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heathendolan · 5 years

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Boys Will Be Bugs -- Lemon Boy Series [E.D]

Summary: Ethan’s mean and bitter for a lot of reasons, but none of them have to do with the shy bookworm who shows him was a real friend is. / A better look at how Ethan really feels about… well, everything. From his impressionable and incredibly sensitive toddler years to the end of college, it’s his turn to talk.

Warnings: MAKES WAY MORE SENSE IF YOU’VE READ LEMON BOY + 888 FIRST !!!

A/N: hi everybody, i feel like i’m new again and i’m as nervous as i was when i first published on here lmfao. i heard cavetown’s ‘boys will be bugs’ a few weeks ago and just about exploded with how accurate it was for ethan and was completely inspired to write a part from his narrative. also, this anon also did me solid with this request, so thank you so fkn much!! extended author’s note here, cause i have mucho to say. mmkay. love y’all

WC: 23.2K+ || masterlist || PLAYLIST

SERIES | 1: Lemon Boy | 1½: Banana Bread | 2: 888 | 3½: It’s U

Ethan isn't right. He isn't wrong. Well, his parents say he's isn't--but his teachers say he's 'a little... different', and Ethan knows just what that means. He knows that when they say things like "Ethan just doesn't fit well with the other kids," in hushed voices at the semiannual kindergarten parent-teacher conferences, they're implying that he's the problem, and moreover that he's noncompliant to some degree. They only confirm this theory when they say things like "Ethan, go build blocks with Jacob and Cory," knowing full and well that he'd much rather sit underneath the tented blanket-walls of his own personal fort and read The BFG. Teachers call his fort 'antisocial'. Ethan calls his fort 'exclusive'. (He read that word in Charlotte's Web once). (He hopes he's using it right). (And pronouncing it right, for that matter).

Ethan feels a little like a BFG--Big Friendly Giant--and it isn't because he's oversized or anything, because he's actually a bit of a runt, like Wilbur the pig. He's like a Big Friendly Giant in the sense that he feels really alone in a sea of kindergarten boys, ones that are bent on perfecting spiral throws and effective tackles. Grayson, his twin, is sort of like that; Ethan thinks his daddy probably likes him better than Ethan for that reason. Ethan's more like his mommy. He likes to read (and he's happy to tell you that he's already at a second-grade reading level, thank you very much), and he likes to read a lot. (Hence the fort.) And even if he didn't like to read (which he does), he would prefer building blocks in isolation. Ethan's sensitive--another word he learned in Charlotte's Web. The other kids are mean, even when Ethan knows they aren't trying to be. So when he misses his mommy and Jacob Kronwell says, 'suck it up', he bursts into tears, and that's alright. And on that note, what does 'rub some dirt on it' even mean? His daddy says boys just gotta be tough, but why? Why would Ethan ever choose football over a reclusive reading hut if he doesn't even like football all that much? To look cool? Ethan doesn't care about being cool. He cares about getting to the end of this chapter and lunch. And so what if he cries? He just can't help it--he feels better when he cries, and he's not going to stop just cause Jacob says he acts like a girl. That's hardly an insult--last time he checked, his sister Cameron was the coolest person he knew. Ethan hopes first grade is better.

- Ethan loves summer. Summer is almost better than The Adventures of Captain Underpants. (Almost). His mom takes him to the library almost every day. The first time they walked hand in hand into the big building, Ethan's jaw fell to the floor; how on Earth had they been hiding all these books from him? He was frozen solid in place with shock while his mom chatted away with the librarian, carrying polite small talk about how 'simply stunning this colonial architecture was' and how she was 'heartbroken she hadn't been here sooner'. Ethan thinks she's overcompensating with compliments because they only moved to Allentown about a year ago. He noticed it a few months ago when she talked to the checkout clerk at the local grocery store for a full hour about the rising prices of milk. He asked her why she did that. She told him that was how people made friends. Ethan thinks anybody that only wants to be friends with his mom because she can jab about milk for an hour is stupid, but he's not allowed to use that word yet. Now is not the time for jabbing about milk or colonial architecture Ethan decides, and he wiggles right out of his mother's grip and clambers over to the kid's section, completely ignoring the way his mom calls his name and apologizes meekly to the librarian. He doesn't care what the librarian thinks about him. He cares about books. And there's so many of them. He has to crane his neck just to catch a glimpse of the tower of shelves with books, upon books, upon books. He sees all of the books that are in his scholastic book fair catalog and then some. The priest at his church talks about heaven a lot, and Ethan thinks he found it. His mom is hot on his trail though, because she scoops him up in her arms and balances him on her hip, pulling him in snug and warm. Ethan loves his mom and all the affection she gives, and he wraps his arms around her neck. "See one you like?" she asks, kissing his temple. Some of the kids in his kindergarten class hate being picked up by their mom, and Ethan doesn't really get that. They would always say things like 'Mom, stop,' and 'go away' and he doesn't understand; his mom was by far his best friend. And probably his only friend, besides Gray. And Cam. And Dad. And they said things like 'you still call your mom 'mommy'?', and that's why Ethan loves summer the most, because he can be himself without those comments. "Yeah," Ethan says, poking generally at the whole stack of books. "I wanna read them all." His mom merely chuckles and nods. "Alright, we have all summer," she says. "Grab one and we'll read it, and then we'll return it and grab a new one." Ethan reaches blindly and grabs the first one he can wrap his stubby fingers around. "James and the Giant Peach?" she clarifies. "You know that's from the same guy who wrote The BFG, right?" Ethan already knows this one is going to be his new favorite. - Kids are mean. Ethan thinks just about half his classmates are minions of Count Olaf, the villain in his newest literary obsession, A Series of Unfortunate Events, and Ethan feels a bit like one of the Baudelaire children. Not because his parents died in a house fire or that he's been relocated to various relatives, each stranger than the last, and most certainly not because he's inheriting a gazillion dollars (because that part is super untrue. His family's sort of struggling right now). He feels like a Baudelaire child because it seems like everywhere he turns is a dead end full of people that want to kill him. Okay, maybe 'kill' isn't the right term, but God, it feels like it when Riley Johnson purposely trips him in dodgeball--especially when they're on the same frickin' team. (Ethan's in second grade now, so he's allowed to use that word). (Not around his mom though, but his dad's okay with it). (However, the phrase 'shut up' is one hundred and ten percent off limits). And Cory Willson, frankly, is nearly confirmed to be the spawn of satan. He flicked a meatball at Ethan at lunch on the first day of school--picture day. And that stain took two separate washes to get out of his nice white polo. But Cory is simply a grain of salt on Ethan's plate of problems. And Jacob Kronwell? Well, Jacob Kronwell is the twelve ounce, medium-rare steak and the side of mashed potatoes. He's probably the steamed vegetables in this metaphor, too. Jacob Kronwell is Ethan Dolan's personal Count Olaf. He is no spawn of Satan, he is Satan, with a capital S. It started in kindergarten, and it hasn't stopped yet. If anything, it has only gotten worse. It began with exclusion, name-calling, and stealing his pencils without asking. Ethan could tune out being called a girl (and honestly, didn't mind all that much if he's honest). Ethan can't ignore Jacob when he steals his books and throws them into Mr. Franken’s yard, the most feared (and coincidentally--or not--most elderly) neighbor in all of Allentown. Ethan has had to fork over a lot of toys and allowances to pay the library fees. And it didn't stop there. Jacob figured out early on that being the largest kid in second grade included a lot of benefits, serious benefits. Not only was he the best at football (and baseball, and basketball, and dodgeball), but he was really good at wrestling. Ethan would know; he's been the test subject of Jacob's poorly rehearsed WWE moves since Jacob discovered America's most violent live-action soap opera. But Jacob's getting more creative every month, and now that he's seen A Christmas Story, Ethan's been forced to stick his tongue to a pole in the middle of a New Jersey winter and, subsequently, Ethan's been sent home with half of a (very bloody) tongue. Jacob wasn't generous enough to let his mutilated tongue heal before he made him do it again. Grayson's lucky--so lucky--that he can play football. And it is ironic--so ironic--that Grayson gets off scot-free because of it. It's a god blessed frickin' miracle that Grayson hasn't been mistaken for Ethan and been given a swirly yet. Or had a huge chunk cut out of his hair with scissors. Or been trapped in a locker. Ethan's practically defenseless; he doesn't have many friends (besides Grayson, Mom, Dad, and Cam) and he's pretty small, and Jacob knows that. That's what makes Ethan such easy prey. And he's created this stigma towards Ethan that's circulated through the whole school at this point. He overheard him telling Holly Brinkins that he picks and eats his boogers. No one wants to be friends with that kind of outcast, not even kindergarteners--and they actually pick and eat their boogers. Ethan's not too lonely though. He already has all he needs: his family, a colossal stack of fifth-grade-reading-level books (and he's only eight!), and Ginger, the frickin' best dog in the whole wide world. His mom let him pick out a dog from the local humane society so that he'd have his very own friend, and it was the best gift ever. So who needs friends or school lunch on most days? Jacob can eat two helpings all he wants, Ethan doesn't even like the school's mystery meat. - "What'd'ya wanna do when you get older, E?" Grayson asks as they hike up the alpine mountain in the forest behind their house. Ethan knows it's technically a hill, and not even a big one at that, but listen: he just discovered the word 'alpine' and it sounds kinda cool on his tongue, and he's got chicken legs. It feels like Mount Everest to him. "The King of Narnia, no doubt," he responds, a wheeze in his words and an ache in his calves. The walk to their hidden (and super cool) basin seems to stretch longer every single day. Grayson's cut out for this with his quarterback physique--even if it is only little league--but Ethan... Ethan's a little bit of a 'NAF.' Jacob told him so. "Ethan," Grayson grumbles, twisting his head towards him to pointedly roll his eyes. "I'm serious. Be a little more realistic." "I don't know Grayson, what do you want to be?" Ethan asks. "Tom Brady." "I see you're taking a pragmatic approach as well," Ethan scoffs, kicking a stray rock into the jungle. Sometimes Ethan sits outside in this forest of his and reads and pretends the bluejays that chirp are really some tropical parrots from Lord of the Flies. In all reality, he could sit inside next to their new parakeet, Gizmo, and get the same effect, but he's decided to permanently hate that bird ever since they had to get rid of Ginger. He's been bitter ever since. He doesn't care if Grayson can't control the fact that he's allergic. "See," Grayson sighs, halting in the dirt path, "when you say shit like 'pragmatic' you make me wanna to kick you. I don't even know what that means." Grayson and Ethan are not allowed to say words like 'shit', 'fuck', 'damn', or 'Jesus' yet, and certainly not phrases like 'ass-clown', but they’ve made a sworn truce to never tattle. They even spit and shook hands, so it's practically motherfuckin' law. Ethan scowls at him. "Probably cause you're dyslexic." Grayson is already winding up when Ethan cowers, and Grayson knows to just give it up. Ethan deals with enough during the school year. "E, I'm just saying. If you didn't say words like that, maybe you wouldn't get beat up. Well, at least, not by me," Grayson hurries out, knowing it's a sore subject, Ethan getting beat up. "Oh right, because that's the reason I get my ass kicked," Ethan grumbles, trudging past Grayson. Grayson is quick to catch up, following on Ethan's heels like a troubled puppy. "Look, all I wanted to know was what you wanted to be when you were older." Ethan knows Grayson doesn't mean to be mean. Ethan thinks most kids actually don't mean to be mean; it's sixth grade, everybody's already got their friend groups. It's not that anybody's excluding him at this point, it's just that no one's including him. People discarded the term 'cooties' a long time ago, and nobody thinks he picks and eats his boogers anymore. People just grew up together without Ethan. He's adjusted. He's alright. But Jacob's still a fucking asshole. He isn't violent anymore--he abandoned hair pulling, foot stomping, and locker stuffing around fourth grade when Ethan got to be as big as him. He's just mean. He leans up behind him and tells him that Chloe Krass will never like him back and that Grayson would never be friends with him if he wasn't forced to be. And it sucks, because it's true. It is absolutely true. He'd rather give Jacob his lunch for the rest of his life than have him stomp on his heart. Ethan's sensitive--he always has been. And you know what? It's dumb that people feed off of his sensitivity. It's fucking bullshit. "Gonna make fun of me?" Ethan tests, giving Grayson a sideways glance and lifting his chin protectively. "No," Grayson insists. "Alright. I... I wanna write books," Ethan admits, his chin lifted high in the air for some faux-confidence. He casts a glance at Grayson and finds that Grayson's face has disappointment painted all over it. Grayson's brows are drawn tight together, ready to chastise him, and he's opened his mouth to say, "Ethan," irritably. "And if you don't like that," Ethan growls out quickly, "then you can go fuck yourself, Grayson." Grayson's shock is all Ethan needs to prove he's figured out a loophole to this drama, and Ethan speeds off towards the pond feeling a little bigger, a little stronger, and a hell of a lot tougher. - Ethan's underneath his comforter with his head buried under his pillow, his entire body numb. It feels like a dream, or maybe a nightmare, what happened today. "Mom, it wasn't his fault! You know how terrible Jacob is to him," Grayson defends in the kitchen, screaming frustratedly. "Jacob Kronwell's father is threatening to sue, Grayson. Do you think they're going to take the side of the kid who beat another kid to a bloody pulp? This is so much bigger than you think it is," his mom hisses back, slapping her palm against the granite table. "Lord knows what will happen. Your brother's definitely expelled. We can't afford to be sued." He can hear his mother's voice crackle with tears. He doesn't want her to cry. He doesn't even know how it happened. One moment he was washing his hands in the boys bathroom, the next he was being circled, the next he was having his head shoved into the bowl of a toilet for the hundredth time, and then a moment later he had Jacob on the ground with blood gushing from his nose. And he just kept kicking, and kicking, and kicking until he felt the principal dragging him out of the bathroom. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, and the part of his brain surged out with how unfair his life in Allentown has been so far, and he just let go of all the anger pent up inside him. Jacob had been torturing him for eight years, and for what? Why? It was so fucking unfair. He knows what he did was wrong, but he doesn't really regret it. Not at all, actually. "Mom, you don't get it! Jacob's the worst!" Grayson yelled still, crying himself. Everybody was crying and it was all Ethan's fault. "Your father's going to have to find a new job," his mom whined. "your brother's going to be expelled. I don't know what we're going to do. I don't know what we're going to do," she pressed on, her voice shaking. Ethan felt like his chest was caving, or his stomach was twisting into an impossibly tight knot, or his skin was on fire. Jacob's always been right: Ethan's a fuck up, a waste of space, a piece of shit, trash, garbage, stupid, worthless. "Honey, it's going to be okay," his dad says from the kitchen. "I don't know what we'll do either. But it'll work out." "Are we going to have to change schools?" Cameron asks. "I only have a few months left before graduation, can we just stay? Please?" There's an awkward pause that probably answers the million dollar question: they are going to have to move, Cameron's going to have to graduate with a bunch of strangers, their dad's going to have to find a new job, their mom's going to have to open a different shop. All because of Ethan. All because of Ethan. - "So I just got off the phone with Scott Kronwell and he's decided to drop all charges if we get the hell out of dodge," Ethan's dad says the following Monday. It's just Ethan, his mom, and his dad in the kitchen for lunch; Ethan's been suspended for seven days. Not that he minds; he sort of sees it as an early spring break. Any time spent away from school is good for Ethan. "What's that mean?" his mom asks before she bites into her sandwich. "Well," his dad sighs, pinching his eyes together with his index and thumb fingers. "I told him how a bunch of teachers have been emailing me willing to testify against Jacob for bullying, which is pretty stupid if you ask me, because that means they saw how he was treating E and didn't do shit. I think it spooked Scott, because the guy basically threatened me. Said we have two weeks to move districts or he'll press charges. Such a dick. Ethan, I'm kind of glad you beat up his kid." "Sean," his mom scolds, her lips in a tight line. "Thanks," Ethan mumbles with a faint grin. If his dad approves, he really doesn't regret it. "Luckily, we're in a good place financially to just get up and leave. But no Bora Bora in December," his dad sighs, staring blankly at the table. Ethan knows Cameron's going to be pissed. First, she has to move schools with three months of high school left, then she gets robbed of her dream vacation? Ethan will be sleeping with one eye open. His mom sighs with both relief and grief and lays her head on her arms. "Ethan, no more fighting, okay?" she asks weakly, lifting her head only enough to stare at him with pleading eyes. He never wants to see his mom make that face again. "I won't," Ethan promises, and means it. He never wants to lose control like that again; it's been a week and he still can't remember a damn thing about what happened. He dislikes that side of himself the most--and Ethan hates just about every bit of himself. - Ethan likes their new house a lot. He gets his own room, it's big, it's old, and it's probably haunted. It's perfect. There's a river in the forest behind this house, too. It's got a waterfall at the beginning, about a mile north of his house, and if he treks down the stream, he can find a cluster of miniature cliffs just waiting to be jumped off of. The river seems deep enough to swim in and venture through and it probably has a ton of cool rocks in the shallower parts. He and Grayson spend most of their summer there unless they're at the local beach like they are now. "I think the kids at our school are scared of you," Grayson says, skipping a slippery stone across the still lake. The boys watch it bounce once, twice, thrice before dipping beneath the water. "So?" Ethan snipes. He's had to put a lot of work into being scary. He thinks he'll have frown lines by twenty-five if he keeps glaring at everybody. "Well, I don't think you're going to make many friends if you don't say anything to anyone," Grayson shrugs, plucking another rock from the sand and skipping it even farther than the last. "Not like anyone wants to be my friend anyway," Ethan retorts. That was a stupid thing to say on Grayson's behalf. It seemed like people were afraid of Ethan the moment he stepped foot in Long Valley, but he's beginning to think that might be Ethan's intentions. He gets it; it's better to be feared than bullied, but the boys in their grade are getting more comfortable with him. Grayson's doing just fine. He's already decided he'll play football this coming fall and he's made a few friends through lacrosse, but he's never had problems making friends. "You could always hang out with me and my friends..." Grayson offers meekly. "I heard your friend Carter call me a mute back in May. No thanks," he nips. It's a lost cause, and all Grayson can really do is pray that someone, anyone will befriend Ethan. He's not asking for too much he doesn't think. Is he?

Ethan slides into his seat at the kitchen island, Romeo and Juliet in his grip and a blanket draped around his shoulders. Grayson’s cooking up something terrible—but arguably edible—for them as an after-school snack, rushing around the kitchen far too much for Ethan to focus on the already complicated book. He had heard that girl (Y/N) mumble something negative under her breath when it came to Shakespeare, and he has to agree—his novels were complete garbage.

“So, how was the first day of school,” Grayson sing-songs sardonically, popping his hip out like their mom.

Ethan shrugs lamely, taking a sip of his water. “S’alright.”

“And what about that girl, (Y/N)?” Grayson prods, waggling his eyebrows. Ethan sputters on his water, coughing and encouraging Grayson’s teasing. With a smirk, Grayson continues, “She’s pretty cute, huh? She seems into you.”

Ethan glares at him once he stops hacking, wiping his mouth on the fabric of his blanket. “Not funny,” he says.

She is pretty cute—and pretty kind, too. He couldn’t get it out of his head all day, the way she just asked him about his tattoo—talked to him, with genuine interest and curiosity. And furthermore, she’s smart. He couldn’t believe she’d read the entire list too, willingly. Ethan read it over the summer out of pure boredom and because his dad wouldn’t stop harping him about it, but she seemed like she really enjoyed reading. And she wasn’t a snob about it either, she seemed a little shy and humble—unlike Tanya. Ethan’s already floated off into his own daydream of their first conversation, right in the middle of the hallway with her papers askew when Grayson calls out his name impatiently.

“What?” he grumbles.

“I’m serious dude, she’s into you! Heard her talking to her friends at lunch,” Grayson pushes, raising his eyebrows. “She’s got a crush on you. Big one, too.”

Ethan feels a blush creep up the back of his neck and he scratches it. It’s impossible. It’s simply impossible. ”Shut up," he says, his voice cracky.

Grayson pops a few pieces of bread into the toaster and pushes down on the handle. “No dude, I'm not kidding. Like, all her friends knew about it and they were like, teasing her and stuff. They wanted to hear all about her conversation with you."

Ethan's fighting to keep the shock off his face. A girl like that? Having a crush on a guy like him? It defied all laws of logic.

"Whatever," Ethan chokes out, feeling butterflies parade through his stomach. He doesn’t even know why he’s entertaining the notion with himself—this is frankly pure lunacy.

"She's hot dude. If you knew what was good for you, you would jump on that," Grayson shrugs nonchalantly.

Ethan's cheeks grow even hotter at his comment. With his mouth gaping like a fish’s, he sputters, "I-I'm not going to jump on that, what the fuck Grays-"

"That's not what I meant!" Grayson laughs, shaking his head. "I just mean, she's going to have a bunch of guys' attention. She does seem kind of quiet, though."

Defensively, Ethan thinks, what does that have to do with anything? But, in an effort to stay discreet, he just shrugs for the umpteenth time.

"Whatcha boys talking about?" Ethan's dad asks as he walks into the kitchen, surfing through the refrigerator for a good snack. A flash of heat decorates Ethan’s cheeks again and his eyes widen as he mentally prays, begs, pleads for Grayson to just keep his gigantic mouth shut on this one.

“Ethan’s giant crush,” Grayson teases, squinting smugly at Ethan. Behind his dad's back, Ethan gives Grayson the middle finger and mouths 'fuck you'.

"(Y/N), huh?" his dad replies easily, already well aware of who they’re talking about. Ethan’s jaw just about hits the floor. Grayson begins snickering loudly as he butters his freshly baked toast, and Ethan briefly weighs the pros and cons of vaulting himself over the kitchen island and just strangling him quiet. But before he can make a proper decision, his dad’s continuing. ”Ethan, she's one smart cookie. The whole list! Blew my mind," he says with a shake of his head.

Ethan doesn't note that he himself had also read the list, because he knows it's different. “Yep,” he mutters, tapping his fingers along the granite.

“So you have a crush on her?” his dad asks, peering over his shoulder from where he hovers in the refrigerator’s doorway.

Ethan says, "No!" the same time Grayson says, "Yes."

"I'll keep that in mind, Kiddo," his dad says.

Ethan just whines, already so very aware of how humiliating it will be to have his dad prod at him. But deep down—deep, deep, deep down—he hopes by some miracle it'll be beneficial because it's true; Ethan would be crazy to not have a crush on her. He already knows he's in deep when he catches himself smiling for the thousandth time that day over their measly conversation in the hall.

Ethan’s never been so bored in his life. No, that isn’t true, and yes, it is incredibly dramatic, but he means it, okay? With Grayson at football camp for a week and Cameron working overtime at the ice cream parlor, Ethan’s feeling stir crazy while he stares up at his ceiling fan and watches it spin round and around and around and around. He knows he could go for a swim down by the riverbed, but he’s done that the last two days. And sure, he could shoot hoops in the driveway, but what’s the fun in doing that alone? It’s only been a day and a half since Grayson’s left, and he thinks he might just die before next Monday comes around. He’ll never admit how attached he is to him.

He huffs and he puffs and he sighs and he whimpers, but nothing comes to mind. He feels a frenzy in the pit of his stomach, one that’s begging him to just move, and he hops upright, ready to pace around his room if it means getting some of this energy out. He jumps up and down—even throws in a few jumping jacks just for some spice—but it’s useless; he needs interest.

His mind wonders off to (Y/N) again like it has every single hour of every single day since summer began. He wonders, for the gazillionth time, how she’s spending this unusually hot July day, what she’s doing, where she’s doing whatever she’s doing. Ethan realizes these thoughts only make him antsier because the idea of (Y/N) alone makes him nervous in general, so he smacks his forehead childishly to swat away the thoughts. She’s probably reading. But reading what?

Harry Potter, of course, unless she’s marking off the Composition reading list one by one. But who would want to do that on a day like today? He’s sure she’s spending it with a book in her hand and probably sunning at the local beach, her peers alongside her. She’s quiet, but not unsocial; the gaggle of girls she has are nice—well, nice enough—and murderously loyal, it seems. Ethan approves of her friend group most out of the entire student body; sometimes they say hello to him, and that’s more than 99% of the mass population would ever do for him.

The way she talks about those Harry Potters, Ethan would think they’re magic. Well, duh, he thinks. But they’re children’s books—what could possibly be so good?

Ethan knows what he’s going to do today.

He hauls himself to the local library, a good four miles away (which is more than enough for him to rid himself of some of this boyish energy he has), and checks out the first two books. Then he cracks the spine of the first one and begins reading and walking on his way home.

His first impression is terrible; he hates the Dursleys, and Harry is frankly quite bland. But before he knows it, he’s skimming the pages just to find out what happens next, and then he’s scrunching his nose bitterly at characters he hates and grinning whenever Hagrid is featured in a chapter. He’s decided to hate Severus Snape until his dying breath and he’s almost certain he’d be sorted into Slytherin and he has full intentions to name his first child Ron whether it’s a boy or a girl—and it’s only been five chapters. He gets it—he totally freakin’ gets why she loves these books so much. He feels like a kid again. He’s so lost in the plot that he brings his book to the dinner table and flips pages between forkfuls.

“Ethan!” his mom shouts, smacking her palm against the table.

Ethan jumps, startled. “What?” he asks innocently, his heart still racing from his abrupt interruption.

"Honey, I've called your name eight times!" she laughs, eyeing him disbelievingly.

"Sorry," he mumbles around a bite of steak, already turning back to his story.

"Nuh-uh, it's dinner time, put the book away," his mom warns, a quirk in her eyebrow and discipline clear in her voice. Ethan shrinks in his chair and dog-ears his page, reluctant but compliant.

"What are you reading?" his dad asks, tilting his head to try and make out the title. "Oh, Miss (Y/N)'s favorite book, I see," he smirks.

Ethan frowns as his jaw falls. "How did you-"

"Oh please, you two weren't all that quiet when you were flirting up a storm in my English class. I'm pretty sure I know just as much about her as you do," he snorts, shaking his head and shoveling in another bite of meat.

Ethan pouts into his plate, embarrassed and annoyed. So what if he wanted to read her favorite books? They were friends. He was allowed.

"Are you talking about (Y/N)?" Cameron pipes up from across the table, a smug smile on her lips.

"Save it, Cam," Ethan grumbles, feeling sour.

"So you don't want to hear all about her visit to the ice cream parlor today?" Cameron quips, speaking theatrically loftily. "Because her friends sure had a lot to say about you..."

Ethan ponders over whether he should play it cool or embrace his excitement. "What'd they say?" he squeaks quickly, sounding more desperate than he's ever heard himself.

His family chuckles at his eagerness and eyes one another. Normally this would really irk him, but he has bigger interests.

"Oh, just that she talks about you all the time," Cameron sings. "She didn't say as much as I said, though."

Ethan's blood runs cold in his system. "W-what did you say?"

"Oh, just that you never shut up about her and that you have a huge crush on her," Cameron smirks, squinting evilly at him across the table.

Ethan's read Dante's Inferno and he is absolutely, positively, 1000% certain that he has just entered the ninth ring of hell. Oh my God. Oh my God.

"Cameron!" he shrieks, hopping from his spot. He doesn't even realize he's grabbed his steak knife along for defense, but suddenly everyone's rising from their seats and demanding he calms down. Ethan feels hot tears spring in his eyes; his friend, his only willing friend knows about his stupid dumb crush. She's never going to talk to him again. She's never going to-

Ethan thinks he's going to pass out.

"Dude, chill out! I already told you she likes you too!" Cameron shouts back, her hands raised defensively.

Ethan's sensitive. His whole family knows it, but even they're shocked when his bottom lip begins to wobble and a tear slips down his cheek. He's so glad Grayson isn't here to see him cry like a fucking baby.

"E, c'mon," Cameron coaxes, looking at him with bewilderment. "It's not that big of a deal!"

"Easy for you to say!" Ethan screams, collapsing in his chair. She's going to hate him, she's going to hate him, she's going to hate him. She does some charity work, befriends the freak, and then she realizes she has to deal with his obsessive crush? Why wouldn't she walk away? This isn't even fair--he would have kept his mouth shut about his stupid crush for life if it meant keeping her as a friend. "She's my only friend!"

The dinner table falls quiet; Ethan's unpopularity has always been the elephant in the room. Ethan's scrubbing the hot tears away from his cheeks and grinding his teeth together to keep the emotion better at bay but it isn't any use; the thought of (Y/N) joining the army of people absolutely disgusted with Ethan is too much; he has to cry.

He knows Cam had good intentions; she's just being a sister. But what's done is done, and he doesn't think he can look (Y/N) in the eye ever again.

Cameron slips out of her chair and over to Ethan, cuddling his frame close to hers. Ethan cries into her shoulder pathetically, and he knows this is all so unusual for his family, seeing him weep so openly like this, but this is just too much. He doesn't know what he'll do when he sees her in a month. He thinks about homeschooling.

"Ethan," Cameron whispers. "She looked excited. She clearly likes you too."

Ethan shoves away at her shoulder, angry all over again. "Cameron, don't try and soothe the wound. The damage is done."

Cameron scoffs, stands, and folds her arms over her chest. "Okay Princess, I was being gentle, but now you're just being a prima donna. She likes you. Accept that you're likable."

"That's not even funny, Cameron," Ethan whimpers, another wave of self-hatred washing ashore.

"Honey," his mom coos, "(Y/N) would be very lucky to have a boy like you."

Ethan's getting angrier by the second, and he's about ready to stomp off with his plate and his book and his pride. The realization that his family has just seen him sob over a girl makes his cheeks melt with shame.

"And you would be lucky to have a girl like (Y/N)," his dad pipes up. "I'm telling you guys, her Scarlett Letter analysis was just out of this w-"

Cameron groans loudly, stuffing her face in her palms. "Would you shut up about her Scarlett Letter analysis!"

Lisa gasps beside her. "Cameron June! Do not speak to your father like that."

"Well seriously, he mentions it like every day!" she quacks back.

"Well, it's worth talking about! I mean really Ethan, that girl is going to win a Pulitzer Prize one day and I want her last name to be Dolan when she does," his dad urges, raising his eyebrow and biting a forkful of steak.

Ethan snorts goodheartedly, still anxious but exhausted from emotion more than anything. In an effort to escape the conversation and his family, he excuses himself and tucks himself in his room, ready to devour his book again.

He loves this book. He loves this book. It's maybe the best he's ever read. He's flying through the pages so quickly he has to reread some parts to really enjoy it properly. It's edging ten in the evening and he's just about to venture into the Forbidden Forest with Harry and Malfoy when he hears a soft knock on his door.

"Hey," Cameron mutters, peaking her head in.

Ethan folds his novel in his lap, prepared to have a forced heart to heart with his offender. "Mom send you up here?" he asks rhetorically.

Cameron cracks a grin and nods. "Yeah, but I wanted to say sorry anyway. So..." she trails off shifting between her feet. "...Sorry."

"Thanks," Ethan snorts.

Cameron hobbles over and plops herself on the edge of his bed, plucking the story from his comforter. "These are such good books," she nods, leafing through a few pages to get an idea of where he is in the plot.

"I know, I can't believe I've never read them. The way (Y/N) talks about these books, you'd think they hung the stars in the sky," Ethan murmurs, chuckling to himself.

Cameron purses her lips and gives him a sidelong glance. "She seems pretty cool, sort of shy, but sweet."

Ethan's brows furrow together. "I don't get why people always say that like it's a bad thing," he deadpans, encouraging her to rethink her statement. "She's shy, so what? She's really nice."

Cameron giggles and shakes her head. "Look at you, all defensive," she prods, ruffling his hair. Ethan's beginning to regret ever inviting her into his room. Cameron smiles more to herself and says, "I'm happy you have a crush, it's, er... healthy. And I think she's a good person to have a crush on--she's super cute."

Ethan laughs to himself and decides to let his guard down, if only for a moment. "Tell me about it."

Cameron's lips spread so wide her teeth peek out from under them. The two are quiet for a minute, and it isn't awkward. Ethan doesn't hate his sister, even if she ruined his only friendship.

As if reading his thoughts, Cameron stirs the pot some more. ”Ethan, she likes you, okay? And maybe you don't see that, but I know it," Cameron swears, grabbing his hand where it lays on the bed.

Ethan yanks it away, uncaring of his blunt rejection. "You don't know shit," he grouches.

"E," she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Trust me, she does. I'm a girl, I know how they act. And you know what? Quit being so bitter. No one likes a pessimist."

I know, Ethan thinks, That's the problem.

"So suck it up, or... or you'll have to deal with my two friends, lefty and righty," Cameron threatens, waving her fists around 'threateningly'. Ethan thinks she needs a lesson or two on intimidation.

He chuckles, which clearly bruises her ego, because she begins tickling him torturously, and after half an hour of a tickling war, all is forgiven. Cameron eventually deserts him with his book and Ethan returns to his own little literature world, more excited than he’s ever been about a series.

Miraculously, when Ethan sees (Y/N) on the first day of school, she doesn’t hate him or his newly dyed purple stripe. She actually calls him hot, and Ethan knows that he’ll absolutely never get over it. He’s made it through a month of school with her by his side, the two as close as what he imagines a best friend would be like. He hasn’t had one besides Grayson, and he knows that that doesn’t count. But things are going alright, and he couldn’t be more thankful.

Well, except for every other person involved in his school. Since everyone had survived their first year of high school, they were much less skittish and much meaner. Ethan’s had comments thrown his way every single day since the start, and he’s even been shoved once or twice, just like he’s seen in movies. He’s seriously wondering if they’ll lock him in a locker soon. He hasn’t experienced that since eighth grade.

But Ethan isn’t going to let that happen. He’s bulked up over the summer—gained a few inches and more than a dozen pounds—and he knows how to fight. Obviously, bites a voice in the back of his head. You almost killed a kid.

Ethan worries about the day when (Y/N) finds that out, that he'd nearly been expelled for almost murdering Jacob Kronwell at the innocent age of thirteen. He shudders at the thought and stuffs it down, down, down and just prays she never finds out.

Career day is, by far, the least interesting school-fueled 'holiday' Ethan can imagine, and he's considering spirit day and all its pep-fest activities. Career day is just tedious, plain and simple. It annoys the faculty, it annoys the students, and infinitely more importantly, it annoys Ethan because he knows what he wants to do. He wants to write books, and Long Valley was seriously lacking world-renowned authors and best-selling novelists, which meant the other teachers, scrambling for anything to jam-pack his day, would tell him to visit the journalism booth or the English teacher division, which in itself was completely useless. His own dad was an English teacher--if he had questions, he could ask them over spaghetti tonight.

And then there was that bit where he had to listen to certain people drone on and on about their solid, reliable plans of being 'The Next Michael Jordan' or 'The Next Tom Brady' or, most unrealistic of all, 'The Next Kim Kardashian.' Ethan seriously doubts that if they don't have a booth for creative writing, they won't have a booth for the profound artistry of face-tuning or the ambitious marketing strategies for FitTea Tummy. But that's just Ethan.

It's not like he's going to find out anyway; he plans to lock himself away in his dad's quaint English room for most of the afternoon, lower the lights, draw the blinds, and stuff himself in the beanbag tucked in the corner just for him and finish Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. He has been fervently reading them ever since he stole the first copy from the library, and he's really edging towards the climax of this one. He's dug it out every spare second, reading between class periods and during his lunch. They truly are very, very good books.

When he arrives at school that morning, it as chaotic as he had imagined; every student is swarming about the halls, jabbing about what professions they'll bore themselves with for a few hours. He assumes they'll be too preoccupied to bother with their typical harsh stares and obvious gossip, but he's hardly made it to his locker when Cole Eptom eyes him quizzically from a few slots down. "Hey Dolan," he calls, nodding his head.

Ethan debates momentarily over whether he should tune him out or give Cole the benefit of the doubt and engage in what could only be small talk or torture. Suppressing a sigh, Ethan turns to look Cole's way with a raised eyebrow.

"That pink hair's fucking queer," Cole sneers, shutting his locker and marching off with his monochromatic Career Day pamphlet and his enormous, inflated ego.

It shouldn't bother Ethan. He knew last night when he spontaneously bought a box of hot pink hair dye and painted the bleached tuff above his eyes that he'd get a few stares. He thinks he's seen Cole wear the same pair of basketball shorts every day for the past month, and Cole himself said that jeans would only be reserved for five star restaurants. Cole doesn't know shit about fashion, and furthermore, Cole's hideous. And mean. His opinion shouldn't bother Ethan.

It does.

Ethan's feeling sourer than normal today, with Career Day's boisterous chatter infiltrating his ears (even after he'd stuffed them with headphones and extremely loud music) and the unending sly and taunting comments about his hair. It felt like every pair of eyes that existed in this building were zeroing in on the fuchsia tuft blanketing his forehead.

Queer. Queer. Queer. Queer.

He heard Cole's comment over and over and over again in his head and had to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to keep his nausea at bay. What was he thinking, dying his hair bubblegum pink? What was he thinking? He wasn't. Ethan never thinks, he just does, and that is why he didn't have many friends. Impulsive and stupid were such a terrible combination. Ethan wouldn't touch himself with a ten-foot pole.

He's being harsh on himself, he knows he is, but he can't help it now. Fuck, it feels like his clothes don't fit him right, like they're too small and woven with needle-sharp fragments of glass. And it's hot in his sweatshirt, too warm and suffocating and it's boiling beneath the base of his neck, right where his collar starts, and only then does he realize just how tight it feels around his throat-

"Hello!" (Y/N) calls, looking bewildered. She smacks his arm as she sidles up next him by his locker. "How the fuck can't you hear me?"

Ethan's not one for cliches, but he almost immediately feels at least half of the weight burdening his shoulders float off, off, off at the sight of her. She's similarly cozied up in an oversized sweatshirt, the sleeves falling past the tips of her fingers, and he wonders briefly if her hands are cold. He hopes not.

"Sorry," Ethan mumbles, chewing on his lip. "I'm just... stressed."

Ethan thinks stressed might be a better word than anxious, because then she'd ask questions because she cares. She cares a lot about Ethan, and he knows it, and he feels the weight drift off his shoulders some more.

"Well, your hair looks great," she says, blushing terribly. Her cheeks are scorned a bright pink, nearly mimicking the neon tuft dangling above Ethan's eyes.

"No it doesn't," he grumbles, glaring up at the strands.

"No, it does," she pushes, though her voice is squeaky and weak. "H-Hot pink for a hot guy, right?"

And then her face is scrunching up, embarrassment etching her features adorably, and slapping her palm against her forehead. She looks tortured with her eyes screwed shut and her neck flushed a deep red, she's tucking in on herself with humiliation and Ethan's hardly able to contain his grin. He doesn't try, just lets his lips split over his teeth, big and wide, and chuckles.

"Hot pink for a hot guy," Ethan agrees, smirking with kind eyes down at her shielded figure.

She peaks through her fingers to glare at him and smacks his shoulder, and she looks so sweet and gentle. His heart begins thumping and thumping in his chest, so loud it drowns out all the snide comments he's had thrown at him this morning. He chokes back the feelings, whatever feelings these are, and shakes his head, leaning back against his locker confidently.

"Oh, fuck off," she mumbles, crossing her arms.

"You sound more and more like me every day," he laughs, poking her side teasingly. "Lemon girl."

"Not a chance," she replies loftily, rolling her eyes. Ethan loves this side of her more than anything; it is sound proof that she is completely comfortable around him, despite the way she acts so constantly nervous. "I actually wake up on the right side of the bed sometimes, which can't be said for you."

In return, Ethan rolls his own eyes with a smile. "Right," he snorts, "but today is clearly not one of those days."

"No," she groans, falling forward and pressing her forehead on the ball of his shoulder. "I feel so sick. Feel my forehead. Sympathize."

Ethan laughs outright and scrubs a hand down her back. "Poor (Y/N)," he simpers dramatically. "Don't tell me it's the plague."

She burrows her head deeper into his figure and he prays she can't feel the way his heart rate picks up considerably. "Just might be."

"Look, if you die on me, I'll have to befriend that Tara chick from Comp just to spite you in the afterlife," he says, throwing an arm around her shoulders.

With an absent-mind he realizes, uncaringly, that they probably look quite cozy to any of the students passing by in the hallway, with Ethan cradling her comfortably and her nose buried in his collarbone. He doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all.

"You wouldn't dare," she threatens, her words muffled by the fabric of his hoodie. "I'd fuckin' haunt you until you died, and then I'd kick your ass from beyond the grave."

Ethan's glad she's tucked into him so she can't see the way he's biting back laughter.

"You know I could kick your ass, right?" she pushes.

"Of course," he complies.

All too soon she's uncurling from him, wiping her sleeve over her nose, and sniffling. "What career day things are you going to?" she asks, digging her pamphlet out of her backpack and scanning it.

"Dunno," he says, shrugging lamely. He knows he isn't attending any of them, but he's saving his breath. "What about you?"

She frowns bitterly and squints at the paper. "You're kidding me. There's a booth for Veterinary Acupuncture but not a single booth for creative writing?" She has disgust painted all over her pretty features when she says, "E, I'm sorry. That's fucked up."

"Sorry? Why are you sorry?" Ethan asks surprisedly.

"Cause, I know you wanna write when you get older and it's twisted that they don't have anything catering to that. I mean seriously they- oh my god, they have a booth for Clown Academy but not-!"

"How'd you know that?" Ethan asks with a furrow in his brow.

He can't ever remember sharing that with anyone, not besides Grayson, and that was years ago. He wouldn't share that with anyone. He'd never want to.

"Says right here on the brochure, Clown Academy, right above Counseling."

"No, not- not the clown academy thing, that I wanted to write."

She lifts a brow, puzzled. "You told me," she elaborates obviously. "That's why you got that little pen tattoo next to Grayson's birthday, right? You told me on the last day of school last year."

He did. He remembers it now, faint and vague, but he's gobsmacked she'd remember such a thing. Almost as gobsmacked as he is that he told her.

"Right..." he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. He ducks his head and says, "Yeah, no, it's stupid that they don't have anything."

"Stupid's one word for it," she continues, shaking her head and glowering at the sheet she's holding. "Kind of bothers me too since I want to do something with writing."

"Really?" Ethan asks, his head popping up to meet her eyes. "You want to write? Like what? Like journalism? Or like books? Or-"

"Easy tiger, you're talking to a girl half drugged up on DayQuil," she giggles, quirking a brow.

Ethan feels himself flood with embarrassment once he realizes how ridiculously giddy he sounded just then. He just cares a lot, okay? And he bets her writing is simply stunning, he could probably read it forever if she let-

Ethan feels panic rise up in his throat and all through his chest when he realizes there's no prospect of "forever" with a girl like her. Ethan reminds himself that this friendship is a stroke of luck--practically a miracle, considering everyone else sees what Ethan sees in himself--and that he can't even pray for anything more than a high school friendship with her. And that's that.

(Y/N) is completely oblivious to his storm of emotions as she says, "Dunno yet, could be something with romance--I'm big on cheesy novels," with a giggle. "But I've got three more years of high school, maybe by then I'll have dreams of law or med school or being a swimming pig island guide. We'll see."

Maybe you'll be mine, Ethan thinks before he can stop himself. He nearly slaps himself in the face. Stop it, we just had this conversation, he thinks. And after thinking that, he realizes he's talking to himself. Freak.

"But anyway, I'm gonna drop my stuff off at my locker and then head to the gym, wanna walk me down?" she offers.

Ethan, as much as he would absolutely love even another second with her, realizes he must ditch her for that cozy book nook in his dad's room that'll host him all day. So, he says, "Would, but I've gotta piss and then talk to my dad."

Her nose scrunches adorably and he feels his stomach swoop. "Could you be less, uh, gross?"

"Never, you love it," he shrugs.

Momentarily, her friendly expression caves and she looks as though she's been caught in the act of something with her flushed skin and doe eyes. "Right," she squeaks. "Well, I'll see you around."

The two part ways and Ethan immediately jogs to his dad's room feeling the best kind of tired and excited to snuggle up under the blanket he's stashed under his dad's desk. He burrows himself in the bean bag and cracks the spine of his Harry Potter and gets to work, ignorant to the hours that slip by or the chaos that is most definitely ensuing in the gymnasium.

His dad stops in once or twice to check on him and backhandedly scold him for ditching such a fantastic and beneficial expo, saying things like 'It's such a shame kids don't attend such a well-stacked organization,' and 'the journalism department has some gifted staff members that have such fantastic brochures.' It is snooze worthy for Ethan, especially in comparison to the duel between Harry and Voldemort that he's reading about.

Around noon Ethan is forced to get up and stretch, moan and groan as the joints in his back pop and shift from his fetal position in his bean bag, because, for starters, he's absolutely famished and, for enders, he's just finished one of the best books he's ever read in his whole entire life. He can totally understand why (Y/N) gushes about them so much.

On his walk to the library, he thinks about the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Universal Studios in Florida, and wonders how much two plane tickets and passes would be, just to see her face light up when she takes her first sip of butterbeer. Or better yet, when she flicks her newly purchased wand around in her newly purchased robes and jumps up and down like the kid she is at heart. Or, even better yet, how she'd spill every bit of knowledge she had about the books before, during, and after their little adventure, all throughout the plane ride there and all throughout the plane ride home. It's just too perfect--it is exactly what she deserves.

And then Ethan catches himself grinning almost wolfishly his smile is so big, and he shakes his head like a cartoon character trying to rid himself of these crazed thoughts, because there are so many complications. One, he is broke as can be, two, his mother is incredibly strict and would never let him whisk away his giant crush to paradise, some 15 states away, and three, he doubts (Y/N) would ever want to go with him. He imagines she'd want to go--just not with him. And that is understandable, so as his fantasy explodes with a mournful pop!, he hurries into the library and grabs the cleanest copy of Harry Potter and the Order of Phoenix and dashes out. Clearly, the smell of books--which he has already associated with (Y/N) for some unrelated reason--is too intoxicating for a clear mind.

After chomping away at the lunch he'd packed that morning, Ethan again nestles himself in his bean bag chair, ready to float from reality between the pages of what is undoubtedly his next favorite book. However, just as he's flicking open the cover, a tentative knock sounds at the door.

"Mr. Dolan?" calls a voice, one sweet like honey, from outside the room. "Mr. Dolan, you in there?"

Ethan quickly shoves the book underneath the bean bag before clearing throat and lowering his voice comically, "Come in."

"Mr. Dolan, I'm sorry to interrupt your lun-" (Y/N) stops dead in her tracks when she realizes there is no Mr. Dolan, well, no Sean by any means, but that Ethan's looking at her expectantly. "Where's Mr. Dolan?" she asks.

"He's right here," Ethan says, gesturing to his comfy figure in his comfy bean bag.

Her lips crack into a grin and she says, "No, you dummy, I mean your dad. Is he on his lunch break? And why are you in here? I was wondering why I hadn't seen you at Career Day."

Ethan shrugs lamely and surveys her; if he didn't think she looked like an angel, he would have thought she looked like hell: she had deep, dark circles beneath her eyes and her skin had paled even more throughout the day, the base of her nose scrubbed from rubbing it all day and her lips parted and cracked from mouth-breathing. Her clothes even look more rumply, like she's been curling up every spare second she's gotten.

"Go home," is all he says, his voice cracking embarrassingly. "You look like you're dying."

"Ugh, I am," she complains, folding her face in between her two palms. "I seriously think I might have something bad. My body's killing me."

"Then go home," Ethan encourages again, frowning sadly.

"Can't," she says, "got things to do."

Ethan rolls his eyes irritatedly, annoyed with her ambition when she is so obviously sick. "No, I'm not asking."

"Me neither," she shrugs. "Not like I can drive home anyway, I just have to tough today out."

"Well... well, don't go back to career day, the last thing you need is all that activity. And you could get a lot of people sick..." Ethan mumbles, fumbling for a decent excuse to just get her to stay in this room with him so he can ensure she doesn't die or something. Obviously.

"I'll be fine, I don't have another option," she says, sniffling.

"Hang out in here!" Ethan blurts, his words loud and unpredicted. "I- I mean, you can take the bean bag, and I'll lay on the floor, and I can set up a movie on the SmartBoard or something, okay? You shouldn't deal with all that- that activity for Career Day, and like I said, you could still get people sick."

She's watching him with amusement, and Ethan feels his embarrassment grow. But soon enough, she's asking still, "And what about you? What if I get you sick?"

Ethan could not care less about her getting him sick. He doesn't think he's ever felt so apathetic about a risk. "I'm just one person," he defends weakly.

"But an important one," she singsongs, but she's already working her way over to his beanbag. "But I'm sold. Put on a John Hughes movie--Pretty In Pink!" she cries, clapping her hands. "Just like you! Because of the new, pretty and pink hair you've got. Get it?"

Ethan's almost forgotten his latest hair alteration, and chuckles. She thinks he's pretty in pink?

As he's clicking away at the computer and setting up her film of choice, she asks, "Hey, is this your Harry Potter book?!"

He spins around to find her holding the copy he had stuffed under the beanbag and feels nervous for some reason. He hasn't told her he's reading the series, because he likes the way she explains things when she thinks he doesn't already know them, like a really excited kid. So, he says "Psh, no!”

As if that wasn't the shittiest way to tell a lie.

It doesn't seem dishonest to her, because she says, "Ugh, E, you gotta read them. Whoever was reading this has great taste."

"Not much of a reader," he snorts sarcastically, finally starting the film and heading back over to her to curl up on the floor.

"Whatever," she laughs, patting his head--too kind to ever smack him hard enough. "I'll read them to you. You have to find out how great these books are."

Ethan thinks about how wonderful that would be, her reading to him, and feels his heart flutter. Ethan Dolan is a fifteen year old boy who has just felt his heart flutter. He knows he's in much, much too deep. "Alright," he squeaks. "I'm holding you to that."

And then they watch the movie, and Ethan isn't even bothered when she coughs through half of it.

“Is it weird to get (Y/N) a present?” Ethan blurts as he waltzes into Grayson’s room, opting to pace back and forth anxiously instead of seating himself on his bed.

Grayson yanks out of one his earbuds and cocks a brow. He was all snuggled up under his comforter and enjoying the ache that comes with an overstuffed belly after Thanksgiving, ready to doze off any minute. He would be annoyed with Ethan, but he looks like a nervous wreck as he walks back and forth across his rug, and Grayson really likes (Y/N). Not to mention, he knows how much (Y/N) means to Ethan, as a friend and as the love of his life, so he knows this is serious.

“Um…” Grayson mumbles, processing his question.

“Um means no, right?” Ethan squawks, halting in his footsteps. “Right? I just- I know that it’s dumb, but listen, I have the perfect idea and-“

Grayson laughs in disbelief and shakes his head. “You’ve got it so bad.”

“I know!” Ethan growls viciously, and Grayson’s almost scared. “I know, okay! But that’s not what this is about!”

Grayson isn’t trying to be rude, he’s just stating the obvious. Anyone that’s almost in tears over stress because of a Christmas present—with the holiday still a month away—clearly cares a lot. Ethan’s never bought Christmas presents for anyone else but Gray, Cam, their parents, and their grandparents before, so this is a whole new milestone for him. But, Grayson realizes nobody else has ever really cared about Ethan. “Okay, okay,” Grayson says softly, removing his other earbud and folding his hands on his lap. “What’s your idea?”

Ethan whines and scampers over to his bed, looking more vulnerable than Grayson’s ever seen him in his life. Once Ethan’s seated criss-crossed, he takes a deep breath he begins rambling again. “So, her favorite books ever are the Harry Potters, and JK Rowling just came out with limited house edition versions of the Philospher’s Stone. I just think that’d be so perfect for her—a limited edition of her favorite book. But here’s the problem, I don’t know what house she’s in! And I can’t ask, because if I ask then-“

“Well, how about I ask her?” Grayson offers, fighting a crooked smile off his lips.

“No,” Ethan says, shaking his head. “No, this needs to be a complete surprise. You’ve never even talked about the Harry Potters with her. I just need to get them all.”

Grayson blinks in shock. “Get them all? That’s your solution? E, that’s like at least $80.”

“$100,” Ethan mumbles around the nail he’s nibbling on. “Not including shipping and handling.”

“$100! You can’t drop $100 on (Y/N)’s Christmas present!” Grayson stammers, bewildered and gobsmacked.

“Well, why not?” Ethan grumbles, glaring at his lap.

“Ethan,” Grayson breathes, his face collapsing in his hands. “Why do you want to spend $100 on her Christmas present?” Ethan shrugs his shoulders lazily, distancing himself from Grayson emotionally. He can practically see the guards going up. He sighs as he says, “I’m not judging bro, I just want to know.”

“She’d just really like it,” Ethan elaborates, as if that wasn’t obvious.

“She’d probably really like a bar of chocolate, Ethan. Anything you get her she’ll love. Do you really want to make a dent in your bank account like that over some girl?”

Grayson can see he’s struck a nerve, and he knows just how before the words even come out of Ethan’s mouth. “She isn’t just some girl, are you serious? This is my best friend. This is my only friend.”

Grayson scratches at the back of his neck. “Is this to make her like you? Do you think she’s going to like if you buy her stuff?”

It came out wrong. It came out wrong, but he still meant it. What does Ethan think he’s doing?

“Fuck you, Grayson,” Ethan bites out before hopping off the mattress and stomping towards the door.

“Bro, come back here, you know that’s not what I- Ethan, stop being a bitch,” Grayson grumbles, sliding out from his bed and chasing Ethan into his own room. The walk is uncomfortable with Grayson’s overstuffed gut, but he knows he needs to tend to Ethan’s giant, sensitive heart. Upon arrival, Grayson finds that Ethan’s actually locked the door on him. He knocks once, twice, three times without an answer before he just bangs his head against the wood. “You’re such a child.”

“And you’re such a dick,” Ethan snarks from the other side.

Ethan knows he’s overreacting, but Grayson knows better than to say things like that; he’s done it before and received the same treatment. It’s not fair that everyone always treats her like she’s average or disposable—Ethan would buy her the world if he could, and Grayson damn well knows it. Moreover, Ethan doesn’t expect anything in return from her; not a gift, not a relationship, not even a thanks. He just loves that he has someone to care for, even platonically. He’s never had this kind of opportunity. He’s never had this kind of friendship.

“Look, I’m sorry about calling your friend, er, ‘some girl’. And I’m sorry for the other part, too. But seriously E, do you really want to spend all that money? You don’t even have a job. This is like, birthday money and stuff…” Grayson tries, wincing.

“Yep,” Ethan replies flatly.

Exhaling a deep sigh, Grayson shakes his head against the wood. “Have you made up your mind?” he asks rhetorically.

Ethan doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to.

After a pause, Grayson sighs once more. “I’ll grab your wallet.”

“Ethan,” his dad calls, stomping his feet off of snow on the welcome mat in the foyer. “Gotta gift for ya.”

Ethan frowns where he sits on the couch with Grayson by his side, a pair of festive elf hats adorning both of their heads for Christmas day. “Me?” he asks incredulously, spinning in his spot.

“Is there another Ethan living in this house?” his dad asks with an eye roll before tossing him the package. It’s about as big as a shoebox, if not a little bigger, and there’s a glinting metallic red bow on the face of its white wrapping paper. He knows immediately that it’s from (Y/N) somehow.

He feels nervous. What if she was returning the books for some reason? It wasn’t heavy enough for that, but maybe she kept her preferred house and returned the rest… or maybe it’s just a letter softly letting him down, that his present was out of line and that she’s seen through his lies this past year and that she knows for certain he’s in love with her. Ethan let’s his mind whirl around torturously for a full minute.

Grayson can tell what Ethan’s thinking as he watches his brother stare at the wrapping paper with wide eyes and an anxious frown, so he says, “Ethan, just open the damn box.”

“Grayson!” his mother chastises from the couch across the coffee table. “No swearing! And on Christmas too?!”

Grayson barely holds back his eye roll. “Sorry, but look at this idiot. He’s about to have an anxiety attack over a gift!”

His snarky comment awakes Ethan from his terrible daydream and Ethan elbows his side. “Shut up,” he growls. “I’m going upstairs to open this.”

Grayson leans in close so his family can’t hear him. “What, think it might be lingerie?” he snickers.

Ethan’s cheeks burst with color and he gapes. “No!” he shouts, pushing off the couch and running to his room, ignoring the way Grayson cackles maniacally behind him.

He seals himself away in his space, hops into his bed and flicks on his bedside lamp. His hands are shaking with the suspense of it and he has to tell himself to calm down twice. Then he counts to three and begins tearing at the paper, shredding it and splitting open the tape that boxes it.

It’s simple, but so perfect. He grabs the plush T-rex tucked inside, chuckling when he realizes it’s a token from their conversation on the last day of freshman year in advanced English. He squeezes it to his body and hugs it so tight it hurts.

Then he pulls out the giant box of sour patch kids candy and laughs at the note, ‘For a sweet n sour kind of guy.’ Then he finds two bookmarks, one with lemons patterning the front and the second is just blank with a polaroid the two of them took at their local bowling alley taped on top. He feels his throat begin to choke up with emotion and his heart’s beating really, really fast.

Lastly, he digs out the two prompt books from the bottom with stickers that boast ‘Over 2000 prompts inside!’. On the cover of the first is a sticky note that says, ‘Hopefully you can find some inspiration in here.’

And beneath it all is a tiny note on three-holed paper written in blue ink.

Merry Christmas Ethy. Never make me cry like that again, okay? I almost sobbed to death. You mean the world to me and are a great friend. Give the fam a hug for me.

Ethan’s crying. He’s crying so hard that he thinks he’ll never stop because she is such a good friend. She’s too good for him, and she doesn’t know it, and he never wants her to figure that out because he wants her for life. Friend, girlfriend, whatever. It doesn’t matter as long as she’s around him.

His mom knocks on the door gently from outside his room, hearing his wails all the way from the staircase. “Etee?” she calls. “Can I come in?”

Ethan makes a noise of approval through his choking sobs, and she enters the room, fearing the worst.

But then she sees him hugging a stuffed animal undoubtedly gifted by (Y/N) and her heart swells three times its size. She is so proud of her Ethan, and she is so proud of her (Y/N) now, too. She loves that girl like her own.

Ethan’s mom sneaks over and wraps him up in a hug and squeezes him once because she loves him, twice because she loves his best friend, and three times because it’s Christmas, and makes a mental note to find a gift for (Y/N) next Christmas, too.

Entering the final weeks of his junior year, Ethan's beginning to relax, finally. Him and (Y/N) have been best friends for over a year now and spend just about every waking minute together, going to movies every weekend, bowling every Tuesday, swimming in the summer, sledding in the snow; the two could have fun in a cardboard box at this point. They know each other like the back of their hands, and they've grown so close even Grayson's beginning to get jealous of the amount of time they spend together. But Grayson--and everyone else--knows that it is only because they are so blindly in love with one another. He'll let them be ignorant for a little bit longer.

Ethan's situated in the rigid reigns of his unassigned-assigned seat in the very back of his college interpersonal communications class, pencil in hand, brows sloped together and feeling low as he ever could.

The assignment was simple. He was confirming or denying personality traits and ranking them on a scale from one to ten with one being inaccurate and ten being suitable. For example, Ethan's eyes hardly ghosted over the phrase '3. I am sociable' before his pencil darted over to the one column and jotted down the number 3 since the phrase 'sociable' was practically an antonym for 'Ethan Dolan'. The assignment is generic enough, but for some reason, Ethan feels targeted. He supposes he should put number '4. I am paranoid' under column eight.

Ethan's hard on himself. And he thinks that, after placing '6. I am revolting' under column nine, he should probably lighten up, but he agrees, okay? And he is anxious, he is argumentative, he's immature and impatient and cowardly. The further he skims down this list, the more cons he agrees with. However, there's a fair balance of disagreement: he certainly isn't affectionate, charming, or humorous and he certainly is not, er, 'happy-go-lucky'. He's being honest with himself--and that's what this activity is all about.

But it hurts. Ethan's foot is bobbing so fast against the rung of his chair his whole desk is practically vibrating and his throat feels tight and he feels cold, cold and cold-hearted. Before long, he's listing phrases like '11. I am snobbish' under category ten without a second thought.

'16. I am sensitive.'

Ethan's pencil hovers. He isn't sensitive. He is not sensitive, not anymore; his skin has thickened over the years, hardened with scars by the paper cuts of snide remarks and deep gashes of his own cruel thoughts. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even cried. His heart was practically dry ice at this point.

That's not true. You are still weak. You are still so weak.

Ethan feels his own insult slide down the length of his spine, cold and humiliating and it leaves his cheeks burning because it's true. He doesn't cry and that doesn't mean shit. He is still pathetic and lowly and he knows it, he knows better than to lie to himself like this. There is no place for dishonesty in his own mind--it is quick to reprimand him. He puts the number 16 under ten.

'17. I am lovable.'

His eyes pinch shut, stinging with tears, and he groans inwardly, aching with the pure cruelty of it. He can't think of a less applicable phrase. He ditches the one column completely and creates an entirely new scale, zero, and writes 17 twice.

He's hardly noticed that he's hunched over, his hand buried in his mop of hair and protectively shielding his vulnerable, tearful eyes. He's tucking in on himself until he's small, cowering under the weight of his thoughts. It hurts. It hurts.

He doesn't know where this wave of emotion came from, but he's digging his nails into his palm in order to distract him enough while the teacher's speaking.

"Now, the second part of the assignment is to see how other people rank you. I'll hand out a second copy and you will give it to them and give them the same instructions with you in mind," Ms. Stogerson says as the bell chimes overhead. "Bring it back tomorrow!" she cries as people file out of the room.

Ethan is last to leave with a heavy heart and a head full of heavy thoughts. He's practically sleep walking to his locker, his mind's so far away, and he jumps when (Y/N) puts a hand on his arm.

"Hey, you okay?" she asks gently, her eyebrows slung together with worry.

No. "Yeah, course," Ethan mumbles, staring down at his sheet littered with personal, personal insults. "Listen, um, you busy during study hall?" he asks.

She shakes her head no and waits for him to continue.

He sighs and nibbles on his lip. "Could you help me out with an assignment maybe?"

"Of course," she smiles easily. Ethan was dreading her response. He really, really, really doesn't want to do this. "What's the assignment?" she asks as he twists the lock on his locker.

"Um," he drags on, "it's kind of a weird one. You're supposed to like, rank me. Well, okay," he grumbles, ducking his head into his cubby for a moment of privacy. He sucks in a deep breath and closes his eyes, hoping the tears that still well in his eyes will soak back. "It's, uh..."

"Ethy? You okay? Seriously," she pushes, grabbing his forearm where it holds the rail of his door.

"Yeah," he tries, his voice cracking. He clears his throat and then steels himself. "Yes, I'm fine," he says with more certainty. "Basically, you have to rank my character traits from one to ten, with one being inaccurate, five being average, and ten being accurate. So like... so for instance, if the sentence was 'I am athletic', you'd rank me at like, a one since I'm not athletic at all. Get it?"

She squints at him and nods, tipping her head towards the classroom so they can begin walking. "Yeah, I get it, but I wouldn't rank you at a one. You might not be in sports, but I'm pretty sure you could kick someone's ass, and I saw you in gym class; you singlehandedly won capture-the-football for your team. I'd put you at like, an eight," she shrugs.

Ethan hadn't considered that. He really wasn't all that unathletic when he really thought about it. He frowns at his sheet. "Well... alright. But, you get it then?"

"Yeah, sounds like a piece of cake," she says and snags the sheet out of his hand.

Once they seat themselves in their study hall, (Y/N) breaks out her pencil and begins jotting down on the worksheet, and Ethan's almost sweating he's so anxious from what she'll say about him.

He knows she won't cut him down, she never has. But this is pure honesty, this says everything about what she thinks of him, how highly she sees him; it's as if he's asking her each question. Do you think I'm honest? Do you think I'm unique? Do you think I'm approachable? And she'll answer him.

It's an exercise based on self-evaluation and the mirror theory, and Ethan's supposed to find out if he sees in himself what others see in him. But he doesn't care what people think about him, he just cares what she thinks about him.

"Are you almost done?" Ethan mumbles, fidgeting with his hands.

She gives him a sidelong glance and a grin. "Yes, Mr. Impatient. Just... one... more. There," she says, sliding the sheet his way.

Ethan can't believe it. He really can't believe any of it. "You ranked me as a 10 on the attractive scale?" he gapes, bringing the paper close to his face to see if his vision had deceived him.

When he turns to look at her, she's blushing terribly but shrugging nonchalantly, as if she doesn't care if he knows that she thinks he's a ten. Ethan could throw a party.

"And another ten for charming? And a ten for humorous? And a nine for kind? Are you out of your mind?" he snorts, scanning her list. "Those are ones and twos on my list."

She blinks at him with horror. "How?" she asks incredulously.

"Charming? When am I ever charming?" he pushes.

"Er, well..." she says, avoiding his eyes entirely.

"And when am I funny?" he asks still.

"Oh, you know that you're funny, don't be stupid," she deadpans. "You make me laugh all the time. Let me see your list." Before Ethan can stuff it in her binder, away from her reach, she snags it and begins reviewing it studiously. Her frown deepens and deepens and her eyes get the look as if she's just seen animal abuse first hand, and Ethan hates it. He hates her sympathy, he hates her need to console him because he doesn't need it. He doesn't need sympathy.

"Ethan, how can you even say you're snobbish? When the fuck are you snobbish?" she mumbles, shaking her head.

"Well, I don't talk to anyone in this school besides you. I think that's kind of snobby of me," he shrugs, chewing on a hangnail.

"Ethan, you don't talk to anyone because they're all a bunch of assholes. I would be concerned if you did talk to them. Give me that," she says, grabbing his pencil from his hand and erasing his work. "We're doing this together."

"Why are you erasing revolting? That belongs in column ten!" he cries, grasping for the pencil.

"You're out of your mind, you are anything but revolting," she growls back, still erasing. "Now, why do you think you're irresponsible? You have a 4.0, Ethan."

He scratches the back of his neck, shrugging his shoulders lamely. "I don't know, I forgot to lock my locker one time and Kyle Henz sprayed shaving cream all over my books. If I'd remembered to lock it, that wouldn't have happened, you know?"

(Y/N)'s jaw clenches next to him and her knuckles turn white where they hold the pencil. "Well, Kyle Henz is a piece of shit, and that isn't your fault. You're responsible. It's going in column eight. I'll admit you're insecure, I'll leave that in column ten, but you shouldn't be. You are... so great," she says, shaking her head like she can't believe anyone like Ethan would be hard on themselves.

She makes him want to not be so hard on himself. She makes him want to believe in himself like she believes in him.

They go down the list until Ethan actually agrees with her on some. He doesn't know why he thought he was insensitive or bossy or dishonest because he just isn't. He is plenty of insulting words, but he isn't any of those, or half of the words he said he was an hour ago. (Y/N) makes an effort to give him an example with each one, why he's polite, why he's kind, why he's interesting, and it lifts his spirits higher than they've been in a long, long time.

"Why'd you pick me for this assignment?" she asks as the hour draws to an end.

Ethan doesn't really know. It's not because she was the first person he saw, because he would have picked her anyway. After a moment, he chews on his lip and murmurs, "You know me better than anyone else."

"Even Gray?"

"Even Gray," he nods.

She grins big at him and nods to herself. "Well, I know you better than anyone else, and look at what I think of you," she says, tapping to her sheet full of positives.

Ethan guesses that's one way to look at it.

They share a look, a look they share too often, a look that makes Ethan think that maybe she feels the same way too, a look that makes him believe that someday they could work out. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and the bell chimes overhead, and the moment's lost to reality.

"See you after school," she says to him breathlessly.

All Ethan can do is nod and watch her hurry out of the study hall room.

Ethan never does things right for too long. A year and a half of friendship was much, much more than he could have ever asked for, so he doesn't know why he's shocked. He doesn't know why he's even hurt.

He walks into his home robotically, his feet carrying him to his parents' room without him even knowing it. He doesn't even register that he's there until he hears his mom's gasp and feels her hands cradling his face. "Ethan Grant, how did you get that?" she asks.

He knows she's talking about the black eye that's marking the left half of his face, and he tries to answer her, but all that comes out is, "I think I lost (Y/N)."

He needs to talk about this. He needs to cry about this. He feels like something is eating him alive, starting with his heart; his heart, it hurts so bad.

"Honey, what do you mean? What do you mean you think you lost (Y/N)?" his mom asks, rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone and staring up at him with worry all over her features.

He just falls on her, lets her hold him like a child, and thinks about the times they used to go to the library and read together. He misses that innocence, that simpleness right now. He doesn't want to be so sad. Ethan is shaking with sobs and chokes on his own cries and sniffing loudly, trying to see through his blurry vision and calm down. He begins to hyperventilate and his mom leads him out into the living room, wrapping him in a blanket and attempting to console him, but it is very little use because Ethan is heartbroken.

He is absolutely heartbroken.

Ethan can hardly open his eyes the next morning, they're so puffy. He's still on the couch, and his mom is still by his side. He blinks blearily and looks around to find himself draped in a thick comforter and a cup of tea on the coffee table, still steaming. His mom looks as sad as him, and he can feel the disappointment radiating off of her. Whether it's from him fighting or him losing (Y/N), he doesn't know, but he hates it. It feels like another weight on him.

She cards her fingers through his tousled bangs and smiles sadly at him. "There's a delivery for you," she whispers to him, "from (Y/N)."

The name alone sends his heart jolting, and tears flood his eyes uninvited. He sniffs and nods, sitting up from his spot and propping himself up on his elbows. His mom leaps from her seat and pads into the foyer, her slippers scuffling on the marble floors, and returns soon enough with a laundry tote overflowing with books.

Ethan's brows furrow on his forehead, but he doesn't ask any questions. She simply drops it at his feet and leaves him alone with it.

Ethan wipes his eyes with the back of his fist and stretches a sore arm out to grab the first book within reach. He picks up the Great Gatsby and finds a sticky note on the cover. 'Here's something you haven't told me'.

Ethan reads and rereads it a few times, but it doesn't make any more sense the sixth or seventh time. So, he just cracks the spine and opens it to the first chapter. Ethan doesn't know what he's expecting, but nothing’s out of the ordinary for the first three pages and after a while he forgets what he's looking for and just reads instead. He's convinced he'll never hate a character from a first impression more than he'll hate Daisy Buchanan, and his annoyance grows bigger and bigger as he keeps reading. He figures he ought to just finish the chapter--even though he knows how it'll end--now that he's started it, and as he flips to the final page, he's glad he did. He skips over the paragraph and just reads the scribbled pen at the bottom in the space beneath the last paragraph.

I think Ethan would hate Daisy. Well, I hate Daisy. I hate her so fucking much.

Ethan laughs outright, even if it comes out a little strangled with his hoarse voice, at (Y/N)'s bluntness. She was shy and reserved in real life, but in her own fictional world, she was as bold as anyone he’d ever met.

I can't even figure out how Ethan made it past the first chapter with how shitty it is. I feel like his dad told him to read it, so he did, and he just ended up loving it, because if I didn't know the great reputation this book had, I would throw it in the garbage after the first chapter. I hate Daisy Buchanan. She’s a ditz.

She's absolutely right; Ethan only read it because his dad told him to. And he hates Daisy, he hates her so goddamn much from the start. But he's giddy with the realization that (Y/N) probably writes something at the end of every chapter, and begins leafing through the pages to find out what more is on her mind. On most pages after that, he finds highlighted quotes and margin notes and even little doodles, all pertaining to her thoughts on the book and what she thinks Ethan thinks, and most of the time, they're spot on.

After a while, he discards The Great Gatsby and grabs The Perks of Being a Wallflower and finds that it's similarly stained almost completely in highlighter and pen ink. Every single book in the overflowing laundry tote is well-worn, well-read, and well-marked. Ethan realizes after the eighth book that these are all of his favorites.

It's well into the evening when he stops searching each book and reading all the thoughts she took the time to scribble down. She knows him better than anyone in the world, better than Cameron, better than his dad, better than Grayson, better than his mom. She knows him better than anyone and she still loves him. She loves him like a friend, and maybe even more, and Ethan figures now is a better time than ever to just spit it out--he is so fucking in love with her, and he's going to tell her.

It's been six months and a day since that god-awful day, and six months since (Y/N) became Ethan's. That's one hell of a silver lining.

Her, Ethan, and the other four Dolans are seated around the Dolan's porch with oversized pumpkins in their laps and carving tools in their hands, sipping hot cocoa and eating recently decorated sugar cookies. Ethan can't think of a better way to spend his Halloween.

It means a lot to him because (Y/N) was invited to at least three parties and her friends were threatening to kidnap her if she didn't show up herself, and she turned them all down. She knows it's Ethan's favorite holiday, and she knows he doesn't like parties. She wouldn't have wanted to go without him, anyway.

"Ethy, pass me the scooper," she demands, making grabby hands at his toolset.

Ethan passes it along to her without a snarky comment because he's overjoyed. Nothing can bring him down.

"(Y/N), did we ever tell you about the time Ethan cried over you at the dinner table?" Cameron smirks, glaring smugly at Ethan.

Ethan lied. This can definitely bring him down. "Why no," (Y/N) drawls, grinning toothily, "you haven't Cammy. Fill me in."

"Absolutely not," Ethan growls. He raises the kitchen knife next to his pumpkin only half-jokingly. "Shut it."

But Cameron has no interest in keeping quiet. In fact, she's inviting everyone to chime in if they so please. "Dad? You remember that? Mom?"

"Of course," his mom giggles, her eyes lighting up happily. "Sean, you remember that right? Right after Cam met her at the ice cream parlor?"

"Remember that (Y/N)?" Cameron laughs, reaching over to grab her arm in delight. "When you and all your friends stopped in and we met? Well I told Ethan that I told you that he had a crush on you, and I swear to God I've never seen the kid cry so hard in my life, he was sobbing," she snorts, leaning forward as she wheezes.

"Oh my God, and he was reading the first Harry Potter and we were teasing him and he was getting so upset," his mom joins. Ethan's fuming. He's fuming!

"Stop," Ethan barks, glaring down at his pumpkin.

"That's not the first or last time he'd cry over you, either," Grayson scoffs, shaking his head. "When he picked out your Christmas present sophomore year, he was almost in tears he was so nervous."

Ethan's about ready to just leave, head inside and lock himself in his room with the way his girlfriend's giggling along and everyone's mocking him and his sensitivity. He opens his mouth to shout something obscene, but (Y/N) starts talking. "That's definitely not as embarrassing as the times that I've cried. When he first got that lavender stripe in his hair, my friends told me some other girl was going to snatch him right from me and I went home and sobbed to my mom," she laughs, covers her mouth and shaking her head. "She literally had to give me NyQuil because I cried all night."

His whole family bursts into a chorus of laughter; his dad's holding his stomach, his mom's wiping tears, and Cameron and Grayson are staring at each other with complete mirth.

"A-and then," she continues, her giggles breaking up her words, "on the last day of school freshman year, I cried all night long because I wasn't going to see Ethan for three whole months. I didn't even know him yet!"

Ethan finds himself chuckling deep in his chest too with a big wide grin, and he clears his throat. "You're kidding," he snorts, jabbing her shoulder with his elbow.

"No, I'm not," she says with a giggle, shaking her head. "I think I cried like, a dozen times over you. Just too in love, I guess," she smiles sweetly.

Ethan doesn't know why he was so worried about being embarrassed around her--he knows she'll never judge him. And he knows she loves him too, so what's his problem?

The laughter dies down after awhile and everyone returns to their pumpkin carving, debating over the best slasher horror movie and which one they'll watch later. Ethan knows he'll be so scared he can't sleep, but that doesn't actually bother him all that much. His reality's so much better than any of his dreams, anyway.

Ethan's graduated. He is finally fucking graduated. He's never felt so good in his life.

He feels like someone's uncuffed his handcuffs, untied his reigns, or some other analogy for breathing a fresh breath of freedom. He can't remember anything ever being so physically relieving, outside of the moment (Y/N) confessed her love for him too. On second thought, there is something better than graduation, and it's standing in his driveway.

That thing is plopped on the pavement, with its limbs stretched out and its bare feet tickling the sidewalk at the end with a baby blue bit of chalk in its hand, writing in bubble letters 'WELCOME!'. Its got its tongue poking out of its lips and its hair is falling sideways around it and it’s looking absolutely stunning in its best sundress. Ethan can't believe he ever thought, even dramatically, anything as simple as graduation was as good as it.

And it, of course, is (Y/N). She's already spent the morning hanging streamers around the garage and setting up poster boards of Ethan and Grayson with Lisa and carrying out gigantic tupperware with large portions of food and sneaking a cupcake (Ethan saw) out of the dessert stand. And all for a graduation party that isn't even her own.

Ethan is anxious--which is a phrase that is often said and even oftener felt by him. But that does not mean he does not feel any less nauseous, any less dizzy, or any less on edge than he has all those times before; if anything, he is feeling more anxious than he has in months, because Ethan is less than popular at Long Valley, and half of the school is going to be coming to his house on his territory and they are going to be just as cruel as usual. And there's nothing Ethan can do; in fact, he's supposed to welcome them.

They've all been invited by Grayson, the twin who can actually speak, the twin who is a social butterfly. And Ethan gets it--it's not Grayson's fault he's likable. But he's been a little bitter ever since Grayson warned him that Cole Eptom and Alex Peterson were invited and attending. Where's Grayson's loyalty? This has been a clear violation of the Bro-Code, and he knows it.

More than this, it'll just be awkward. It'll be awkward when everyone's rushing up to Grayson and hanging off the edge of his every word, and no one is coming up to Ethan. And that's how it has always been, but it's frankly unfair and downright impolite when the celebration is about Ethan too, after all. He feels a little like his name is in fine print on their cheesy graduation banner.

(Y/N) stands up from where she was lying on the cement and claps the chalk off her palms. She stares down at her masterpiece with a frown and then swipes her tongue across her thumb and smudges out a bit of the W, and then grins contently and looks to Ethan for confirmation. Ethan doesn’t really care what it looks like if he’s honest, but he gives her two thumbs up and a big wide grin. She’s smiling, and that’s all that really matters.

She patters over to him, her white sandals scraping against the pavement and her matching white dress flowing with her body, and sidles up next to him, wrapping her arms around his frame. “You excited?” she asks.

Of course he isn’t. “Yeah, should be fun,” Ethan says.

She snorts disbelievingly and shakes her head. “No you aren’t, I haven’t seen you smile all morning.”

Ethan throws an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in tighter, kissing the top of her head. “That’s cause you’ve been busy helping and not paying me any attention. At all.”

She sneaks out from under his hold and slides her fingers up his jawline, eager to pull him in for a chaste kiss. They end up forgetting the ‘chaste’ part and making out in the driveway, oblivious to the commotion going about around them—the tables being set up, the decorative plants being vased, the food being set—and get lost in the feeling of each other. Ethan thinks it’s the best distraction he could have thought of. Their moment is so quickly ruined though when he feels a tiny bar--which he soon realizes is a carrot from the veggie tray--pelt the back of his neck, and he flinches and pulls away.

“Are you guys serious!” Grayson calls from the garage, his arms outstretched with dubiety. “We have a graduation party, dumbass!”

Ethan grumbles and pulls (Y/N) flush to his chest, both arms secure around her shoulders, and lifts his chin over his shoulder to pierce his twin with a glare. “Not for another half hour, fuck off.”

“It starts in five minutes, Ethan. For fuck’s sake, Grandma could walk up any second and see you guys tongue-fucking each other.”

“Or, Grandma could walk up and hear you using foul language, Grayson Bailey,” Grandma Adrianne scolds, her frown etching deep crevices in her face. Ethan’s never felt so smug as he does when he watches Grayson’s life flash before his eyes.

“Grandma Adrianne!” Grayson chokes out, faux-cheeriness in his strangled voice. “When did you-“

“Save it, you’re lucky I don’t tell your mother to wash your mouth out with soap,” she grumbles, waving him away. She’s quick to hurry up behind (Y/N) and snatch her from Ethan, pulling her into her arms and swaying the two of them back and forth. Ethan almost wants to be offended that she’s chosen his own girlfriend over him, but his belly feels warm with the reality that his family loves (Y/N) just as much as he does—some days, he actually thinks they might love her more. But that is a ridiculous thought. “Hi, Honey,” Grandma Adrianne says to her, patting her back. “How have you been? You takin’ care of my Etee?”

(Y/N) pulls away and holds onto her arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You know it, Lord knows what would happen if I wasn’t,” she says with an eyeroll.

“Good. We need you and Lisa by him always, the little devil.”

“Hey!” Ethan calls, his arms flying out defensively.

“Oh trust me, you aren’t near as bad as your brother over there,” Grandma Adrianne assures, waddling over to hug Ethan. She squeezes him tight and kisses his cheek, and Ethan smiles. “Quite the potty-mouth. Where do you even find words like ‘tongue-fu-‘“

“Grandma,” Ethan laughs.

“I’m not kidding, he’s in hot water with me. I told you boys no swearing, it’s unnecessary.”

“Lucky for you, I am a saint,” Ethan fibs, winking at (Y/N) over Grandma Adrianne’s shoulder. She rolls her eyes playfully in return and shakes her head, a blush on her cheeks.

“Yeah right, Kid,” Grandma says. “Now where did Grayson run off to? I bet he’s hiding,” she says and chases him into the kitchen where he is undoubtedly cowering.

Ethan takes the spare moment of privacy to kiss (Y/N) one last time, sadly chastely, and burrow his nose in the crook of her neck despite the way he has to dip down. He feels protected by her in a way he can’t explain—he knows she’d never leave him defenseless, nonetheless hurt him, because she has had that opportunity for years and yet, she has been nothing but kind, gentle, patient, and caring. Ethan’s reminded by this when she brushes her lips against the shell of his ear and whispers, “You’re going to be fine. Breathe easy. You’ve got this,” even though he hasn’t spoken a word of his churning anxiety. She just knows.

After that, Grandma Bernadette and Poppy John hobble in, followed by the twins’ little cousins, all eager to speak to the boys and snag a cupcake or two. However, after that files in their chemistry teacher, a girl Ethan doesn’t quite know, and half of the soccer team, all of which hardly grant Ethan so much as a glance. It doesn’t bother him; (Y/N) is secure by his side, chatting off his ear and playing iSpy.

But it keeps happening, just like Ethan knew it would. His history teacher is polite enough to say hello and ask him how it feels to be a graduate, but other than that, the dozens of people filling his garage are practically seeing right through him, while Grayson has a lengthy line just waiting to talk to him. His mother is sheepish, trying her best to entertain him with small talk until she’s hauled away by a visitor, and his dad is busy talking to his fellow coworkers. It’s just Ethan and (Y/N), ignoring the elephant in the room—Ethan is so, so unpopular.

He’s not letting it get to him. He isn’t going to. This is way too common for him to get all worked up today—there’s nothing different about today than yesterday, or the day before that, or any of the days at school. Grayson is simply more likable, Ethan knows that. Ethan knows that if he wasn’t so fucking quiet, so fucking grouchy, maybe, just maybe people would talk to him. But then he thinks about six-year-old-Ethan, neither grouchy nor particularly quiet, who was still just as unlikable. Is there something wrong with him? Is there just a wavelength that surrounds him, so negative and intolerant that people won’t even speak to him at his own graduation party? Because, in all honesty, today is different. Today is about Ethan just as much as it is about Grayson, but people are still avoiding him like the black plague. And these are nice people—people who have manners, who are polite enough to know to at least acknowledge his presence. What the fuck is wrong with Ethan?

(Y/N) squeezes his hand beside him, a frown on her lips and curiosity in her doe eyes. “What’s wrong?” she whispers, leaning in close.

“Nothing,” Ethan breathes, sighing breathily. “Nothing at all.”

She knows better, and he knows that she knows. But he's close, so close to tearing up in his garage in front of the cluster of people to his left, hanging off of Grayson's every word.

It was so unfair. He knows it's pointless to be asked where he's attending college since him and Grayson are going to the same place, he knows it's pointless to be asked who he's rooming with, but they could ask him about his major, they could ask him if he wanted to study abroad, they could ask him so many other questions. He did not deserve this.

Or did he? There must be a reason people hate him so quickly, almost inherently. It was as if everyone just knew to hate him. Hating Ethan seems like a knee jerk reflex for the mass population.

It can't be his looks--he sees the way girls fawn over Grayson, and he looks just like him. It can't be his last name, because everyone loves Cameron and his dad and his mom and Grayson. He's mulling over why, why, why people hated him so much they won't even speak to him at his own graduation party. He's mulling over why so much, that he hardly notices (Y/N) poking his side.

"Hey, Ethy," she says tentatively, jabbing him. "Someone's here to see you," she coos.

Ethan lifts his gaze slowly to stare at the woman in front of him--(Y/N)'s mom. He only realizes he's been frowning so bitterly at the ground when he begins to smile, ready to speak to one of his favorite people. "Hi!" he cheers, dropping (Y/N)'s hand to throw her mom in a hug. "Thank you for coming!"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Honey," she giggles in his ear, squeezing him back. "Gonna miss it?" she jokes, pointing to the pair of caps and diplomas on the table.

Ethan laughs and shakes his head. "Not a bit," he says.

"Good, those people suck," she whispers to him, discreetly thumbing to the crowd by Grayson.

Ethan smiles happily and nods in full agreement. "You can hop in line and talk to Grayson if you want," Ethan says politely, cocking his head to where Grayson's chatting away with a member of the volleyball team.

(Y/N)'s mom rolls her eyes. "He looks busy," she says flatly. "Besides, we have to go over more important matters; what flavor are the cupcakes?"

Ethan chuckles and grabs (Y/N)'s hand again, the knot in his stomach unwinding. "Red velvet with cream cheese frosting, just for (Y/N) here." He looks down to see his girlfriend is already munching on what seems to be her third cupcake, a speck of frosting dotting the tip of her nose. He swipes it off with a grin and licks his finger.

(Y/N)'s mom has already grabbed two and is in a hurry to make it to the food line. "Ethan, I hope you don't mind, but (Y/N) and I invited a few people. I already talked to your mom and she said it's fine," (Y/N)'s mom calls to him, stacking chips and sandwiches on her paper plate.

Ethan's brows slump together and he looks down to (Y/N) who is carefully avoiding his gaze. "Uh, yeah I guess that's fine? Who'd you invite?"

There is no time to answer, however, because the entirety of (Y/N)'s extended family is ushering into the garage, squeezing past tables and chairs, forming their own line to speak to Ethan twice as long as Grayson's. People are beginning to stare as (Y/N)'s cousins argue over who gets to speak to him first, her aunts are already coddling him, and her grandparents are hobbling up to the front, claiming 'dibs'. Ethan's mom is grinning so big he thinks her dimples might be permanent, and Ethan's dad is hardly paying attention to his coworkers, and neither of them mind when the family leaves late into the afternoon after dozens and dozens of hugs and kisses and conversations with Ethan and only Ethan.

Ethan isn't nervous for his first day of class, he's not. He has no reason to be. No one cares about him at university, and that's just how he likes it.

Well, he’s a little nervous. Not because he thinks people will pick on him, but because he thinks everyone will care so little about him that no one will bother to speak to him. It’s definitely better than bullying still, Ethan thinks. He just wants a decent spot in his lecture hall.

The walk to campus is easy enough. It’s sunny and seventy-eight, the perfect temperature for an early September morning. He kicks a rock all the way down the sidewalk and keeps his head down to pass the time and distract him of his thoughts. Before he knows it, he’s yanking on the door to his building and nearing the hall, and he’s nervous. He’s nervous and he’ll admit it to himself, because there’s no way he can deny the frenzy in his stomach or the sweat dampening his hands.

He walks into the room and it’s bigger than he thought it would be and already flooded with students. There’s a spot open here and there, but he’d have to cross the sea of bodies in each row to get to it, and he feels himself overflow with anxiety.

“Hey, need a spot?” a guy a few rows up the stairs asks, waving his pencil.

The guy seems nice enough but kind of intimidating; he’s absolutely jacked. Ethan knows he’s probably not a dick like Cole Eptom or Alex Peterson or Jacob Kronwell, but if he happened to be, he could kick Ethan’s ass. Despite his paranoia, he offers a nervous grin and climbs the stairs to sit in the spot next to him.

“I’m Rocky,” the guy introduces himself, offering out a hand for Ethan to shake.

Ethan takes it firmly and smiles at him. “Ethan,” he says back.

Rocky taps his pencil against his open notebook and bounces his foot against the floor. “You know anything about, er, The Evolution of Roman Literature?” he asks, squinting at the syllabus they grabbed at the entrance.

Ethan laughs and shakes his head quickly. “I don’t know shit about the Romans in general,” Ethan snorts.

“God, me neither,” Rocky responds, laughing with him. “What hall are you in?”

“Krater,” Ethan nods. “I room with my brother, how about you?”

“Hey, I’m in Krater too!” Rocky cheers, grinning with a row of white, pearly teeth. Ethan worries that this guy is too attractive to be within a mile radius of (Y/N). “I room with my best friend from my hometown, Collin. He’s pretty cool, you should meet him.”

Ethan’s making friends. He doesn’t know the process all that well, but he’s doing okay, he thinks. This is what making friends is like.

“For sure,” Ethan nods, drumming his fingers against the table. “You, uh, gotta meet my twin Grayson, he’s nice enough. But he can’t cook for shit, just warning you.”

Rocky tips his head back and laughs, and Ethan feels himself easing up significantly. “You’re funny,” Rocky nods as if it he’s confirming it to himself. “Look, if you wanna stop by my room after class we can pick up Collin and Grayson and get some food—Collin just texted me that he found the best sushi place in New Jersey just downtown. You in?”

Ethan’s in.

“Pay up, bitch,” Charlotte shouts in Ethan’s face, waving a hand of rainbow money across his nose. He knows for sure that she’s tipsy if not drunk because Charlotte rarely swears. He has no idea how she is best friends with (Y/N), the swearer of the century.

Charlotte, Hera, Marcy, Carlos, Collin, Baasim, Christian, Rocky, Grayson, and of course, (Y/N) formed a circle in their too-tiny living room, cramped so close their knees overlapped. In the center was a monopoly board with eleven tokens (ten sterling silver pieces and a single, makeshift character—a stale cheez it—for Christian) all mapped out in different sections. Carlos was thriving, Baasim was nearly asleep, and Hera had been to jail four times. Everyone had cried from laughter twice. All was well.

“Fine,” Ethan grumbles, forking over a pink bill. “Fuck you.”

(Y/N) cuddles into his side, touchy from the liquor she had ingested, and tips her head on his shoulder.

“Can we get away from your PDA for one night? Just one? You guys make me sick,” Christian snorts, picking up his cheez it figurine and tossing it at Ethan’s forehead.

Ethan smirks and reaches down to squeeze (Y/N)’s ass for all to see and groan.

“This is ridiculous, I shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff every day,” Marcy says, though she’s tucked in Carlos’s lap comfily. (Y/N) glares at her and jabs her pointer finger at the couple, pointing out their hypocrisy.

“This is actually a miracle,” Ethan shrugs. “Pipsqueak here was shy as fuck in high school. She would never let me even touch her in public.”

“(Y/N)? Shy? I find that hard to believe,” Hera laughs, reaching over and pinching (Y/N)’s cheek lightly. She grabs Hera’s hand and kisses the knuckles, which sends everyone giggling all over again. She really must be feeling affectionate tonight.

“’S true though,” Grayson pipes up, nodding. “I knocked over (Y/N)’s books the first day of my freshman year and I thought she was going to have a heart attack or something.”

(Y/N) sits up and pins Grayson with a hazy glare. “Worth it,” she slurs out. “Otherwise I’d never have the guts to talk to my crushhhh,” she cheers, throwing her arms around Ethan’s neck. Everyone laughs and boos, groaning theatrically and pretending to throw up.

“Yeah, cause Ethan here was a punk back in the day,” Grayson says. It’s the first time they’ve ever mentioned Ethan’s bitterness in high school, but Ethan’s not worried. He has nothing to hide; these people are his family.

“Punk? Really?” Rocky pushes.

“Oh yeah, had a huge emo-phase,” Ethan snorts. “Used to have a neon stripe in my bangs,” he elaborates, pulling on the now natural-colored tuft. “Hot pink.”

The group gasps and shouts a collection of ‘No!’s through their laughter, their ribs all hurting with the idea of Ethan in pink.

“He was so pretty!” (Y/N) chimes from beside him. “Don’t laugh!”

But she’s giggling too, feeling giddy and carefree in the chorus of laughter. Ethan’s got his face in his hands with shame and Rocky leans over to throw him in a headlock, tearing him from (Y/N)’s grasp and scraping his fist against his scalp. They spend the night drunk on cheap beer and laughter, feeling broke but in good company in their sophomore year inside their overstuffed apartment.

(Y/N) is seated on the couch with her legs strewn out across Ethan’s lap, with his legs strewn out onto the coffee table. She has a bowl of Reese’s Puffs being spooned into her mouth, and she’s watching Tom and Jerry and wiggling her toes to the intro-song. Ethan’s nervous.

He’s just received a letter from Penguin publishing company offering him a position as an editing intern. He’s overjoyed, really, but he’s stressed about (Y/N). Where’s she going to go? What’s she going to do? Penguin’s all the way over in Manhattan, and it’s a tough area for fresh-starters. He’s absolutely amazed that they sought him out.

He can’t honestly think of a better start for himself. He’s not sure what he’s going to publish, but he’s sure he’s going to publish something, and working at the biggest publishing company in the world makes for good connections. Furthermore, he’ll get to read and critique for a job—two of his favorite things. He knows (Y/N) would love that job. So how does he explain that to her?

It’s not that she won’t be happy for him, she’ll be overjoyed. But she’ll probably be a bit jealous, a little insecure, a little confused as to why they didn’t pick her instead. Ethan’s just as lost as her; she has a better GPA than him and everything about her is just perfect.

The job’s rare too. It’s a highly competitive field, and Ethan was chosen alongside nine others to work in cubicles with stacks, upon stacks, upon stacks of manuscripts, and he couldn’t be more grateful.

But it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel right having a secure job without knowing (Y/N) has one too. And they’ll have to move to Manhattan-

What if she gets an internship in West New Jersey? What if they’re completely split? Do they break up?

Absolutely not. As crazy as it sounds, Ethan would never take his dream job over her.

But what do they do? If she doesn’t have an internship, does she follow him to Manhattan and find work there? Manhattan’s huge, would she like it there? Charlotte’s committed to an internship over in Newark for magazine journalism, which wouldn’t be too far away from her. But was that enough? Was Ethan enough of a reason to want to move to Manhattan?

“What’s on your mind?” (Y/N) asked around her spoon, crunching on her cereal still.

“I got an internship at Penguin publishing company,” Ethan blurts thoughtlessly, his chest heaving breathlessly after his admission.

That was the worst way to say it. That was the absolute worst way to say it.

“I’m sorry,” he whined, scrubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I found out last week. I didn’t want to tell you yet because-“

“Me too!” (Y/N) screamed, setting down her cereal bowl and sitting upright. “Ethan, me too!”

But Ethan wasn’t listening, he was just rambling. “I just didn’t want you to be upset because I know it’s far away in Manhattan, I don’t-“

“Ethan,” she laughed, pulling at his arm.

“I will totally drop it if you don’t want to be in Manhattan. I will totally-“

“Ethan!” she shouted, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “Me too! I got an internship at Penguin, too!”

Ethan couldn’t have possibly heard her right. “What?” he breathes, setting his hands on either side of her face. “Really?” he asks, shifting excitedly in his spot.

“Yes!” she cries, leaning forward to peck his lips. “Yes, they sent me a letter last week, too. I didn’t want to tell you either,” she giggled.

“You’re kidding. You’re kidding!” he whooped, pulling her into him and hugging her oh-so-tight. Only ten candidates and two of them were himself and (Y/N)? This was god-sent.

“Not kidding at all. This way I can keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t flirt with the receptionist,” she teases, tapping his nose.

Ethan snorts and shakes his head, amazed she’d even suggest it with how obsessed he is with her. “Right,” he says. “you’ll definitely need to keep an eye on me.”

“Mhm,” she agrees, kissing his jawline.

“And we can spend our lunch break together,” Ethan grins, thinking of all the cool cafes he can take her out to. She gasps and smiles at him excitedly.

“You mean it? You won’t get sick of me, spending so much time together?”

Ethan’s never heard anything stupider.

Ethan doesn’t think Miami is the place for him, and luckily, he doesn’t think Miami is the place for (Y/N) either. It is most definitely the place for Carlos and Marcy though, that much he does know.

They’ve hardly made it to their Air BNB before everyone’s clambering around, scrambling to call dibs on rooms and wheeling their squeaky luggage around the marbled floors, wonkily up the stairs, and all around the halls; he needs some ibuprofen for his oncoming headache. (Y/N) looks the same next to him, with her hair tousled from the turbulence and her oversized clothes rumpled from curling up on Ethan’s shoulder during the flight. He’s no stranger to her post-flight daze; this is their fourth and final spring break trip. He knows how this will go hour by hour.

First, Charlotte is going to slip into her suit and dive headfirst into the pool before anyone can even unpack, and then she will convince everyone to ditch their tasks and join her. Then, they’ll get drunk while swimming (and in Hera’s case, sunning a good ten feet from the water) and let the first day slip away without a thought of their itinerary. Then, someone (Marcy) will beg to play Kings and then someone (Marcy) will get so belligerently drunk that someone (Marcy) will fall asleep in the tub and refuse to get out, and that someone’s fiance (Carlos) will have to carry them back to their room. However, the party will be far from over still, and Ethan and (Y/N) will be kept wide awake until the early hours of the morning, laughing until they have tears streaming down their faces with their best friends. He isn’t sure where, but he’s also certain that a pizza will be ordered somewhere amidst all that chaos.

“Has anyone seen my suitcase?” Charlotte shouts through the echoey halls of their gaudy mansion. (Thanks, Carlos’s parents’ money). “I need my swimsuit!”

A series of ‘no’s and a single ‘yes’ return her way, and Ethan decides at that moment that he needs an ibuprofen or he might just die. (Y/N) is curled up on her chair by the kitchen island, half asleep where she has her head propped on her palm. Ethan smiles to himself and pads over to the refrigerator to grab her a juice and an apple, knowing that’s what she’ll ask for any minute now.

“Ethy, can you grab me- oh, thanks,” she giggles as he slides her the snacks.

“Welcome, Sweetheart,” he murmurs, smirking triumphantly and raiding the cabinets for a bottle of ibuprofen. He checks over his shoulder just to ensure she’s grinning bashfully at her lap and feels funny all over when she is. He’ll never, never, never get tired of her.

“Think we’re gonna go clubbing tonight?” she asks him around a mouthful of crunchy apple.

Ethan laughs quietly and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Me neither,” she agrees with a grin. They know their best friends better than their own families.

Charlotte comes thundering down the stairs, her bare feet slapping against the marble, and races out the backdoor by the kitchen, a towel in one hand and a portable speaker in the other. Ethan and (Y/N) share one of their looks, one of their lovey-dovey looks, one of their looks that makes all the other friends cringe and groan out loud.

“Enough!” Baasim wails as he rounds the corner, his swim trunks on a tacky white stripe of sunscreen down the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, you guys have got to stop eye-fucking each other.”

“We aren’t eye-fucking each other,” (Y/N) laughs, breaking their gaze to flick Baasim’s bare shoulder. “If we were, Ethan’s dick would be standing straight out.”

Collin begins dramatically hacking up make-believe vomit when he enters the kitchen, groaning and rubbing his stomach. “Never mention Ethan’s dick around me again,” he states.

Christian nods in agreement. “But she’s right. They were probably just doing their gross ‘we’re totally going to be in love until we’re a hundred years old’ looks, and those are so much worse than their eye-fucking looks. Trust me, I’ve seen both many, many times.”

Baasim shakes his head sympathetically at Collin and they pout together. However, Grayson steps in quickly after them with a lot to say. “You two don’t know the fucking half of it,” he grumbles, a beer already in hand.

Ethan rolls his eyes before pointing to his drink. “Where did you get-“

“There’s a mini fridge in my room! Carlos’s parents must be fuckin’ stacked.”

“They are,” Carlos replies snobbishly, a towel over his shoulder. He lowers his sunglasses momentarily to wink at the crew and they all swat at him mindlessly, paying no mind to his ridiculous ego. Marcy’s on his arm and eager as always to get out and swim, so they follow Charlotte outside right away. Soon enough, everyone’s filing out into the fenced-in backyard and a little more than tipsy.

The first night goes exactly as planned. Well, not according to their itinerary, but according to Ethan’s: there was pizza, there were drunk-bathtub-slumbers, there was Kings, and there was no sleeping until well after four in the morning. But the second is more well-mapped because Hera informs everyone that she’s secured them all wristbands to the VIP section of the Rockwell, and nobody’s willing to pass up that opportunity. And it’s fun—Ethan’s not one to deny himself of a good time—but the group is itching to return the next night, and Ethan’s just not as stoked as everyone else.

“Dude, Rockwell is so fuckin’ steeze,” Rocky nods.

Ethan snorts at his comment and shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m going to go tonight,” he shrugs, spooning a bite of Reese’s Puffs into his mouth.

It’s nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, but Rocky and Ethan are the only ones awake; last night’s wild rendezvous have left everyone drained and hung-over. Ethan’s already set out a bottle of Advil and two glasses of water by (Y/N)’s bedside table.

“Not going? Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” Rocky asks, squinting at him incredulously.

Ethan isn’t out of his fuckin’ mind, he just knows how to pace himself. They have six days in Miami and he has the party-endurance of an eighty-year-old man—two days of heavy drinking in a row means he must take a night off. “Nope,” Ethan says. “You’ll have to tell me everything tomorrow morning if you can remember it.”

Rocky shakes his head with raised brows and stares at his toast. “Last night was insane.”

“Too insane.”

“Too insane,” Rocky confirms. “This is the shit you tell your kids about.”

Ethan thinks about that for a moment and realizes him and Rocky are just different people. Spring break is fun, unforgettable even, but Ethan would never peg it as life-changing. He knows what he’s going to tell his kids about—the time (Y/N) laughed so hard she peed on Grayson’s dorm bed and told him she spilled apple juice on his sheets. He’s going to tell them about the time she and he played hide-and-go-seek in their freshman residence hall for five hours. He’s going to tell them about the first time she snorted while laughing around him and he got it on video, and then how she tripped while chasing him and nearly had to get stitches. What’s the point in talking about the nights you can’t even remember? He wants to talk about the things he’ll never forget.

“Definitely,” Ethan nods, too tired to disagree.

“Is (Y/N) going to stay here too then?” Rocky asks.

Ethan shrugs but then nods. “Probably. I’ll honestly be surprised if she can even function after last night—she drank more than me, and she’s kind of a lightweight,” he says, chuckling to himself. He thinks about the way he had seen her throwing back twice-spiked pina-coladas and grins so hard his dimples pop in his cheeks.

“Gross…” Rocky says aloud, scrunching his nose and sticking out his tongue. “Stop being so in love. Just get married already.”

Ethan’s no stranger to comments like these, and they don’t startle or unsettle him. He has full intentions, he just doesn’t know how, when, or where to pop the question. He doesn’t even have a ring yet. But he’s ready, so very ready—he’s been waiting since ninth grade.

"Soon," Ethan murmurs back.

"Really?" Rocky says, pausing mid-chew. "When do you think you're going to ask her?"

Ethan doesn't know. "Soon," is all he says.

Rocky seems to notice he shouldn't push anymore because he backs off the topic. Around two in the afternoon, people start sleep-walking into the kitchen and fetching themselves some food, acting more like zombies than humans. When it takes (Y/N) an extra hour to drag her body down the steps, Ethan knows for certain she'll be sticking in the Air BNB with him all night long.

"Good morning," Ethan whispers quietly to her, kissing her hair softly. He knows her temples are sensitive today, so he doesn't dare kiss any part of her forehead.

She doesn't reply, just nods in return.

"Good morning, (Y/N)!" Rocky cheers obnoxiously. Ethan fears homicide.

"Go fuck yourself," she growls back, covering her ears protectively and folding herself into Ethan. Everyone's amused by her grumpiness since she is usually such a cheerful friend, but she's not in the mood to entertain. She grabs a carton of strawberries from the refrigerator and Ethan's wrist and tugs both upstairs to their bedroom where the blinds are drawn completely closed. The air conditioning's blasting on high, the bed is fixed with thick, fuzzy blankets, and the sound of drizzling rain is playing from her phone's speaker. She slips off the sweatpants she was wearing and snuggles under the comforter in Ethan's giant tee. He knows she isn't leaving this room until well into the evening.

He doesn't mind a bit. He'd choose a quiet nap with her over all the parties, all the alcohol, all the friends in the world. He would rather spend an hour with her than a lifetime with his closest friends, and even that thought doesn't scare him. Because she's his best friend. She's his other half and his favorite girl in the world. He's actually excited to have the place to themselves tonight.

The two doze off, sent to sleep by their aching bodies and pounding headaches. When they awake they don't necessarily feel refreshed, but they feel a little less like death, and that's good enough to crawl out of their den and order a pizza. They munch and gossip and watch a collection of movies, giddy to be with each other and in paradise.

“Do you think she’s in it for his money?” Ethan whispers with a glint in his eye, his hands on top of her bare thighs and a smile on his lips.

She nods around her slice of pizza, the gooey cheese slipping off the crust and sending her cackling as she tries to catch it. She stares over at the screen for a moment, grinning at Ferris Bueller and all his antics, before swallowing. “I think they really love each other, just never more than they’ll love themselves. And the money is definitely a perk, I mean, look at this place,” she says, pointing to the high ceilings of the living room. “Could get lost in here.”

Ethan nods and grabs another piece from the box, chowing it down in a few bites. “No kidding. Carlos’s head is too big for his body, I think he’d marry a mirror if he could.”

It’s all lighthearted; Ethan would die for Carlos, and (Y/N) would die for Marcy. But what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

(Y/N) giggles and tangles her fingers with Ethan’s where they lie on her legs. “Bet they’ll buy this mansion and live in paradise forever.”

He nods and smiles and hopes it’s true. They deserve their own kind of happiness—it isn’t his place to judge. He’s already the happiest he could be. “Could you ever live in a place like this?”

She tears her gaze away from the movie and shrugs a shoulder. “Dunno. I don’t think I’d ever be opposed to a mansion, but I definitely don’t need it,” she snorts. “I’d be happy in a cardboard box if you’re in there with me.”

Ethan’s stomach swoops at the domesticity of her comment, the way she says it casually, confidently, comfortably like the thought doesn’t scare her one bit. “Good, ‘cause I can’t afford this,” he laughs, taking down the last bite of his pizza and falling into her arms. She chuckles and wraps him up, cradles him like the baby he is sometimes, and he lays comfortably between her legs with his head on her chest. They talk forever about nothing and their minds don’t stray to their friends crazy night out once.

Around two in the morning, they find themselves in the kitchen, (Y/N) propped up on the granite island with her legs dangling off the sides and Ethan raiding the cabinets. Music is playing off the speaker from Ethan’s phone, and they both have the case of the giggles. God, they’re so in love.

“Want some whip cream?” Ethan asks with his head buried in the refrigerator like an emu.

“Is that a question?” she replies, though it comes out funny with her mouth stuffed with doritos. He tosses her the bottle blindly and she catches it, tipping the bottle above her head and spraying a good glob past her lips. Then, she hears the opening chords of a guitar and she gasps, sending her coughing.

Ethan’s only a little concerned because she’s laughing so hard during all of it, but he turns to check on her. “Are you o-?”

“There once was a bittersweet man and they called him lemon boy,” (Y/N) sings, hopping down from her counter throne and smirking at him smugly.

“No,” Ethan groans, laughing outright and groaning into his hands.

“He was growing in my garden and I pulled him out by his hair, like a weed,” she taunts, grabbing a fistful of his hair and tugging. Ethan reaches out and pinches her side, and she scampers around the island to escape him, giggling still.

“(Y/N), don’t,” he whines, embarrassment flooding his features. He begins racing around the table to catch her and muffle her teasing, but she’s quick and bubbling with laughter.

“Lemon Boy and me started to get along, together,” she squeals, barely dodging his grabbing hands. “I helped him- Eek!”

“Quit it!” he calls through laughter, his fingers skimming the back of the giant tee shirt flowing from her back.

“It’s actually pretty easy, being nice, to a bitter boy like him,” she cheers, her hands raised above her head joyously with her eyes closed. Ethan pauses where he trails behind her and just waits for her to run into him blindly. She does, falls flat against his frame, and throws her arms around his neck in defeat. “So I got myself, a citrus friend!” she cries, swaying the two of them back and forth.

Ethan doesn’t have the heart to be even the least annoyed, because she is just perfect for him. It has been long, so, so long since he’s been bitter. He slides his hand up the back of her shirt and rubs his thumb over the ink below her shoulder blade, grinning to himself. Feels too good to be true sometimes. He takes her vulnerability as an opportunity to tickle her until she screams.

He has his hands around her sides, wiggling his fingers all around her tummy and her sides and under her arms, and she’s screeching and begging him to stop, but he loves the way she laughs so he doesn’t. He throws her over his shoulder and smacks her bum, races around the island some more and chuckles at the way she squeals. He feels like a kid with her and he never wants to grow up.

He never wants to grow up.

“Lemon boy and I, we’re gonna live forever,” she sings still, hung upside down on him.

“Like Snufkin and Little My, we’ll get around, wherever,” he chimes in much to her delight. She smacks his back and pleads for him to put him down, that the turbulence on this ride is worse than their Spirit Airline flight down to Miami.

He obliges and lifts her back to her righteous spot on the island, sliding into the space between her legs. “Yeah we’re the bitterest guys around, and I got myself, a citrus friend,” she finishes, placing her palm on his bare chest and pressing his mouth to his cheek with a loud smack. They’re out of breath and still so giggly, but then they’re sharing one of their looks, one of their lovey-dovey looks, one of their looks that makes all the other friends cringe and groan out loud, and Ethan’s so happy that they have the house all to themselves tonight. It feels like a honeymoon.

“Love you,” he whispers and plants a kiss on her forehead in return. He means it more than ever.

“Love you more,” she murmurs back.

Ethan hears a series of beats and a single guitar strum before he realizes what song is drifting through the air. “Ever heard this song?” he asks quietly, his hands settling at her waist. She shakes her head and slips her arms around his neck, already rocking back and forth to the easy music. “’S called Japanese Denim. It’s one of my favorites,” he explains as he burrows his nose in her hair.

“Sing it to me,” she says.

Ethan isn’t much of a singer. It doesn’t matter. He wants her to know that he thinks of her during every cheesy love song.

He hums to the tune and begins his serenade. “You’re my four leaf clover, I’m so in love, so in love,” he rasps out, squeezing her tight to him. He takes the time to pull back and kiss her slow and soft, as sweet as their first time. “My blue jeans,” he coos. “Will last me all my life. So should we, I’m spending all this time…”

She runs her fingers through the bangs of his tousled hair and smooths her thumb over his cheekbone. She loves him and she’ll love him forever.

“I’m reaching Nirvana, goodbye sweet Rwanda,” he continues, chuckling as he speaks the next bit, “High school was never for me. I say let it be, let it be, Forever’s a long time.”

High school has never felt further away with Ethan so happy, so optimistic, so friendly, so sociable. He can’t even remember the names of the terrible people, the words of their comments, the spots where they bruised him, the dates that he cried. He can’t imagine where they are now, and he never wants to. High school gave him his most prized possession, his best friend, his future wife, his soulmate, his other half. He couldn’t be more grateful.

They sway softly, trapped in their one little world. They don’t even notice when the group comes home, quiet with hoarse throats and all boozed out. But they find the couple in the kitchen, dancing in place to a love song, more in love than they could ever hope for themselves. They’re tucked in on each other and mumbling about something the crew can’t hear, and none of them have the heart—not even Grayson or Baasim— to break up their moment, so they just grin to themselves and slip off to bed. They just hope they’re all part of their wedding in the near future.

If Ethan could hear their thoughts, he would tell them they don’t have to worry. He’s already decided to propose right after graduation. And he knows just how he’s going to do it.

NEXT: 3½ | It’s U

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