#riverrockets

“Babe,” he rolls his eyes to draw attention to the fact that she’s being ridiculous, “it’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t call me that,” she grits through her teeth, frown deepening.

“You know, it’s not my fault you’re really hot when you’re pissed off. What am I supposed to do?” He flexes, trying to gain sympathy for the cause and when it doesn’t work takes a step towards her, hoping to sway the situation in his favor with proximity.

“Not burn down watch towers, next question?”

“Did I mention you’re really hot when you’re pissed?”

“Yes.” She crosses her arms more tightly.

“Babe.”

“I said don’t call me that right now,” she huffs, stepping towards him, nostrils flaring. “I’m mad at you.”

“Oh, so when you aren’t mad at me I should start calling you babe all the time?” He doesn’t expect the question to turn her face redder, her frown falling into a cute, nose-wrinkled scowl.

“I’m never not mad at you.”

“You weren’t mad at me last night,” he insists, smirking when she gets even madder, remembering how he let her shove him into a corner.

“That’s not what we’re talking about.”

“What? The fact that you’re not mad at me when we’re kissing?” He feels bold like he has every time in the last few weeks when he realizes that Astrid isn’t about to hit him because she’d rather do something else.

“Oh, I’m plenty mad at you when we’re kissing.” Her tone makes the word sound like some kind of training for an ancient battle technique, and he takes her up on it, hands on her shoulders to tug her down as he kisses her on the cheek.

“Still furious?”

“Absolutely,” she stares past him, over his shoulder, and he kisses her on the nose. The angry wrinkle on the bridge of it in particular.

That makes her frown deeper and he kisses the ridge on her forehead and the persistent downturn of the corner of her mouth. He kisses the vein twitching in her forehead and beside her glowering eyes and the point of her disappointed chin and it’s not until he pulls back to look at her that she breaks, slowly softening, grabbing his face with a threatening hand and pecking him on the lips.

“Because if I go back to that McMansion, something else disastrous will happen and I’ll have even more to take up all your time bitching about?”

“Sure,” Fuse shrugs.

“No, I shouldn’t.” He starts pacing again, stretching with his hands folded behind his head, yanking his hair, “I don’t want him to think I’m running, that’ll just get me a lecture. But if I come back now I’ll get a lecture for being late anyway. God, he’s probably waiting up for me—“

“If it’s so miserable there, my parents are visiting Darren for two more days,” her face heats up but she keeps her voice steady, “just sleep over.”

It’s practical. There’s a giant couch downstairs and she doesn’t mind. If she gets to see him in the morning with sleepy eyes and bedhead, that’s fine.

“It’d be kind of funny if he waited up all night,” he snorts, “not that he would, I don’t think. I don’t know. I don’t know because I don’t know the guy, no matter how much he insists on acting like my best friend.” Eret’s face is too animated to ever be boring, lips curling into momentary smiles that melt into scowls, the words he isn’t saying flying through his mind almost definitely faster than Fuse could keep up with.

It’s hard to keep up with how quickly he talks already, what with him waving his arms around like he’s trying to distract her.

“You know what? No, I—maybe if I slept over, I’d have enough time to calm down and maybe, you know, check in with how things are with you.” He freezes, “I’m the worst, I didn’t even ask—“

“I’m fine,” Fuse leans into a rare lie that makes her chest feel tight, “nothing too exciting is going on with me.” She sighs, reverting back to the unfortunate truth, “so I don’t have anything to tell you.”

He has enough going on, she shouldn’t heap more onto him. It wouldn’t be good for anyone, herself most of all. It’s self-destructive, which is the only kind of destructive she’s never been.

Until now, apparently, because when he reaches back to scratch under his collar and his shirt rides up a couple of inches, she looks. It’s not a lapse of self control, it’s ignoring the concept, and she understands for the first time how someone could get into the practice of lying to themselves. It would be easier if it were an accident, if her eyes acted without her permission, but she’s looking on purpose, trying to memorize the changes she didn’t notice until it seemed like they’d all happened at once.

It’s in his jawline, sharper than it used to be when he’d smile at her during an awkward pause in a presentation, letting her know at least he was still listening. It’s in the width of his shoulders, the sureness of his hands, like he’s getting steadier to compensate for how he’s always falling apart.

“Maybe you’re right,” he laughs, face relaxing into an easy smile right at her that makes Fuse swallow hard, “who am I kidding? You’re always right.”

“Thanks.”

“Plus, it turns out that whining for hours is exhausting,” he unceremoniously flops face down on her bed, right next to where she’s sitting, groaning into her mattress. “I’m too tired to drive, obviously.”   His voice is muffled by blankets and Fuse’s heart thudding in her ears.

He’s diagonal across her bed, his feet hanging off the edge, shirt too tight across his shoulders and riding up his lower back as he breathes so evenly she almost believes he’s already asleep.

On her bed. Right next to her.

She sits on her hands to keep from touching him, eternally confused by everything he does.

“Shit,” he turns his head to the side, cheek smushed against the quilt, “sorry.” He toes his shoes off and they fall to the ground with a thump that metaphorically restarts her brain. “I promise someone taught me manners at some point.”

“I know.”

“Which means I should be sleeping on the floor,” he rolls to his side, propped up on an elbow and grinning apologetically at her, “sorry, I was just being dramatic to illustrate how tired I am. Completely incapable of driving. You an attest to that now.”

“You’re not that tired.”

His voice drops to a whisper, “I don’t know how many sleepovers you’ve had, but usually, the point isn’t to sleep.”

He’s kidding. She knows he’s kidding, everything he says is kidding, but this time she fundamentally can’t hear the joke.

“I’ll be back,” she jumps up, wiping too warm hands on her legs and walking to the door. “I have to brush my teeth.”

She knows he doesn’t mean it. She knows he sees her as a friend, and she wants to be his friend. She is his friend. He can’t even deal with the problems that he has and a friend wouldn’t add to them.