next to you filled the surrounding air with the scent of clean laundry, his hair looked soft and curled slightly in a charming way around his ears. The lenses of his glasses were spotless, attributed to the practiced way he would push them up if they slipped with the pad of his middle finger, right on the metal bridge. He was wearing a short sleeved button up shirt over a t-shirt, jeans that fit him nicely, not too short around the ankles as was common with the male coders you knew, and black-and-white checkered Vans, that were marked with subtle scuffs only visible if you looked too close.

You politely told him your name and stuck out your hand, which he shook with a limp hold before finally speaking.

"I'm Keys." And then he was silent for the rest of the day.

Getting to know him was impossible. He was quiet, dutifully took notes during lectures, corrected professors under his breath, his portions of group projects were done on time and flawlessly. You were never quite able to pin him for anything, not even after working with him directly for an assignment with a few other coders during your third semester. When you met up to work on it, he was near silent. Engineered his designated sections, stood up with the group to present, helped get you a good grade. It didn't matter if he seemed different at first glance—Keys wasn't interested in anything that wasn't a 95 or higher on his transcript.

It was after your fourth semester of putting up with the verbal jabs and rolling eyes that you decided to devote every second of your college career to proving him and all of the other Mountain Dew guzzlers in your major wrong. If you couldn't prove yourself in class by being as good as them, you would simply have to be better.

Progressing through semesters of having nearly every class with the same crowd of 19 fellow developers gave you the nearly scientific ability to split them in half and classify them—the gawkers, who never totally got used to having a girl in their midst. They stared with parted mouths when you presented your work, blushed and stammered when you were forced to partner up for projects. Never quite mellowed despite the now four years of being in your presence. The other half wrote you off the second they laid eyes on you during that orientation. Reddit-frequenting, girlfriend-less, snickering and whispering to each other conspiratorially when you spoke up in classes. You assumed that Keys fit firmly in the latter category. He didn't exactly laugh like the others, but he was prone to eye rolling, and definitely didn't stare at you with looks of awe and astonishment like the former.

Truthfully, and totally unbeknownst to you, Keys wasn't in either category. He didn't like you because found something in you that he didn't get from anyone else—you offered him an actual challenge.

A glance up at the clock tower tells you it's time to get on your way to class, and you sigh, steeling yourself for another two hours of stares and shit-eating smirks. Maybe it was good for you. You were always going to be in the minority in this field, and while you still hope you would end up in a company that had at least a few women on staff, the future was going to involve an uphill climb if you were committed to making games. At least the walk to the CompSci building was peaceful. Campus was still sparse, the only sounds around being the gentle rustling of red and orange leaves and your footsteps against the brick pathway. You liked being early for classes. It gave you the best chance to get moments like this, and limited the number of heads whipping around to look at you as you pushed the classroom door open.

Your usual chair sat dutifully in the front row, and you slip your backpack off of your shoulders, sliding into the seat. As you push up the screen of your laptop and start to enter your password to unlock it, the door opens behind you, and the footsteps of nearly spotless checkered Vans make their way to the front row table to your right. Keys had a similar and infuriating habit of being early.

"Morning," he mumbles as his own laptop meets the table and your spine stiffens, surprised to hear him initiate any kind of conversation, let alone one where he isn't making backhanded comments on how "approachable" your demos are.

"Someone's cheerful," you tease. "What, did new sexy elf skins drop on World of Warcraft?"

"I don't play World of Warcraft," Keys rebuttals weakly, clicking his Bluetooth mouse on and testing it with a few back and forth swipes across the table. You look over and cock an eyebrow.

"Anymore," he adds through his teeth.

"Thought so," you smirk.

He breathes hard through his nose before he speaks again.

"So, you got demo of the week last Friday," he says, attempting to seem casual. "How are things looking this week?"

Demo of the week—a sought after title given by Dr. Howell, faculty chair of the Game Design program and professor of many of its classes. Extremely tough, and very withholding of praise outside of his designations of demo of the week. You and Keys have been alternating the title on and off since August.

"I think it's as strong as last week's," you say, scanning through your files to load your entry for this Friday. "Why, you scared?"

"No," he says, far too quickly and with a defensive sharpness. "I'm just saying, enjoy your title while you still have it."

Demo showcase passes as it typically does—everyone watches each other's entries with laser focus, cringing internally at any aspects that feel unfinished, and mentally jotting down impressive tricks or assets for later. You and Keys both present, watching each other's work with scrunched brows and teeth digging into bottom lips, eager for any kind of slip-up. Yours goes well—no obvious bugs, punctuated with a nod from Dr. Howell. A nod is alright, but a smile is best, and usually indicates that you've been chosen. Today, his face is blank. Shit.

Keys follows right after you do, and infuriatingly, his work is incredible. He's obviously proud, speaking with a little more confidence than usual as he shows off that he's mastered a new movement mechanic he's been working on the past few weeks. All ten minutes of gameplay were clearly coded meticulously—polished textures, zero lag, balanced camera movement. As much as you hate to admit to yourself (and you would die before admitting this to him), it's better than yours. The room applauds politely once he finishes, and his eyes catch yours as he detaches his laptop from the cable, twinkling mischievously and squinted a little at the corners from the satisfied smirk that spreads across his face. Your head snaps nervously to Dr. Howell, who wears a similar expression, arms crossed as he stands from the empty seat at the back of the room and makes his way back to the front of the lecture hall.

"Most of you were middling," he says, finally facing the class. "A few of you were bad, I'm assuming you already know who you are." As if on cue, a sniffle from a few seats over briefly resounds through the room. He calls your name, a sharp wave of nerves crashing over you as your eyes widen.

"You were fine this week," he starts. "About as good as last week, but the purpose of this exercise is improvement. Your bar is high, I ask that you please meet it."

Your stomach churns harder as you nod, mustering a wobbly smile that you hope expresses that you're internalizing the criticism. You aren't sure what feeling turns in you faster—disappointment in yourself, or your anger towards Keys.

"Walter," Dr. Howell says, turning to face him fully. "This was strong work from you. Very dynamic, and that new trick of yours has come very far. Almost ready for a full length project. Congratulations."

Keys beams, shifting in his chair a little, as if unable to physically contain how pleased he is. His excitement would be endearing if he wasn't so fucking infuriating.

"Thanks so much, Dr. Howell," he says a little breathless, running his hand through his hair, which only causes it to flop more over his eyes and the frame of his glasses. Dr. Howell starts another round of applause, and you briefly slap your hands together lazily, biting the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you lost your title to Keys, it stung. It felt like a step back from your mission to rise and topple the others, a concession to the staring and laughing and backhandedness. With a sigh, as the little clock in the upper corner of your screen finally ticks to 10:00 AM, you close the lid of your laptop and pack it into your backpack.

"Excuse me," Dr. Howell says in front of your table, Keys flanking his left side with his messenger bag slung onto one shoulder. "I've asked the two of you to stay because I have something of an…additional project for you both."

Your eyebrows furrow inward, gaze briefly flicking over to an equally confused Keys.

"Additional project?" You ask.

"Yes," Dr. Howell confirms, gesturing for Keys to take the empty seat next to you, and he sits rigidly, folding his hands on the table and subtly fidgeting with his thumbs.

"You two come to every class, you see these demos. I'm assuming it's no secret to you both that you're the most evolved students in my program," Dr. Howell continues, and you hear Keys's breath hitch as your heart quickens. Maybe this is working, you think. This is paying off.

"You're both seniors, and we're inching closer to the end of the semester. That means bigger and bigger projects," he says, crossing his arms again. "Instead of creating an hour long demo for the showcase in November independently, I want to see one collaborative three hour long playtest."

Fuck. Your brain fills instantly and rapidly with one, big internal monologue of fuck. You'd prefer being kicked out of the program. You'd prefer being publicly shamed for plagiarism. Honestly, you might take being burned at the stake over spending nearly every evening with Keys for the next month. Shit, finally finding a single plot concept to agree on is probably going to take up most of that time anyway.

"Dr. Howell, I really think we'd both prefer making something on our own," Keys says, his voice quick and jumpy. Finally, some common ground at least. "We're pretty different types of devs, I don't-"

"That's exactly why I want to see what you would create when working together," Dr. Howell insists, turning to you. "You're a story developer. Fleshed out characters, making connections, but your asset work isn't always the cleanest. Walter, you're a mathematician. Your code is neat as a pin, but I can tell that you're more concerned with having perfect work than engaging work. That's where you two meet. Pick up each other's slack."

"I was already kind of shaping some ideas on my own," you say, feeling your palms start to sweat a little.

"Then share them with him," Dr. Howell responds, shrugging a little as if entirely unaware of the issue. "I'm not doing this to punish either of you, in fact, I'm giving you both a look into what working on actual game looks like. 99% of things on market right now are made by teams ranging from duos like you two, up to offices of hundreds. You've done almost all of your course work on your own to this point, and I chose you two because you're my strongest designers. I suggest you both stop inventing excuses and start thinking up some actual ideas. I'm not asking."

Dr. Howell turns to pack his own computer into his briefcase, then walks with long steps up the aisle of the lecture hall. You and Keys remain frozen—a little out of shock, mostly out of dread, and both afraid to say the first word. Goddammit. Buck up, he's literally just a nerd. A nerd that just so happens to be really, really good at coding. A nerd with a stupid handsome face and stupid, sexy, big hands. A sigh in your right ear brings you back to the present.

"Are you free tonight?" Keys asks begrudgingly, still staring straight ahead at the front wall. "I don't even know why I'm asking, it's Friday. You probably have some rager to grace with your presence."

"Awe," you coo condescendingly, turning in your swiveling chair to face him. "You know, Keys, usually girls liked to be asked out with flowers, not brazen insults."

"I'm not asking you out," he scoffs, knee bumping into yours as he turns to face you. "I'd actually like to get this over with. If we marathon for the next two weeks, we can avoid any unnecessary time together until the showcase."

"That I can agree on," you huff, pulling out a pen and notebook, ripping out a piece of paper haphazardly. The jagged edges and uneven shape make Keys wince.

"Despite the popular assumption around here that I spend my weekends blacking out and fucking random Boston College guys," you say through your teeth, scribbling your phone number and address onto the paper. "I'm free through Sunday. I don't have a roommate, so we can get work done at my place without bugging anyone but each other. Come by at 8."

"Fine," he sighs, trying his best to fold the paper into a neat shape before tucking it into the front pocket of his messenger bag. This was going to be a very, very long two weeks.

"He's not ugly," Valerie says, picking up a fry from the plate you're sharing and dragging it through ketchup.

Valerie was your freshman year roommate—a funny, carefree architecture major, whose voice was sometimes your only point of reason after spending all day in your classes. Every Friday since September of your freshman year, you and Valerie met at a cafe just off campus at 6—ranting, bitching, laughing, anything either of you needed after the week.

"Ugly isn't my problem," you explain, chin in hand as you drink your iced tea, chewing on the straw a little once you're satisfied with the sip. "He's a pain in my ass, that's my problem."

"Why does he specifically piss you off, though?" She questions, leaning back a little in her chair. "Everyone in the program in a dipshit, what makes Keys so annoying?"

"Because I can ignore everyone else's weirdness," you say, taking a fry. "But his is different, I don't know."

"Is the weirdness his shiny hair and big brown eyes?" Valerie teases.

"Shut up," you say with a laugh, leaning your elbows onto the table.

"I'm just saying," she shrugs. "He's cute, not even CompSci nerd cute. Like, a normal, good-looking guy."

She's right, and you hate it. It would be easy to totally write Keys off if he was exactly like the other people in the program, but much to your chagrin, as it only made it harder to make any sense of how you felt about him, he wasn't. He was attractive, he took good care of himself (relatively, a bulk sized bottle of ibuprofen did tumble out of his messenger bag once), and he was an undeniably excellent programmer. Turning this over in your mind, you glance down at your phone, seeing it was approaching closer to 7.

"I need to get going," you lament, taking a last drink and scooting your chair away from the table. "He's coming over at 8, and I still need to shower."

"Ooo, wear something skimpy," Valerie giggles. "You can borrow one of my club dresses."

"To sit on my own couch and code?" You laugh.

"Just brainstorming."

Two sharp knocks sound on the front door of your apartment at 7:57, cutting through the soft music you had put on as you got yourself and your place ready for company, especially company as particular as Keys. You look over from the kitchen where you've been finishing clean putting dishes away (you figured tidying up would limit the amount of insult fodder available to him), and take a quick glance at yourself in the mirror. Despite Valerie's suggestion, you opted for a t-shirt, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks for tonight's session. You were in your own home after all, and Keys was decidedly not deserving of your usual routine before going out. Good enough for a little check in the mirror, though? Valerie's voice echoes in your head, so familiar to you that her commentary makes its way into your thoughts even when she isn't there. You physically shake your head, slightly damp hair whipping by your ears as you try your hardest to remove the thought from your conscience. Buck up. He's a programmer, for fuck's sake.

Keys has also dressed down for the occasion—he's traded his usual short sleeve button up for a worn, soft looking MIT sweatshirt and jeans. He steps inside and slips off his Vans before you can ask, revealing black socks covered in little stitched, colorful Tetris pieces.

"Nice of you to show," you say, locking the door behind him as he steps into your living room, taking in the atmosphere of your apartment, far cozier and more lived in than his. Furniture accumulated from years of risky Facebook Marketplace meetups and trips to thrift stores with Valerie, illuminated by string lights and a little sandalwood scented candle flickering weakly in the corner. Your music continues playing from the speaker on the coffee table.

"You know how to set the mood," Keys says, setting his messenger bag on the couch. "I'll give you that."

"Good to know it's cozier than your charging station," you tease. "Can I get you some water, or will that fry your circuit boards?"

"Let's just work, please," he sighs, pulling out his laptop. "You said you had some ideas?"

"Yeah, actually," you say, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. "I've never made a horror game before, so I was thinking of trying that out for my project back when it was still mine."

Keys rubs his eyes under the lenses of his glasses, then he takes them off, pulling up his sweatshirt a little to wipe them. The sliver of his stomach you can now see is lean and soft all at once, revealing a dark line of hair that travels from his waistband up towards his navel. Your instincts rapidly overtake your frustration with him—cheekbones stinging a little as your mouth waters, stomach starting to swirl with eagerness to see more. Keys lowers the grey fabric back over his abdomen and you snap back into focus, preferring a slow and painful death over the prospect of him catching you ogling like that.

"I actually haven't designed horror before either," he admits, his jaw tight like agreeing with you is physically painful. "It's big in the market right now, but we need an original idea."

Your tongue pokes inside your cheek, flip flopping between sharing the concepts you've been experimenting with over the last few weeks, and seeing if Keys has any competency outside of technically impressive code.

"You heard Dr. Howell, this is supposed to challenge your lack of storytelling skills," you taunt, reaching for your own laptop on the coffee table. Keys lets out a half hearted chuckle next to you, pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

"Oh, so we're actually sticking to this stupid challenge? Swapping roles and everything?" He retorts. "That's fine, I like cleaning up sloppy code anyway."

"Sloppy?" You challenge, sitting up a little straighter on the couch. "If I end up coding sloppy, it'll be because I'm working on some half-baked shooter with maybe two characters and no continuity! Plot courtesy of Walter 'Keys' McKey."

Keys's jaw clenches as he sets his laptop back on the coffee table.

"You know, on my way over here, I was actually looking forward to this a little," he says, voice gradually starting to raise, his hands starting to gesture sharply and without logic. "I thought 'her storytelling is actually decent, and maybe I have a few code tricks I can show her.' Now I see you have no interest in actually trying to grow as a developer, but I'm not too worried. I'm sure you'll make a great barista simulator someday!"

"What the fuck is your problem?" You lash out, standing abruptly to look down at him. The satisfaction of being able to do that doesn't last long, as Keys follows suit, standing face to face with hands stiffly balled at his sides.

"My problem is you," he spits. "For the most part, I really try my best to stay the fuck out of your way, which is seemingly impossible, considering you're my only actual competition! Seeing you, week after week, standing at the front of the class with that smile on your face, all of the attention on you, like you've already fucking won!"

"You're this mad because I actually like my own work sometimes?!" You shoot back, stepping closer to get in his face. "Maybe I should be just like you, Mr. Robot! I bet I could spit out perfect code too if I ran on batteries!"

"Yeah, I'm annoying about my code, but that doesn't give you the right to hate me!" Keys snaps, moving to close the distance even further, your chests nearly pressed together.

"What is it with you and the goddamn assumptions all the time, Keys?" You shout, feeling your heart thrum harder and harder against your ribs the closer you get, the more of his obnoxiously clean, stupidly charming scent filling your senses. "I don't hate you!"

"Then I would love an explanation of how you actually feel about me!"

Looking into those big brown eyes, wide and puppy-like behind his glasses, the growing flush in his cheeks, the way his chest heaves up and down, brushing against the front of your shirt as your sternum does the same, the swimming of hatred and frustration bundles and twists until it finally transforms into something else entirely—a spark. It would be easy to attribute the sudden and irrepressible urge to get into Walter McKey's pants to the fact that school had you wound tight as a vise, and you hadn't had a good hookup in over a year (let alone that the last one was bad, and seven months ago), but he's standing in front you—ridiculously cute, obviously worked up, and you want him. Before you can listen to your usually too loud voice of reason, your fingers are clenching the soft fabric of the front of his sweatshirt harshly, and your mouth is on his, eager and long overdue for a kiss.

Keys tenses for long moment before he gives into his own longing for your touch, buried and constrained beneath deadlines and code techniques—things that make sense to him. In the seconds that follow after you press your lips to his, Keys decides he's tired of making sense all the time. Soon, his lips are pliant and needy, messily reciprocating the kiss as his arms wind around your waist, closing any sliver of distance that remained between you two. He tastes clean and minty, probably now his natural state from the sheer number of Altoids he downs and sticks of gum he chews to help keep him focused. When you come up for air, both of you with warm cheeks and parted lips, Keys starts to smile, that same smirk from this morning, when he showed off his demo.

"So that's how you feel," he teases.

"You absolutely need to shut up or I change my mind," you warn, reaching down for his hand and pulling him down the hallway to your bedroom. Almost as soon as the door is open it's closed again, shutting under the pressure of your hands on Keys's chest until his back is flush to the wood.

"I have no idea why I'm doing this," you breathe before your lips are on his again, tongue swiping against the pretty dip of his Cupid's bow, the dip you now realize you've spent a good deal of time glancing at during lectures. Fuck, he's pretty.

"I knew my demo was good today," he says, words tumbling against your mouth. "I didn't know I was turning people on."

"Ugh, shut up," you huff, pulling Keys by the front of his sweatshirt over to your bed. He falls against it, bouncing a little as his back makes contact with your mattress. Your hips are on his, thighs falling to either side of his body before he can even align his head onto your pillows.

"You're so fucking annoying," you moan, as your clothed cunt makes contact with the annoyingly large bulge in his jeans, shuddering a little as his hands brace your hips.

"And yet you're here," he challenges, before pulling you down for another needy kiss. Your hips start to rock against him, the dull pressure of his body against yours only working you up more. "I should have known this would happen. I thought I saw you shifting in your seat during class. But hey, I'm flattered, really-"

Crack. The smack of your palm against his cheek echoes through your room, everything grinding to a stiff halt. In a panic, you tuck the hand that was just across his face against your chest, breathes growing shallow as you take in his bright red cheeks and his eyes, almost pitch black with pupils, big and round as planets, overwhelming the hazel.

"Fuck Keys, I'm sorry," you pant. "I don't know what I was thinking, I wasn't. Does it hurt?"

He sucks in a shaky breath through his open mouth.

"Do it again," he whimpers.

"I-what?"

"Hit me again," he pleads, fingers digging into the plush of your thighs. "Please, baby."

The same hand reaches forward, brushing over the little blotch that glows especially red against his already blushing cheeks before you draw your hand back, palm making contact again. Keys moans this time, pulling you down for another kiss when he recovers from the recoil.

"I think about you constantly," he confesses, reaching for the bottom of your shirt. Your arms lift upward on instinct, the soft skin of your torso dimpling slightly against the cool air. His hands reach up, cupping and feeling for your breasts through the cups of your bra. "You never smile in class, so I have to catch it across the library, when you're working with your friends. It's beautiful, and it drives me fucking crazy."

"So you're stalking me?" You tease, pulling his hands back to the hooks of your bra, which he manages smoother than you expected. His sweatshirt comes off soon after, finally revealing what had been cruelly teased on the couch—pretty constellations of freckles and moles all across his arms and shoulders and chest, thick hair that covers the broadest part of it, the full view of his tummy and happy trail.

"We go to the same school," he huffs, rolling his eyes. "What, you've never seen me outside of class?"

You had frequently, often enough that you picked up on the way his tongue would slightly prod the inside of his cheek when he was focused, the slight crinkle in his nose any time a bug would pop into his code lines, the constant hands in his stupid, perfect hair. But he wasn't winning this one.

"Some of us actually focus on out work and not trying to catch a girl smiling," you tease, dipping down to the long curve of his neck, kissing a trail down to his collarbone, where you gently nip and lick at the skin. Keys's back arches from his mattress slightly, little shockwaves of pleasure picking up speed in his veins.

"If I ever smiled in class, no one in class would take me seriously," you remind him, lips traveling across his collar.

"They're idiots," Keys sighs.

You lift your head from his chest, moving to be face to face again so you can quickly peck his lips. You smile sweetly as you pull away, lifting your hand to brush a stray hair from his forehead.

"So are you."

With your lips capturing his in another bruising kiss, Keys's hands grow bolder, traveling from the sides of your breasts down to the flimsy tie that holds your sweatpants around your hips, only needing a slight tug to unravel the knot.

"Can't wait to see what Pokemon you have on your underwear," you jab.

Keys lets out a huff before he pulls your chest flush to his, grunting next to your ear. In a heartbeat, he has you underneath him, glasses slipping down his nose and arms caging you in on either side of your head. Your heart beats harder than it has all night, eyes owlish and unblinking from the sheer shock of his strength, given the heaviest thing you've ever seen him carry is his ridiculous messenger bag.

"No comeback?" He taunts, tilting his head a little.

You manage to finally blink, attempting a scoff that comes out more like a measly clearing of your throat.

"You're exhausting," you say, with a little shake of your head for good measure.

"You're pretty."

The dreamy sigh that dares to escape from you is swallowed by another long kiss, Keys's hand wandering down your body from where it cupped your cheek to tug at the waistband of your sweats again, finally in the right position to tug them down. You're completely bare underneath him, thighs shifting together nervously as Keys sits back on his heels, eyes all moony again at the sight of you. He doesn't even look down at his jeans as he unbuttons them, clumsily pulling them down, leaving him in his boxer briefs. Much to your disappointment, they're just grey. You pull your lips into your mouth, biting back the giggle that threatens to escape at his lack of finesse, not that you anticipated much suaveness from him in the first place.

"You're," he breathes, kneeling between your thighs again. "I-I don't have anything stupid to say, you're so gorgeous."

"Really?" You muse, sitting up on your elbows. "I managed to silence Walter McKey. I'm taking that as a compliment of the highest caliber."

"But you are," he whines, settling on top of you again as he eagerly goes for a kiss, hand stroking tenderly at your side. You welcome his lips gladly, moaning as his tongue starts to slide against yours. Keys lowers his body further, nudging the tip of his nearly bare cock against your clit, puffy and aching for attention. His hips roll again, sending a deep and needed pulse of pleasure from your cunt to your belly, a little swell of warmth starting to build. You tap his chest a few times, needing to get out a breath, and a few (embarrassing) words. He pulls away, looking back at you eagerly.

"Despite what all of the losers in our courses like to say about me when they don't think I can hear, I haven't had sex in like, almost a year," you clarify, eyes trained on him to ensure he absorbs every word. "Disappointingly, I'm actually exactly like you guys, and I spend 99% of my Friday nights at my desk. I am under an insane amount of stress, and I feel insane for saying this to you, but I need to get fucked, Keys. At this point, you owe me that much."

He nods a little, all too eager and clearly from a place of understanding.

"It's been a while for me too," he agrees. "I'll try my best to last, really, I promise."

"You better."

The boxer briefs come off, and you no longer have the strength to pretend not to ogle. Keys is obnoxiously hung, veins prominent from the stiffness of his erection, pink tip curving upward towards his tummy, already glossy from drips of pre-cum. The hair that was teased by his happy trail is there, neatly trimmed for a guy in his demographic. You lick your lips. His cheeks go ruddy again as his weight settles on top of you again, hips slotted between your thighs, cock heavy on your lower stomach.

"See something you like?" He taunts.

"What did I say about shutting up?" Your arms wind around his shoulders, a hand traveling into the soft hair at the back of his head as you kiss him. Keys leans onto one elbow, his now free hand wrapping around the base of his cock, teasing up and down your cunt for a moment before he pushes in. The stretch is all pleasure, the curve of his cock fitting perfectly against the walls of your cunt, tip kissing just the right spot inside of you.

"Fuck," you moan, fingers digging into his shoulder as his hips grow closer to yours, cock filling you with unbelievable satisfaction. Keys lets out a precious whine as he bottoms out, head falling to your shoulder. The lenses of his glasses are cool against your skin, and probably smudging in a way that would send him spiraling under any other circumstances.

"You good?" You breathe, fingers giving his hair a gentle tug.

"Please be quiet, or I'll ruin this," he begs, voice muffled by your soft skin. "I-shit, I need a second. You feel so good."

The quip dies on your tongue as soon as it rises, and you opt instead to release the hold in your fingers, gently brushing through the strands as he adjusts. He needs this as bad as you do, after all. Keys's shoulders rise, the frame growing a little broader as he tries to calm himself down with a deep breath. He releases the air shakily against your neck, punctuating it with a kiss before his hips start rolling—slight, experimental movements to test how much he can handle.

Even with the tiniest of movements, the sheer size of him is enough to have you squirming beneath him, the warmth in your belly starting to pool even deeper, needing more motion, another kiss, something. His arms brace either side of your head, the veins in his forearms growing more prominent as he tries to keep his composure.

"I was promised a fucking," you remind him, pushing his slipping glasses up his nose with a single finger on the bridge, just as you had seen him do a thousand times.

"You can have it now or you can have it longer," Keys chides, giving another roll of his hips

"Come on, pretty boy," you taunt. "You've got good stamina for coding marathons, let's see if you succeed in other categories."

"I don't like losing," he says, finally pulling out a little more before he slides back in, a wet desperate sound from your cunt giving your true desperation away.

"Then pull it together."

Your hands fly up to his cheeks, pulling him down roughly for a kiss, disrupted by the sudden snap of his hips against yours, finally thrusting into you with his entire length.

"Shit-' you gasp,

"What, too much for you now?"

"I can't stand you," you say, voice shallow from the sudden fullness.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," he grunts, leaning back with hands gripping onto the tops of your thighs hard, giving the right leverage for his cock to piston in and out of you at just the right rhythm.

Your orgasm starts to build embarrassingly fast, the months of last minute solo orgasms under your duvet right before you manage to sleep never quite scratching the itch that sits inside of you. The room suddenly fills with all manner of filthy sounds—the wetness of your cunt weeping at the pleasure, the slap of his hips meeting yours, desperate sounds tumbling from both of your mouths, chasing and rushing toward a once elusive satisfactory orgasm.

"Keys, baby, I'm-" you pant against his mouth, heels starting to dig against the mattress as the tightness in your belly becomes more and more taut, the once low heat now rushing hot throughout your whole body as your high comes closer and closer.

"Me too," Keys whines, the thrusts starting to stutter a little as his own orgasm creeps up on him. "Can I-fuck, um, inside?"

You nod frantically, thighs trembling as your walls start to pulse around his cock, tightness finally snapping and washing over you. Every nerve, synapse, and vein in your body filling with the pleasure you've been denied for too long. No thoughts about assets or source code rushing in you, no breaths stuttering from anxiety, just pure warmth that buzzes satisfyingly under your skin.

The high absorbs so much of your focus that you don't even notice Keys is flying on the same cloud, glasses finally dropping from his face and onto the mattress as his cock twitches against your spent walls, warmth pooling in you again from just how much cum he releases. Guess it really has been a while.

Keys's lips press to your shoulder before he lifts his head, thumb brushing at your cheekbone sweetly before he kisses your lips, a wordless thank you. He kisses again, easing the ache of him starting to pull out, releasing a little drop of your combined arousal.

"Do you have, like, tissues, or?" Keys asks, a hand fumbling next to the both of you for his glasses. You glance over and spot them, giving the lenses a wipe on the pillowcase before sliding them onto his face. He blinks a few times, smiling at the view of you beneath him, finally clear and in focus.

"Yeah," you let out, laughing softly. "In the middle drawer of the nightstand."

Keys stumbles onto his feet to pull on his underwear again, retrieving the little pack of on-the-go Kleenex before he sits on the side of the bed. He eases your thighs open sweetly, wiping the mess from your cunt as gently as he can, his other hand gently stroking your knee as you whine a little at the contact.

"I can get you clean clothes," he offers, wrapping the tissue in a clean one, then tossing it in the wastebasket next to your dresser. He points to the drawers. "Which one?"

"I'm good with just underwear," you say softly. "The top one on the left."

Keys pulls on the front, digging a little before he finds something that makes him chuckle—a pair of blue panties, covered in little red Autobot logo heads, TRANSFORMERS stitched obnoxiously loud all around the waistband.

"Those are a joke," you stutter out. "My friend Valerie, she gets me these joke gifts-"

"Is this why you haven't hooked up in so long?" Keys teases, sliding the panties up your legs as your face grows warm, arms crossing over your still bare chest. "You've been saving yourself for Optimus Prime?"

"No," you insist sharply. "I'm not a robot fucker, Keys. I have some pride."

"And yet here I am," he says, more endeared than smug as he slides into bed next to you, arms wrapping around you from behind, chest snug and comforting against your back. His lips press to the crown of your head before he tucks it under his chin.

Your eyes flutter shut with more ease than they have in months, sleep gently pulling you under as Keys never ceases the gentle stroke of his hand up and down your bicep, each brush helping to silence the usual nightly stew in the previous day's worries.

You sleep with more ease than you would ever expect with Keys's arms wrapped around you, his knees tucked too perfectly against the backs of yours until you start to stir around three a.m., turning over as your hand wanders lazily toward the side he was sleeping on. Except for you, the sheets are empty, and pool around your still naked hips as you sit up, wiping your eyes to get your bearings a little. He left, you realize as an unwelcome pang of disappointment fills your chest. He stuck around to hold you. Told you that you were beautiful. You thought about something other than programming for the first time in months because of him. And he left.

He didn't need to stay, you remind yourself, cringing at the coolness of the floor under your feet as you get out of bed. He didn't need to stay, over and over as you pull on sleep shorts and a sweatshirt. And it was true, what you and Keys had done was a mere exchange of services. A very passionate, satisfying exchange, but it didn't have to mean anything. It shouldn't. So what is the feeling swimming in your stomach right now? Not exactly regret, you did enjoy yourself, after all. Disappointment? A little closer, but not quite. Maybe a drink of water will help. Your mind is races against your heart so hard, so desperate for a single, logical answer that you don't even notice you've stepped over his jeans, still crumpled on your bedroom floor.

Keys has been sitting on the bench in front of your living room window for around an hour. He can't remember the last time he did something other than code or sleep for an hour straight, but right now, the hum of the night traffic and glow of the Boston skyline in the distance is more entertaining than any game he's played in months. Thankfully, he's the first thing you see when you step into the hallway, smiling softly with his head gently laid against the glass and one leg propped up, only in his boxers and those stupid, wonderful Tetris socks.

"You stayed," you say softly, more of a voiced thought than an attempt to start conversation.

Keys's face turns from the view out of the window to you, slight smile growing wider at the sight of you. He takes his glasses from the windowsill and puts them back on, gesturing with a relaxed hand for you to come closer.

"Did you think I was going to leave?" He asks, moving his legs from the bench to make room for you to sit, and you sink down across from him, knees tucked to your chest.

"You didn't have to stay," you shrug, picking at a loose thread on your sweatshirt cuff. "That was kind of…intense."

"It was," he agrees, his voice a little breathy with soft laughter. "I stuck around because I wanted to."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me too," Keys says, sitting up a little more. "I also realized that I'm long overdue to say something to you."

Your head tilts a little, eyebrows furrowing and signaling him to continue.

"I'm really sorry," he says sincerely. "I've been so wrapped up in trying to prove myself that I forgot you were just trying to do the same, and for you, it's a lot harder. You put up with so much shit from the guys in the program, and too much of it has been from me. And I didn't do it because you're the only girl there, I promise. It came from this awful, ugly jealousy because I didn't want to accept the truth."

A slow, grateful tear slips down your cheek as you look at him, all wide, earnest eyes and dimples impressed to his cheeks with the way he's frowning a little. You accepted a long time ago that you would never get an apology for the way you've been treated. Judgment and criticism is part of the career, Dr. Howell would say, as dismissive of your feelings as he was of the whining that came from your peers because ultimately, to him and to them, they were the same.

It's been such a long stretch of surviving—pretending you don't hear the whispering, trying to sift through whose opinions actually matter—you were starting to forget that it wasn't supposed to be like this at all. To finally hear someone say they're sorry for being apart of that pulls tears from you that you've neglected to shed for too long. You're glad they were still there, though. In your world of perfectly orchestrated numbers and impossible expectations, you were grateful for any reminder that you were still human.

"And what is the truth?" You ask, sniffling softly and wiping your cheeks with your sleeve.

Keys sighs.

"That you're better," he confesses, pushing his glasses up. "Better than all of us. And I think you always have been."

"You mean that?" You ask, voice wobbling.

"I do," Keys says, shifting a little closer to you. His hand reaches forward and softly clasps your ankle, thumb brushing from your ankle bone to your calf. "You know me, I don't say things just to say them. I'm envious of you."

"You should be," you say, letting out a watery laugh that sets Keys off too, his dimples reappearing as he chuckles with you. "Apparently I'm the best developer in my program."

"I mean it," he says, reaching to wipe the last of your tears with a brush of his knuckles. "You're good, but you're also, like, a real person. You go out, and you have so many friends. You're better than all of us without being a shut in."

"You don't have many friends?"

"Not good ones," Keys says, shrugging a little. "I don't like the guys in the program either, so I hang out with some other CompSci people, but they aren't great. They're…weirdly elitist about game design, like it's not serious work."

"That's tough," you console. "I'm lucky to have friends that pull me away from my computer."

"Maybe I'm lucky to have a friend like that now?" He asks, cheeks flushing a little.

A little giggle that you can't suppress escapes you, endeared and amused at his shyness—nervous at the thought of being friends despite the fact that you guys fucked mere hours ago, and that he was still in front of you in only his underwear.

"Yeah," you say softly. "That sounds good to me."

"I'm ready to have friends that are nice to me," Keys confesses, his own voice catching a little around the sadness in his throat.

"I'm sorry I smacked the shit out of you," you say, looking down at your lap bashfully. "That wasn't very nice."

"No, don't be," he insists, with a little dismissive wave of his hand. "I've had it coming to for a while. It was pretty hot, too."

You share another laugh with him, the shake of his freckled shoulders and wrinkle of his nose filling your chest with a long needed ease and warmth.

"The industry has been overrun by people like me for way too long," Keys muses, offering his hand with an upward palm to you, and you accept it gladly, melting at the way his thumb slides affectionately across your knuckles. "This world needs people like you, really. I can't wait to see what you make."

"You're not bad yourself, Mr. Robot," you say through a smile, gently squeezing his hand. "You made me this mad for a reason, you're good at what you do. I wouldn't mind having you look at my projects."

Keys laughs again, a little shy as his chin tips towards his chest for a moment.

"As long as I get a spot in the 'Special Thanks' once the credits roll."

His eyes meet yours again—warm, and soft, and eager for the chance at a place in your future. A future he's known would be bright as long as he's know you.

"Deal."

“Mark, I promise you,” you say. The pillar fan tilts toward you, providing the barest breeze to kiss the sweat coating your forehead. “It is not that deep.” 

“You’re telling me that Violet making a point that she wants to sit in the back of the theater is ‘not that deep?’” Mark rolls his eyes, exasperated. He stumbles up, steps sluggishly to his bed and flops down without ceremony. 

You follow him. Sit on the edge of the mattress, the bottom of Mark’s (Séance Dog) socked foot pressing into the side of your thigh. “You always make me sit in the back with you. How is that not different?” 

It is completely and totally different, though. Here’s the thing: you and Mark are friends—besties, even, when you don’t roll your eyes or want grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. You most definitely don’t make out in the back of a movie theater like a pair of freaks. 

Case in point: you’re in his room, door shut all the way, and his parents are out on a date. Debbie doesn’t even have to give you the shovel talk any time she leaves you two alone. That’s how much integrity your friendship with Mark has. 

And Violet? You don’t really have much of an opinion to say something about her. Well, not if you want to sound like a real bitch. 

But just to put it out there in an unbiased manner, you know she’s been plotting on him since the middle of sophomore year, and you did not appreciate her joining Yearbook. You were even less appreciative watching her save random candids of Mark to her personal drive. 

(Alright, you did the same thing, but only for the ugly ones where his face is warped, blurry, or could star in a horror movie. And you do that for William too—with full consent from both, obviously, and totally not for the purpose of exchanging blackmail material.) 

You can’t blame her for liking Mark. He’s funny, kind, cute at the most inconvenient of times. Even though his grades are average and he looks like he would be an e-dater, you and the rest of the school know that Mark Grayson is one of sweetest, most genuine boys out there. 

You also can’t blame him for freaking out either. Violet is pretty; shiny hair and clear skin and natural makeup. Heart lips and doe eyes. His type, probably. It’s the first time a girl has given him her number, and this will be his first kiss or more. The realization hardens into a pit in your stomach. 

But back to what’s important—you just don’t think they’re good for each other. She’s in love with an idea of Mark found through candids and hallway talk, and you know who he really is. Not that it makes you a prime candidate to be his girlfriend or whatever. 

He sputters and kicks his foot. You grab him by the ankle, hot skin on hot skin. That makes something flip in your stomach; you swear it’s the pint of ice cream you polished off from the Grayson’s fridge. 

“Look,” you start. Mark lifts his head, glares at you with a heat-addled blush. You want to push him off the bed. And you also, maybe, want to profess your affection. “Violet’s liked you for—I dunno, probably a while. Asking out a guy isn’t easy, so if you’re just gonna go to get some, don’t go at all.” 

She’d better thank you for this. Here you are, playing seesaw with your judgement and sticking your neck out for the girl you try to sit very, very far away from in the yearbook room. 

Pure denial, saucepan eyes and hands waving in a distraught flurry, “I’m not. She’s pretty, and nice, and I do want to go out with her. I just…” 

Mark rolls over onto his stomach with a long groan, squirms with discomfort. Pinching his calf, you raise your brows at him when he looks over his shoulder, whole face and neck splashed with pink. Spit it out, already.  

“I don’t know how to kiss,” he finally admits. Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes—barely five seconds since you told him not to go if he only wanted something out of it. Mark rushes to defend himself. You’d think he was sunburnt with how much pinker he gets. “Jesus Christ, just in case! And it’s not like you know how to do it, either. Books—or whatever you read—don’t count.” 

“At least I have a tutorial,” you mutter, giving him a once-over from your peripheral and scooting away. You know what your sneer must look like; some mix between judgy and terribly disappointed, and you’re probably right, because Mark lunges for your hand and pulls you right back. 

“Okay, Ms. Tutorial, you haven’t had any real-world experience,” he reminds you. He pokes your cheek with a lopsided smile. 

Singsonging right back at him, “Your tissue-lotion combo doesn’t count as experience either.” 

You know you’re evil, but it’s not like William doesn’t bring it up either. If they get to tease you for reading sometimes spicy romance stories, then you’re allowed to serve the ball right back into their court. 

If he wasn’t pink before, Mark lets your hand fall and turns scarlet. Mouth dropping and slow head turn and all, like he’s the butt of a sitcom joke. You can almost hear the laughing track playing in the background while he struggles to fish for his words. 

Just barely above the drone of the fan, nothing below a mortified, high-pitched squeak, “You wouldn’t.” 

You laugh and dig your hand into his hair, mussing it up. “You know I’m kidding.” 

And you’re telling the truth this time around. That makes him frown (fussy as always), but he still settles down with his head resting atop your thigh, eyes pinched shut. He’s so cute, whispers a voice at the back of your head, he pouts like an overdramatic baby. 

You trace a line between the two moles on his cheek and wish that your heart would stop trying to break open your ribs. 

Mark reopens his eyes slowly, a revelation dawning. Oh, you don’t like that look on his face. It’s the kind that landed both of you in detention before finals week for the parking lot incident. Curse Mr. Porter—forever remembered as the worst US history teacher, by the way—for insisting that you get your first transcript strike, all for a little eggshell on his car. 

“Don’t give me that look,” you sigh, exasperation creeping up your spine. You just started to forgive him for his AC grievances. Mark smiles at you innocently, brown eyes going soft like he’s the male lead of a romcom. “Why are you giving me that look?” 

“Since you read so much, you should know what girls like, right?” he asks, goading. He’s got that angle to his mouth that tells you he’s trying to fight back a fit of giggles. 

Is he still hung up on this? You speak with hesitance, hands fisted at your sides just in case you can’t hold back the urge to strangle him, “Right...” 

“So.” He draws out the ‘o’ all the way, until he runs out of breath. A quick inhale, and then, “You said it yourself. It’s basically a tutorial.” 

“So?” you can’t help but lead him on, even though you don’t like where this is going. Don’t say it. Don’t ruin it. Fingers finally uncurling, you press your palms into his duvet to fight how clammy they’ve become. “I’ve never actually kissed someone.” 

“So,” Mark says again, a hopeful smile gracing his mouth. Faint dimples and constellation freckles—compared to his reaction when you brought up the tissues, he’s practically stone-cold serious. “We could practice on each other.” 

He says it like it’s the simplest thing, kissing your best friend. 

You hold your breath, count to three. A high-pitched guitar riff from his CD player. It matches the ringing in your ears. 

You’re supposed to say no. 

On the Immortal’s soul, Mark is still your best friend, no matter how infuriating and impulsive and stupid he may be, or how many times you want to smother the lights out of him with his own pillow for being those exact three words. And fuck, how does he get his pupils dialed up to dinner plate diameters? 

But all that falls out of your unsteady mouth instead is a dumb, “I guess,” and Mark looks so happy that he could kiss you. Well, you just signed your soul away to let him do exactly that, but not before— “You gotta brush your teeth first.” 

—

You glare at Mark’s reflection in the mirror. 

He gives you a look with raised brows, toothpaste foam clouding around his mouth—what’cha looking at? You shake your head, expression blank—none of your business. 

Speaking only in shrugs and eyebrow wiggles gives you the opportunity to think about your actions without accidentally saying the wrong thing again. God, you’re so stupid for being weak to Mark’s I’m a beagle puppy and I just got kicked look. When you get home, you will be pulling up a picture of them and training yourself to fight back. 

The sink rushing snaps you out of your thoughts. Mark emerges from the basin with cold rivulets running down his face, dripping from his hair, racing down his...forearms. You’ve never paid attention to the faint veins and casual lean muscle your best friend carried, but now you’re struggling to tear your eyes away. 

That’s enough—you imagine slapping yourself across the face and your head snapping to the side from the sheer force—don’t be a fucking freak, you are not like those kids at school who sneak behind the dumpster to get freaky. 

The word repeats in your head: freak, freak, freak. 

Mark grazes his fingers along the small of your back, making a shiver rip its way up your spine. “You good?” 

“Uh-uh,” is all you can manage without choking on the toothpaste in your mouth. You’re getting dizzy with anticipation, chest and stomach organs staging a mutiny and going buck-wild inside your body. 

Telling yourself that this is just practice, you rinse off and drop your toothbrush in the holder beside Mark’s. You keep your face in the sink basin for a little longer than usual; cold, wet hands pressed to your burning cheeks, stars spiraling behind closed eyes. 

It’s just the heat, you tell yourself, disregarding the way your thoughts scramble upon the realization that Mark’s still standing by counter, waiting for you. 

Just the heat. 

—

Knees knock when you and Mark settle with your backs pressed to the headboard, side by side. 

You ball your hands in the yellow duvet that lays over his mattress, and Mark’s own fists are white-knuckling the hem of his basketball shorts. His hair is still drying, face beginning to bloom with that pretty shade of pink again. 

Heat digs its claws into your neck. 

“So,” you start, just as Mark asks: “Ready?” 

He swallows, drawing your attention to the way his Adam’s apple bobs. Strained; an awkward smile, “You go first.” 

He’s all tense, ramrod straight like a cardboard cutout. 

As earnestly as you can manage, you reach for his hands; they’re cool to the touch, veins rising to the smooth surface of his skin. His fingers twitch as you guide them up to your face. The tremors are infecting you too. When his palms finally cup your warm cheeks, your relieved exhale shivers. 

You might explode at the sight of Mark’s eyelashes fluttering. 

“’Kay.” You aren’t sure if he can hear you over the grumble of his fan. You get a little stuck on your words when Mark’s tongue darts out to wet his lip. 

“I think I should’ve turned on the AC,” he blurts, just as quiet. A stillness slips over the room. He sighs, wistful, “Too late, I guess.” 

You burrow your socks into the duvet for some kind of grounding and huff lightly. “Changing your mind?” 

Mark tugs you in to place a small kiss to the corner of your mouth. You swear you erupt into a pile of ash as he pulls away and gives you a sweet smile, eyes still lingering on where he’s just been. “Does that answer your question?” 

You nod a little too fast.  

Holding steady, mouth starting to go dry, “So, there’s this triangle thing that apparently makes girls go crazy—” Mark follows exactly, gaze darting from your eyes, to lips, and back up again, leaning forward slowly. You forget what you’re about to say for a long moment “—yea, that.” 

He’s close enough that if you moved just a hair width forward, you’d be— 

“Can I kiss you for real?” 

The question feels like getting shot in the back. He’s too sweet for your own good. You might be walking away with cavities in your teeth and your heart after this. 

“Wow, you can read my mental instruction manual?” you tease. 

You keep your eyes open when Mark ducks his head to kiss you. You almost snicker—he's got the half-closed eyes and Kermit mouth, the epitome of a boy kissing and the stuff of nightmares for your girlfriends. 

It’s weirdly endearing and calming at the same time. He’s just a guy who happens to be one of your best friends; he can be gross and stupid and a total loser, but you still love him. 

Love. 

That isn’t something you’ve ever consciously thought about with him in the way couples get comfy in the halls. Dreamt about, maybe.  

You love him in the way you burn CDs for him on the school computers and save up to buy compendiums when his birthday comes around. And Mark loves you enough to let crash in his bed and wear his sweaters when it gets cold. But those are best friend things just as much as they are romantic things. 

You push it to the back of your mind at the first press of Mark’s lips. It’s chaste, stilted, two seconds long, and still makes your heart leap into your throat. 

He’s your first, you remember belatedly. And you’re his. 

Tastes like mint toothpaste, and victory. 

Take that, Violet! jeers a voice in your head. 

Mark doesn’t pull away for long, but you chase him immediately. He surges back, a little looser, tilting his head to slot his mouth against yours. You blink, and then you can’t open your eyes again, too lost in the slide of your mouths. Fuck, is he sure that this is his first time? 

Parting his plush lips wider, noses bumping into each other, soft sighs drowned in the white noise of the fan and still-running CD. He holds you with a sweet reverence, like you’ve been bruised all over, one hand skating down your arm to settle on your waist. 

You gasp when he nips at your bottom lip, startling him. 

Your teeth clack together as he draws back, pulling a light giggle out of your throat. Mark blinks expectantly, a slim ring of brown around his huge pupils. 

Right. You’re supposed to be coaching him on how to kiss with your romance book knowledge. 

“Was that okay?” he asks, hoarse. His throat keeps bobbing, mouth still parted like he’s tasting the air. You think: fuck it. 

You kiss him back, hands tangling into his hair, the rough spikes of his undercut scraping your palms. He’s going to need a haircut soon; you can feel it, the tacky way the longer strands cling to your skin. Mark murmurs your name in a groan, a sound that makes your cheeks go numb with how hot they grow. 

Dizzy, breathless. A string of butterflies unspools in your belly. Everything not Mark fades out—forget the heat, the fan, the heavy bass line of the current song. All you know is that one of your hands is sliding down to rest on his sternum, feeling how his heart furiously tries to meet your touch. 

The thoughts catch up to you, in fragments. He kisses like you’re water and he’s a parched man. Like he loves you, and this isn’t just practice. 

Mark threads his fingers into your hair, hungry, pushing you to teeter on the knife’s edge between sanity and the beyond. You feel weightless, fuzzy in the way shadows are when a smudgy sun peers out from the horizon. You don’t want to stop. You can’t stop, and neither can he. 

In a flash, Mark is moving your leg to the side, settling in the space he’s made for himself. His mattress is forced to dip under his weight—a voice screams about general relativity before you smush it down—pulling you into the supermassive black hole of his gravity. 

You almost pass out when he pulls you closer, knee nudging the inside of your thigh, accidentally finding a strip of bare skin under your shirt. It must have ridden up. A shudder tears down your neck at the hummingbird flutter of his eyelashes on the apple your cheek. 

Moving again, Mark blazes a line of kisses along your jaw and neck. Playing connect-the-dots, or something. Ear lobe, larynx—oh god, collarbone. It comes like second nature to turn your head and bare your neck to him. 

Your cheek meets the cool, polished wood of his headboard. You can’t think straight. This is going to be burned into your memory like how you burn his CDs. 

Faintly, you register the player on his desk shutting off, the mixtape reaching its end. Something, somewhere far-off, sputters to a stop, plunging the room into a silence broken only by the sound of Mark chasing your lips again. 

“‘S just me,” you manage between kisses—Mark hums into your mouth, the tip of his tongue lazily tracing your bottom lip in a heart-stopping move, “or is it getting really hot?” 

You almost try to follow his mouth when he turns his head to check. Separation provides a little bit of relief; you hadn’t noticed just how warm it was with his body crushed against yours. You crack your eyes open, vision coming back to focus just as Mark groans. 

Voice rough with disuse, “Fan’s broken.” 

Your gaze rolls along to meet his—you should have kept your eyes closed. You can only process the sight in fragments; Mark kneeling above you; chest rising at a million shallow beats per minute; eyes glassy, starstruck; lips swollen; skin flushed pink down to his collar; hairline damp with perspiration, the top messed up by your fingers. 

Another wave of sticky warmth crashes over you. 

He looks shit-faced drunk. You probably look the same way. 

“Shit,” you whisper, melting against the headboard. You’re gonna die of heatstroke, all because you kissed your best friend. 

Mark clears his throat, hurriedly fixing his hair. “Do you—do you wanna get fries?” 

“Huh?” 

“Fries,” he repeats. He dives for a shy peck at the corner of your mouth, back to his old chaste self. You don’t know how he keeps his composure. “New place a couple blocks down—free AC, you know.” 

“I guess.” You’ve been guessing a lot lately. Somehow, it’s landed you here. 

He stands up, somehow steady on his feet. “I think we could walk there.” 

“Isn’t it too hot?” 

“I mean,” Mark puts a sheepish hand behind his head, smoothing down the hair you dug your fingers into. Your eyes are drawn to the way his tricep stretches, magnetically attractive. “We just kissed. Can’t get any hotter than that.” 

“You’re gross.” 

—

Mark takes his bottom lip between his teeth, fingers dusted with garlic parm seasoning. 

“Spit it out,” you say, sticking your hand into the bucket perched between the two of you. 

The fry joint is small and reminiscent of a 50’s diner. Harlequin tile, vinyl cushions. You’re squished side by side in a booth, not unlike the way you were sitting against his headboard thirty minutes ago. Just infinitely less tense and sweaty and…intimate. Plus the fry bucket acting as an invisible wall. 

“Did I do okay?” he asks, lifting his thumb to his mouth. Mark licks the salt off his fingerprint—gross. If you didn’t get over your thing against (specifically) his germs a long time ago, you would’ve told him to get his own fries. 

Things are back to normal…not really. Now that you know what hides beneath his innocent exterior, you can’t help but watch his tongue darting out and think back to how it was just in your mouth. 

“I mean,” you pause, rolling back your mental tape, “I liked it, even if it was your first.” 

“And yours too.” 

That’s—what, the third reminder? Your brain activity is brought to a screeching halt. It doesn’t count, right? It can’t possibly. 

Mark looks at you sweetly, all innocent. You can hardly form a thought about his stupid face without having flashbacks to the way his eyes went foggy kissing you. 

Punctuating the long silence that follows, “We were just doing it for practice.” 

He nods right away, eager to agree. With you or his own rationale, you can’t tell. “Yeah. Like doing it with the back of your hand, right?” 

“Right.” 

“Except you’re a real person.” 

“Yeah.” 

You’re on the same wavelength, as always. 

Assured, Mark smiles. You’re strangely comforted by the confirmation that no, this doesn’t mean anything. Your relationship is still holding strong, minus the fact that you made out till you were almost tipsy. But Mark doesn’t have to know that you’re still thinking about it. 

“So when’s your date?” you ask, keeping your voice level. It still breaks off at the end. 

“Friday,” Mark responds, paying no mind to how you grip the edge of the bucket a little tighter. That’s closer than you thought it was. “We’re gonna see Descender.” 

Ouch. Everything he says just drives another nail home into your heart. You wanted to see Descender with him. Hell, it’s the first comic he ever got you into, so it’s special. 

You can’t believe just how stupid he is. 

“What if,” you swallow, inspecting the fry you just picked up, “it doesn’t work out, between you and Violet?” 

“I mean, I hope it does. But if not,” he grins at you with a glimmer in his eyes, dimples taunting you to pull him in, “I have my best friend.” 

“Is that asking for Round Two?” 

“Just saying,” Mark says. He puts his hands up, garlic salt and parmesan still dusting his fingertips. “Now that we’ve got it out of the way, just call me if you wanna practice again. Back of your hand, right?” 

“Except with a real person,” you repeat. A shadow passes over his face, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came. “Real feedback in real time.” 

Mark gives you dazzling smile worth a thousand watts; it’s the one he always pulls out when the matching halves of your braincells click together, all dimples and smug joy. Your heart flips. 

“Read my mind, there.”