Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.  Cyrus kept his eyes trained on the clock, the pit in his stomach swallowing him whole as the seconds ticked by.  Only ten more minutes until…

Cyrus gulped.  He didn’t even want to think about what was about to unfold.

He remained stiff in his seat, his fingers wringing themselves together in worry.  The stomach churning events from earlier rolled in his head like film tape, worn and familiar.  His face burned as his brain forced him to relive the past few hours.

I can’t believe I did that… a thought rang out, sharp and clear.  It had become a mantra throughout the school day, tormenting his thoughts.  How could he have been so careless?

Cyrus didn’t have time to contemplate his guilt as he felt an agitated rap, tap, tap on his shoulder.  He whirled around to confront the perpetrator, only to face the wrath of his best friend Buffy Driscoll instead.  

“Cyrus,” she hissed, her face twisted in annoyance, “stop tapping your foot!  You’re going to be fine.”

His foot ceased in motion, and he ducked his head sheepishly.  He hadn’t even realized he had been doing it. It was a nervous tactic, he guessed.  He kind of had a lot of those.  

“No, I’m not!  Andi told me that detention was awful for her,” Cyrus whispered back as best as he could manage.  He hoped that the waver in his voice went unnoticed, but, knowing Buffy, she detected it right away.  Buffy was observant like that.

“Andi also thought Mrs. Devlin ate students’ souls,” she argued back.  

Their seventh period teacher shot them a sharp glance at their not-so-subtle attempt of talking during class, and they pretended to return to their science assignment.  Cyrus held in the sharp wince from Buffy kicking the back of his heel when he started tapping his foot again.

Once Mrs. Speck's attention was captured by a student asking how to transcribe DNA to RNA, Buffy leaned forward in her seat behind Cyrus, wasting no time to add, “Besides, Dr. Metcalf runs detention now.  Mrs. Devlin retired last year, remember?”

Cyrus’s blood ran to ice.  Dr. Metcalf?

Jefferson Middle School’s newest principal was not one to coddle and care for his students; upon meeting Cyrus and his friends for the first time last year, Dr. Metcalf had made this crystal clear by immediately dress coding his other best friend, Andi Mack, without even batting an eye.  And thus had began the entire Freedom of Dress movement, a protest against the outrageous dress code dreamed up by their deranged principal. Although they eventually worked the conflict out, Dr. Metcalf had still held something of an aversion towards the Good Hair Crew ever since.  Cyrus knew he was supposed to trust his principal (that was part of Dr. Metcalf's job, after all), but he couldn't help but feel intimidated by him most of the time, and worse: scared.  Besides, Cyrus was scared by nearly everything.  Including flamingos: both real and plastic!

Cyrus’s heart stopped when the clock chimed 3:00 P.M., and the bell droned (almost eerily, he thought with a gulp) throughout the school.  My death toll, he thought to himself.  

Fear spidered in his chest, casting goosebumps down his arms.  This was it…detention.  

After waiting for the hallways to clear out (as a lover of keeping his body intact, Cyrus preferred to give everyone a head start instead of getting torn to pieces by the blood thirsty mob), Cyrus shouldered his bag and started his journey down the empty hallway, heart hammering in his chest.  His legs felt like lead with each step.  How could he live with himself knowing that he was about to put six days of detention under his belt?  What would his parents think of him? Or worse, the colleges he was applying to? Would they think he was a miscreant, who just happened to bribe his way into a nearly perfect GPA?  Would it go on his permanent record?  Did he even have a permanent record before this...incident?  Questions pooled in his brain, forming pile after pile of interrogations that his brain was determined to fire at him at gun-speed, and he felt a headache building up along the bridge of his nose.  Worrying about his future was going to kill him one day, he just knew it!

Cyrus hardly even noticed when he had stumbled into the seemingly vacant detention room, room 34, and he blindly found his way to a random desk in the middle of the rows, perching himself onto the edge of the seat.  As Cyrus clutched his bag tightly to his chest, trying to absorb what little comfort it could provide, he contemplated the weight of the detention sentence bestowed onto him by Dr. Metcalf.  What would become of him?

He drummed on the desk, fast, fast, the clicks of his fingernails against the tabletop echoing in the vacant classroom.  Fear seeped into his veins as he awaited Dr. Metcalf’s arrival. 

This was not part of his plan.  His plan was that he’d pass middle and high school with flying colors, go to an Ivy League college, graduate school.   These days of detention (and his past failing PE grade) were stopping him from reaching out and accomplishing the goals he'd lined his entire life toward.  How come just when he was able to get around a stumbling block, another one was put in its place?

Cyrus heard faint footsteps from outside the door, and he turned his head expectantly, everything suddenly going blurry at the edges.  A shiver shot down his spine at the thought of it, the hair on his arms to standing on end.  This is it…

The door creaked open, and Cyrus crawled back into his imaginary shell, hoping it would protect him from his principal.  He felt like he was in a horror movie; he, the naive protagonist, and Dr. Metcalf, the thrilling monster who was relentless in his pursuit to torment him.  

Or maybe he just had an overactive imagination.  That’s what his therapist (slash stepmom, but details) always told him!

Finally, Dr. Metcalf crossed into the room, footsteps booming.  He walked with such an intimidating stride that Cyrus thought the desks would tremble and topple over in fear alongside him.  Why couldn’t he strike fear into the hearts of people like his principal could?  His only special talent was running into glass doors and then apologizing to them.

Metcalf spared him a pointed glance as he situated himself into a squealing swivel chair.  Cyrus felt himself shrink back into his seat.

“H-hi, Dr. Metcalf,” he greeted waveringly, his voice squeaking above its normal decibel.  He gulped, hoping his heart wouldn't give out on him as he tried to beg his principal for a second chance.  “I will do anything I can to keep this incident off of my permanent record.”

Dr. Metcalf snorted incredulously.  His stomach fell.  “Cyrus, this is not something the school district takes lightly,” he said, eyebrows raised.  Cyrus's shame was so hot it was burning him from the inside out. 

Cyrus closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down.  Deep breath in, deep breath out.  Breathe.

“I know,” he told him after a second.  He opened his eyes again, sincerity pooling in them.  “And I’m willing to do anything to make up for it. I promise.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Metcalf brought his finger to his chin in thought.  He looked sharp and clean cut on the outside, professional and sophisticated, almost, but Cyrus could see that underlying edge he had to him.  How, if you got to close, he could bite, bleed you out with his words.  That was probably what scared him most about Dr. Metcalf; Cyrus didn't know how to respond to that.  Or how to recover, either.  “It might require you doing some volunteer work in the community,” his principal said, rifling through an assortment of papers on the desk.  

He drew a single sheet from the stack, whipping it against the air to straighten it.  His eyes dragged across its surface.

“Okay, tell you what.  If you volunteer at Jackson’s Street Gym on April 6th—” it was currently February the 25th, Cyrus noted silently to himself, “— and fulfill your six days of detention, then I’ll forget this ‘incident’ ever happened."  Dr. Metcalf raised both of his eyebrows like this was really important, which made it feel more like a business negotiation than a nervous boy that sweated too much asking for a second chance, but relief flooded his stomach anyway.  His eyes lit up in hope.

“You mean it?” he asked, a touch of excitement reaching his voice.  Maybe his future was saved after all!

“Yes,” Metcalf told him.  “But,” Cyrus faltered, “promise me that you’ll never do this again.  Okay?” He arched his eyebrows, and Cyrus nodded his head feverishly.

“I promise!” Cyrus added.  He would do anything to keep something like this from happening again.  He figured that Dr. Metcalf wouldn’t be so forgiving the next time.  Even if it was an accident.

“Good,” his principal commented.  “I’m glad we can put this behind us.”  

So am I, Cyrus thought.

Just then, the door clicked open, and Cyrus’s breath hitched in his throat.  Another student?  Detention was already mortifying as it was, but now he had to endure it with someone else?  What if it was someone he knew?  

His stomach churned uneasily.  He didn’t want to spend an hour in detention with another student!  What if it was one of the infamous school bullies like...like Reed?

Any relief that was in his chest a second ago fell away, worry suffocating him instead.  Reed made Cyrus uneasy in a way he couldn't explain, and...and he really didn't want to have to spend time alone with him.  Especially with Dr. Metcalf supervising him, of all people.  If Cyrus were in the same room with both of them at once...he didn't know what he'd do.  

The student walked through the entrance, and something caught in Cyrus's chest for an entirely different reason.

T.J. Kippen.  

Somehow, this was almost worse.

Cyrus didn't exactly have a history with T.J.  Well, he did, but he was pretty sure T.J. had no idea about it, or at least that Cyrus was involved, anyway.  

He held his breath as T.J. sat down in the desk beside him, heart stuttering in his chest.  

Cyrus stared for a second, then two, taking in T.J.'s slouched demeanor, his swept back hair, his green eyes flashing with something hard.  Apathy, maybe.  Total and complete boredom.  Or maybe annoyance.  Maybe all three.

T.J. shifted in his seat with a huff, and Cyrus finally let his gaze drop.  He stared at his paper until his eyes grew bleary.

“You’re late, T.J.”  Dr. Metcalf's stiff voice called out.

T.J. seemed indifferent to Metcalf's words, and Cyrus wished he didn't care like T.J. did.  He cared too much sometimes.  His feelings were often like the waves in an ocean, always sweeping him up in their powerful grandeur; he was either barely afloat or completely submerged.  Left to drown.

“So?” T.J. said, crossing his arms together in a defensive manner.  Cyrus flinched at the sharp edge of his voice.  Dr. Metcalf wasn't the only one who could cut people with his words, he guessed.  “I forgot the room number.”

Dr. Metcalf sighed, pinching his nose as if T.J. was physically shredding his last nerve into confetti.  “You’ll have to stay a few minutes after, then, to make up for what you missed."  T.J. shrugged, almost as if he didn’t care what Metcalf did to him.  Nothing could touch him.  

Cyrus frowned at their exchange; he wondered how someone could just.  Push everything else out like that.  Instead of letting in flood in.  

He didn't know whether he was jealous of T.J. or if he felt sorry for him.  Maybe a little of both.

Dr. Metcalf cleared his throat.  Cyrus pretended like he wasn't looking at T.J.  “Anyway, you both know why you’re here," Metcalf started, scoffing loudly.

Cyrus stared at T.J. out of the corners of his eyes.  T.J. was looking right back at him.  Cyrus was frozen, wanting to say something, wanting to claw at his throat until words came out.  

In a blink, T.J. was facing forward again, and Cyrus’s gaze flickered back to Dr. Metcalf, his brow drawing together.  Had he seen that right?

“I suggest that you spend this week in detention learning from your mistakes and knowing not to do them the next time around,” Dr. Metcalf continued.  He paused on T.J. Kippen for a beat, then two, and Cyrus's stomach twisted, painfully curious.  What had T.J. done to get detention, anyway?  Talking back to a teacher?  Starting a food fight?  Stealing Mr Bag's golf cart? (Apparently, from what Cyrus had heard from Jonah, T.J. had stolen his golf cart more than once so he didn't have to walk back to class.  Cyrus didn't exactly blame him there; the school's tardy policy was a crime in and of itself.)

If Buffy were here, she'd probably say he got detention for being a Total Jerk (that was her theory on what T.J. stood for; Cyrus couldn't exactly deny it, even though he wasn't sure if being mean warranted detention).  Now, though, he wondered what really landed T.J. here... 

Dr. Metcalf turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, tapping them against the tabletop.  Cyrus tried to blink his thoughts away. “As you know, Mrs. Devlin retired last year, so I get to run detention now.”

A smirk ghosted Metcalf's mouth, and Cyrus felt his stomach turn uneasily.  Dr. Metcalf was having way too much fun with this.  

“As for the rules: absolutely no talking, no moving around, no texting, no communication of any kind."  An amused smirk grew on T.J.'s face, and a pang went through Cyrus. A part of him was happy that T.J. was capable of something other than guarded annoyance.

“The hour starts…,” Dr. Metcalf paused, waiting until the second hand landed on the twelve, “now!”

The immediate quiet that followed made the tension sit heavily on his shoulders.  Cyrus didn't know that silence could be so loud.

He drew his math homework out from his folder (quadratic equations; they were hard sometimes, but he could manage), and he dove right into the assignment, hoping he could move onto his history paper if he finished in enough time.  However, it wasn’t long until he heard a faint tap on his desk, and he turned his head in confusion.  He found a folded piece of paper on the corner of his desk.  

His eyes cut to T.J. in question, but he wasn't looking in his direction (although his eyes were much too bright for him to just be doing his science homework, and the amused smile that ghosted his lips could not have been conjured up by the workings of protein synthesis).  Cyrus gingerly took the note, keeping a vigilant eye on Dr. Metcalf, who was luckily knee deep in school reports and documents.  He unfolded it carefully, heart pounding out of his chest.  He trailed the single line of scrawl, feeling his hands clam up against the paper.  

So, do you hang out here a lot? -T.J.

Cyrus cracked a small smile.  He glanced at T.J. out of the corner of his eye.  He was joking, right?  Was it that obvious that Cyrus wasn't a regular detention-getter?

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep his goody-two-shoes image or create a bad boy reputation for himself…then his trashed 7th grade school yearbook pictures flashed into his mind and he grimaced.  Yeah, he wasn’t fooling anybody.

He peeked at T.J., deep in thought.  What was his motive?  Why would he want to talk to Cyrus anyway?  He was a nobody, (and the only out gay kid at school, nevertheless).  T.J. Kippen was the captain of the basketball team.  In the unofficial guidebook of How to Survive Middle School, Cyrus was sure there was some rule drafted into its pages that stated ‘cliques are not supposed to intermingle’.  He and T.J. were at opposite ends of the spectrum…this wasn’t how middle school worked.  Anyway, he couldn't reply to T.J., could he?  After all that had happened with Buffy...but T.J. had never done anything bad to him specifically, right?

Cyrus found his pencil caught between his fingers and, after little thought, was writing back his own response to the boy, pushing down the waves of doubt surfacing in the back of his throat.

Not so much.  Is it that obvious? -Cyrus

He kept an eye on Dr. Metcalf, and his heart pounded in his chest, flickering frantically between the two.  T.J. turned to him, eyebrows tiled, practically daring him to break the rules just this once.  Cyrus took a leap of faith, entirely trusting T.J. in an unbelievable, impulsive moment.  He placed the note on his desk quickly, biting his lip. 

Cyrus held his breath in fear, and T.J. huffed out a laugh, the edge of a smile playing on his lips.  Cyrus wondered what a real laugh from T.J. would sound like.

Within a few moments, the paper reappeared on his desk.  Cyrus hoped T.J. actually wanted to talk to him, not just because he was bored.  Cyrus desperately wanted to be wanted, in a constant, needy kind of way.  It was one of those little things he hated himself for, but couldn't keep from bleeding out of him despite that.  

Maybe a little bit.  What are you in here for?

Cyrus grimaced as he read the note.  It wasn't like he killed anyone, or anything, but...he didn't like thinking about it.  It was just a reminder of how helpless he could be.  

He wrote back, dreading seeing T.J.'s response.  He would've found out soon enough, though.  Besides, some weird part of Cyrus wanted to tell T.J., believe it or not.

He could not tell Buffy about this.  Any of it.

I may have accidentally pulled the fire alarm…

He quickly passed the note back to T.J.  Cyrus could tell he read it when he heard T.J. snort beside him.  (Now he really wanted to know what a laugh from T.J. sounded like, so much so that it was pressing in on him from all sides.)

That was you?  Oh, my God, they called in the entire fire department and the superintendent, LOL

Cyrus blushed from T.J.'s response.  As if his brain wasn’t reminding him every two seconds.  

It had been a total accident in the first place!  He'd been talking to Jonah in the hallway during their shared free period, soaking in his sunny smile and dazzling laughter and warm eyes, and then he'd barely leaned against the wall and it had just started blaring.  And then everyone came out of their classrooms, ears clutched, and then Dr. Metcalf had been ushering them out the door, frantic in a frighteningly uncharacteristic way, and then the firemen came, and...

Yeah. Cyrus decided that he was never going to live it down.

In my defense, they just installed a new one!  How was I supposed to know it was so touchy?

He could feel T.J.'s grin radiating from beside him.  Cyrus much preferred his smiles over the angry lines that seemed to dominate his face most of the time.

At least you earned detention in style, T.J. wrote back.  

He couldn't help but smile.  Why was T.J. being nice to him, anyway?  Wasn't he supposed to hate everyone that wasn't cool like him?  

Then again, Cyrus thought Buffy was really cool, and T.J. hated her.  He wondered what T.J.'s list of requirements was to receive this kind of attention from him.  He wondered if nervous boys that sweated too much was on the lineup.

What are you in for? he wrote next.  

He watched T.J. wrinkle his nose at the question before passing it back to him.  

I keep skipping math class.  Turns out that jocks doing bad in school isn’t just a stereotype.  

Cyrus frowned down at the boy’s scrawl.  Did he really think of himself that way?

You skip math class because you’re bad at it?  Why don’t you just get yourself a tutor?

He prayed the question wasn’t too forward.  He couldn’t help it! The need to help people was surging in his veins, constantly swaying and influencing his actions.

Cyrus passed the note back to T.J., but the paper rustled onto the floor, causing them to turn to each other with wide eyes.  Oh, no…

Dr. Metcalf’s head shot up at the noise.  His eyes narrowed at them.  “What are you two doing?”

T.J. was quick to snatch the paper off of the floor and he stuffed it into his binder, away from the prying eyes of their principal.  “Nothing,” he defended lightly, shrugging indifferently

Dr. Metcalf stomped over to him and spread his fingertips onto T.J.’s desk in what Cyrus guessed was supposed to be an intimidating stance.  Whatever it was, it was working.

“Don’t lie to me, T.J.,” he said, raising an eyebrow.  Cyrus thought that if it were him, he would’ve confessed immediately, but T.J. just rolled his eyes.  A twinge of guilt didn’t even cross his face.

“I’m not,” T.J. claimed gently.

“Fine.”  The principal let up and pushed himself off of T.J.’s desk, giving the both of them a warning glance before walking back to his desk.

T.J. never replied to his note.

Walking home, Cyrus welcomed the background noise of Shadyside wholly.  The whirring cars, chirping birds, and wisps of conversations carried by the wind surrounded him in their mindless chittering, something that helped tune out all the white noise in Cyrus's brain.  However, his mind still couldn't help but drift back to the cold deafness of the detention room, and his heart sank. T.J. didn’t so much as spare him a glance after Dr. Metcalf nearly caught them.  Was it so he wouldn’t risk being given more of their principal’s wrath?  Or was he upset by the note Cyrus had given him?  Although Cyrus was only trying to help, what if T.J. saw it as a sign of sympathy, pity?  He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to take that too kindly.

He decided he didn't want to know the answer.

Maybe people don’t always need to be helped, Cyrus thought to himself as he walked home, a defeated silence seeming to hover in the air around him.  He shrugged his shoulders, bringing his body close together in an attempt to make himself as small as he felt.  Too bad I probably ruined that only chance.

Little did he know that they would help each other, and a lot more than he realized…

Chapter Text

T.J.’s pencil tapped against his desk, head pounding as the room spun around him.  He scanned over his math test, pencil tight in his grip, and the numbers on the page blurred together, foreign, almost.  Then again, math was basically an alien language to him, nothing but unknown variables and foggy constants, and it was something T.J. was scared that he would never make sense of.  He and math just… clashed.  Besides, who even cared about math, anyway?  Why would you need to know the circumference of a circle for layups in basketball?

T.J. gave a quick once over to his quiz, mind whirring as he began to second guess his work for question three.  He poised his eraser over his random scribbles of numbers and letters (why were x and n used in math?).  Just as he began to scrub out his answers, jaw clenched, Mr. Coleman announced, “Only five more minutes until the test is over!”

Panic seized his chest, and T.J.’s head jerked up at the clock, heart sinking down to the floor.  A beat. Then anger pooled in him, flooded behind his eyelids. He could taste the heat of it in his mouth, stale and curling like smoke.  Anger always spilled through the cracks when other feelings were…too much.  It was blinding, numbed him from the inside out. Didn't let him dwell on the other things thrumming inside, threatening to rip their way out of his chest.  It was easy letting anger take over.  Besides; T.J. was used to being mad, screwing things up.  It must've been in his genetic code or something.

He hurriedly scribbled down answers as he felt the time run out, an hourglass spilling down his chest.  He tried to tune out the ticking of the clock, but it bled through everything, turned the room red.  T.J. huffed to himself.  

Who cares if they’re right? T.J. tried to counter with himself.  As long as you do all the problems, you can just tell Mr. Coleman you forgot to study.

Yeah, even T.J. didn’t think Mr. Coleman would buy that excuse.  And he was one of those saps who liked to believe the best in his students.  Even ones as stupid as T.J.

Steam was practically flowing from his pencil as the last few minutes of class fell away.  When the bell finally rang, T.J. slammed his pencil down, fists forming at his sides as Mr. Coleman called them up for their test packets.  God, he only had a few problems left. The proper courtesy would be to at least let him finish.

Or to let him replace his dysfunctional brain.  At least then he’d have one that worked.

He snatched his backpack off of the chair and slung one strap onto his shoulder, hanging behind everyone else.  As much as he hated sticking around for one of Mr. Coleman's infamous lectures ( "You just need to apply yourself!" he'd say.  "You're a good student, but you have to try more!"  T.J. hated those days the most), he'd rather risk it than letting one of his classmates catch a glance of his half finished test.  Ugh.  T.J. thought he'd rather hear a million speeches from Mr. C than have anyone know about him, about how he was so stupid that he couldn't even find the slope of a stupid line.  What did that even mean, 'finding the slope'?  Everyone else seemed to know.  God, what was wrong with him?  

Well, T.J. guessed if anyone knew the answer to that question, they would've told him by now.  Buffy Driscoll had tried once, he was pretty sure, about a year ago, but he hadn't exactly listened at the time.  His stomach turned at the thought of her, of that memory she held over him, and he shoved it down, so far into his chest that he hoped he could eclipse it for good.

He handed in his test, eyes glued to the whiteboard wiped clean behind his teacher.  T.J. could feel the disappointment rolling off him without even meeting his burning gaze, could detect the way Mr. C always seemed to feel with T.J. after tests: like broken hopes and slashed dreams and faltering expectations, which felt like a lot for a math teacher over a dumb algebra test, but it still felt that intense every time, no matter what T.J. did.  Mr. Coleman put a lot of faith into him, and T.J. had no clue why.  He didn't deserve that attention, the unwavering dedication Mr. C always set aside just for him.  He sort of despised it. He wished he could fall under the radar just like everyone else, wished he didn't have to be special, different.

There were a lot of things that made him feel different, though, like his math issues and the way he didn't seem to be good at anything and...and Cyrus Goodman.  But he snuffed that thought out before it could wander any further, could tangle up his insides like those intricate knots that Boy Scouts made. It was best to quiet his head when Cyrus popped into it.  He never knew what to expect, exactly. A lot of the time, he just felt funny in a way he couldn't explain. T.J. hadn't decided if it was a good feeling or not yet.

Mr. Coleman opened his mouth to say something, words of encouragement, maybe, a 'better luck next time!' or 'we'll find you a tutor that will stick around, don't worry!'.  Before his teacher could even get the words out, T.J. turned so hard out the door that his heels ached in his tennis shoes. He couldn't even look him in the eye.  He knew if he met Mr. Coleman's gaze, he'd collapse just as much as his grade was about to.  Splinter like rotting wood.

As careless as he tried to be, even T.J. couldn't help but hold some weight in authority figures from time to time.  It wasn't like he had any good ones in his own life, anyway. (Well, okay, besides his mom, whatever.  She was okay, as long as she wasn't badgering him about grades and his dumb piano lessons.  But T.J. didn't like to think about that too much; it was sort of embarrassing, even if he'd been playing since he was, like, four.  And his dad on the other hand…well, it was best to save that issue for another day.  Like, any other day, really.)

T.J. shoved his way through the hallway, could feel the stares glued to him.  The fear that rang in them. His heart turned hard like cooling glass. He wasn't scary.  Why could no one see that?

Well, what had happened on Friday had only made things worse, he guessed.  If only they knew the full story. But of course no one cared about his side of things.  No one ever really did.

He shoved his way through the congested hallway, tense shoulders cutting through the crowd.  A measly 7th grader with a backpack bigger than him tried to swerve T.J. and the cloud of anger that glowed red like a neon sign around him, but Backpack Boy only managed to slam into him.  He stumbled to the floor, bag slipping off of his too small frame.

“Watch where you’re going,” T.J. warned him, a sneer rising up in him.  It slipped out without him even meaning it to, which was even worse than intending to be a jerk, T.J. thought.  The fact that he was so far gone that it was more of an instinct than a choice.

Something stung in his throat, and he tried to swallow it down.

The kid pushed up his slipping glasses and scurried away, fear shining in his eyes like a fireball sun.  T.J. continued to his locker, ignoring the way the stares had doubled, how they clung to his skin. 

T.J. resisted the urge to yell at everyone looking at him like he was some monster, shoved it down.  He'd already done enough damage the past week. Maybe even for the entire school year, if he was being generous.

He punched in his combination, then clenched his jaw when the door stayed stuck, huffing.   Couldn't he catch a break?  

He tried again, yanking at the lock, hinges squeaking as he dumped his algebra book inside.  Jeez, what he would give for a locker that didn't fight him back everyday. He might even do all the math problems in the world if it meant having a locker that cooperated.  At least he wouldn’t have to pick the lock open as much.

A piece of paper caught his eye.  T.J. glanced around cautiously before drawing it from his top shelf.  

The smallest smile threatened to break out on his lips.  

Writing Cyrus a note had been a split second decision, something he hadn't entirely though through in the moment, only knew that he wanted to, really, really bad and that the urge was exploding in him, sparking in his chest like jumping fireworks.  He meant, he'd planned out what he'd say to Cyrus before, had practiced lines in his head, but he'd never planned on actually doing it.  T.J. thought that was just one of those unattainable dreams that lived in his head, like passing a math test or playing in the NBA.  

But, by some sort of crazy, unbelievable miracle, they'd been thrown together by fate.  Or, as T.J. liked to call it, a faulty fire alarm system and an awful temper. (The temper being his.  But that wasn't important.)

So he'd written the only words he could think of.

So, do you hang out here a lot? -T.J.

It was stupid.  He meant, really, of all things he'd planned on saying if he'd ever been caught face to face with Cyrus, that was what he chose.  But it felt right, somehow, in that detention room, as lame as that sounded.  Because Cyrus obviously did not hang out in detention a lot, not even close, and he thought Cyrus might've found it funny.  So he flicked it over to him and hoped for the best.

When Cyrus gave a soft laugh at his note, something so quiet and so loud at the same time, T.J. couldn't help but smile down at his science homework.  And when Cyrus replied, well.  He was a little happy, to be honest.  A little crack in the hardened shell that he'd created around himself.

Look, he'd never expected that it would be a thing, alright?  Except now he sort of wanted it to be. And maybe Cyrus did, too.  He was hoping, anyway. Hope always got T.J. in trouble. One taste of it, and he was gone.

His eye caught the last line, the one he had never gotten the chance to answer, and something sour like guilt swept through him.  He sighed.

You skip math class because you’re bad at it?  Why don’t you just get yourself a tutor?

The thing was, T.J. wanted to tell him about his...his 'math issues'.  And that scared him. A lot.

T.J. had tried to write back to him after Dr. Metcalf had nearly caught them.  More than once, actually. But he didn't know how to reply, how to form the words and anger and shame that seemed to fill up his head, suffocated him.  It wasn't like he could, anyway. Dr. Metcalf was watching him so closely that he felt pinned to the wall, so he just went back to his homework and pretended like his mind wasn't spinning so fast that the tiles on the floor were dancing behind his eyelids.

He thought about slipping a note into Cyrus’s locker.  Thought that maybe he could keep this going. Well, whatever this was.  Like he said, Cyrus made him feel all funny on the inside.  He was trying to make sense of that, the muddledness that was turning in his stomach.  It wasn't working out that well so far.  

T.J. ripped a corner off of a piece of notebook paper and scrawled on its surface, handwriting loose and hurried.  He knew it wasn’t much, but he wanted to keep their notes going.  No matter what.  They were like a buffer for his feelings, allowed the words constantly swimming in his head to escape before they completely swallowed him whole.  

He walked to locker 120 and slipped the paper inside.  Then he strolled to class, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Cyrus was positively sure that T.J. Kippen would never speak to him again. 

He had convinced himself that their meeting had been a fluke, some kind of glitch in the universe.  A part of Cyrus wanted to seek him out and make sure T.J. wasn’t upset with him, but the other part felt defeated, collapsed in on himself.  

These self-deprecating thoughts riddled his head, pulling and tugging at him until he reached the entry of locker 120.  He fiddled with the lock, clicking in his combination with a silence that consumed the entire hallway. He didn’t know why his confidence was so deflated this morning; even his normal charisma fell flat as he spoke.  

It’s probably just one of those days, he remarked to himself.  One where he was constantly wishing he was anyone but Cyrus Goodman.

Cyrus tugged at the metal handle after unhooking the lock, nearly banging the harsh metal against his forehead (now that would’ve hurt!) as he opened his locker.  A slip of paper fluttered seamlessly down from the top shelf, landing neatly on the tiled floors by Cyrus’s feet.  He glanced around in confusion, wondering possibly what this could be (and silently praying it wasn’t a prank thought up by Reed and his friends) when he snatched the note up off the ground, eyes catching dark letters scrawled in messy ink pen.  

Don’t set off the fire alarm today, Detention Guy. -T.J.

His eyes skimmed over the note over and over again, wondering if the sheet crinkling in his hands was as real as it looked.  The whole situation felt surreal, an impossible dream that even Cyrus’s overactive imagination couldn’t conjure up.

After deciding that, yes, this was in fact real, and no, it wasn’t just a really good forgery, Cyrus beamed.  So T.J. Kippen hadn’t forgotten him after all.  Who would’ve thought?  

But why hadn't T.J. replied to his note from yesterday?  Was it because he didn't want to get caught by Dr. Metcalf?  Or because he didn't want to share that piece of him with Cyrus?

The questions rolled around in his head, unanswered and unfulfilled, and Cyrus brought a hand up to his head.  He was starting to get a headache just trying to figure it all out.

Just as he decided to carefully tuck it away into the clasp of his binder, he heard a booming voice shout, “Boo!” 

Cyrus sprung up into the air, clutching the note dearly against his chest.  His heart pounded in his ears, and he felt the blood rush to his face as he was met with his perpetrator.  

“J-Jonah, you scared me!” Cyrus stammered.  

“Dude, that was hilarious!” he said, giving another laugh.  Cyrus tried for a small smile.

“Glad I could be of service!”  He flashed Jonah a thumbs up. A thumbs up was a friendly gesture, right?  He hoped the blush on his cheeks didn’t give him away.

“You and Andi both scare so easily!” Jonah remarked.  His voice had a touch of his familiar, charming mirth, and the hallway lights seemed brighter just from hearing Jonah Beck speak.  It made Cyrus’s stomach turn and twist like a rickety roller coaster.

Cyrus chuckled nervously, not quite sure what to respond with.  He hoped Jonah didn’t realize exactly why he and Andi were both easily startled by his presence.  That they both had crushes on the same guy.

If only he could tell Andi.  

“I guess we do!”  His smile was thin.  

They shared a momentary glance, and Cyrus’s surroundings seemed to fizzle out into static as Jonah Beck, The Human Sunbeam, stared at him intently with his bright smile.  Were his teeth meant to look so dazzly?

His eyes shifted down to Cyrus’s hands, the note still clasped against his chest, and Jonah stepped forward.  Cyrus's breath caught in his throat.

“Cy-Guy, what’s that you got there?” he said, pointing to the paper clutched in his hand.  Cyrus banged his elbow against the frame of his locker, wincing as he clutched the note behind his back.  A blush crept up his neck as Jonah studied him.

“It’s nothing!”  He cradled his arm, hoped Jonah dropped it, got the hint.  Then again, Jonah was basically the most oblivious person on the planet.  He wondered how Andi put up with it, but then his stomach turned at the thought.  He didn't like dwelling on their relationship all that much, didn't like thinking about how Andi and Jonah were dating.  Again.

It was hard enough to get through the day knowing he had feelings for someone who could never return them.  It was even harder when they were dating your best friend.

Anyway!  He tried not to think about it.  He saved those thoughts for when he was alone in his room at night. It was easier to let something like that eat and chip away at you when there was no one else to stop it from happening.

“It doesn’t look like nothing."

“It is!” Cyrus insisted.

He shoved it into his front pocket (and winced when it crinkled in his pants; he made a mental note to smooth it out later) and hugged his books to his chest, desperately feeling the need to do something with them to make this situation feel less awkward.

It wasn't like he was keeping T.J. a secret.  It was more like…well, Cyrus didn't know! He just knew he didn't want to stir up any problems.  T.J. Kippen was a longtime member of Buffy's personal vendetta club, and Cyrus knew how his friends would react.  It would be like putting the element Francium in water: explosive. 

Jonah seemed not to notice the almost suffocating tension pulled taut between them, and he laughed, squeezing Cyrus’s shoulder for a fleeting moment.  Cyrus tried to burn it into his brain, hope it seared whatever lobe that controlled memory so he couldn't forget Jonah Beck's hand on him. “Whatever you say, Cyrus.”  

Cyrus breathed out.  Hoped he didn't break from his smile.

The bell decided to ring just then, saving Cyrus from melting into the hallway tiles, and Jonah gave a dismissive wave.  “I’ve gotta run. See you later!”

“Bye!" Cyrus called out.  His voice was faint, disappearing somewhere inside his chest.

Once Jonah turned the corner, Cyrus closed his eyes, let his head hang against the cool metal of lockers behind him.  He wasn't exactly a big believer of the universe, not like Andi's dad, Bowie, anyway, but he swore it was out to get him.  Life always seemed to dip him in the opposite turn of the one he wanted to take.

The warning bell rang again.  Cyrus lifted himself from his crumpled state and dragged himself to his homeroom class, his feet heavy.  He drew the crumpled note from his pocket, taking one last peek at T.J.’s loose handwriting. Cyrus felt a hopeful smile poke at his lips.  Slipping the note back into his pocket, he wondered how willing the secretary was on giving out students' locker numbers…   

History flew by in a blur.  T.J. could already feel the dates of the battles in World War I slipping from his head as he walked to his locker.  T.J. loved history class, don’t get him wrong, but he could do without having to memorize every date known to mankind.  It wasn’t like they’d stick, anyway. When it came to anything number related, nothing did.

He unhinged his lock with its maximum resistance, as always, and pried open the door.  A slip of paper was sitting on his top shelf, and he abandoned his history textbook on the one below, eyes curious.

I won’t pull the fire alarm if you don’t skip math class :) -Cyrus, AKA Detention Guy

He cracked a smile, let the words pour in.  Then frowned.  Because it was a lie.  All of it.

He…he hadn't wanted to lie to Cyrus, hadn’t wanted to tell him that he skipped math class when he actually didn't.  Honest. But…T.J. had been wanting to talk to Cyrus for forever.  Like, so long that T.J. had grown actual inches since he'd first wanted to.  So long that his chest ached when he thought about it.  And he knew if he told him the real reason, then Cyrus would look at him.  Look at him the same way Mr. Coleman did after all those failed math tests.  Disappointed.  Like he'd let the whole world down.  

Besides, he was sure Cyrus would hear about it sooner or later.  He wanted to get as much of this as he could before the truth got to him.  Well, not the actual truth—there were only two people who knew what really happened that day, and T.J. didn't think anyone was going to start listening to him anytime soon—but a version of it, at least.  And then Cyrus would stop talking to him for good.

He was tired of being seen as some scary basketball guy wherever he went.  Maybe he wanted to be better. Maybe Cyrus made him want to be, even if he didn't know the full extent of what T.J. knew.  Just maybe.  

T.J. stuffed the note in his hoodie and shut the door.  He wandered over to Cyrus's locker, tried to push down the weird feeling surfacing up in him. 

“So,” T.J. started, causing Cyrus to whirl around in surprise at the sound of his voice, “how’d you know which one was my locker?”

Cyrus beamed, eyes bright.  Brighter than the whole hallway, even.  “The secretary,” Cyrus admitted. His smile was shy, almost embarrassed.  It did funny things to T.J.’s stomach. “How’d you know where mine was?”

T.J. shrugged.  “Secretary." Another lie. 

T.J. didn’t exactly know Cyrus.  He meant, not really.  Not in the way you knew your parents or your friends, how you knew all their ticks and likes and dislikes and could make out the sound of their footsteps if they came barrelling down the hall toward you.  He just…noticed him. In a way he wondered if anyone else did. So, yeah. He might've known Cyrus's locker number.  And he might've known that Cyrus's best friends were Buffy Driscoll and Andi Mack, but it wasn't like it mattered.  T.J. was still that same idiot that got girls kicked off of basketball teams, and Cyrus was still that nice kid that had no right talking to someone like him.  And, before yesterday, Cyrus hadn't. Talked to him, he meant. Not that T.J. had exactly tried to strike up a conversation either. But he used to think about it.  Like, a lot more than he should've, probably.   

T.J. liked to watch him sometimes.  And, God, not in, like, a stalker way or anything, he promised, but…one time he'd seen Cyrus in the lunchline, trying to get a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin.  He'd been wearing a collared blue shirt. Pressed khakis. His eyebrows scrunched, mouth pursed. T.J. thought about that moment a lot. How, in some ways, it had been the beginning of something that T.J. didn't understand about himself.  Why he always played moments like those over and over in his head, ones where he'd catch Cyrus in the hall or in the parking lot, memorized every line and shape and color of them. Held them all in his chest.

A hand was shaking his shoulder.  A voice. "T.J.? You okay?"

T.J. blinked, returning to reality.  The hand was Cyrus's.  The voice, too.  T.J. let it settle in his chest, then nodded after a second.  Breathed out.  "Yeah.  What were you saying?"

Cyrus smiled and drew his hand away, starting over.  “I was asking if you’d gone to math class today. You don’t want me to pull the fire alarm, do you?”

T.J. bristled at his words; they felt too light for the heaviness that was weighing his chest down.  “Yeah, I went,” he said with a sigh. Not that he ever stopped going.  But he couldn't tell Cyrus that.  He hoped he never would have to.

He took in the hesitant arch of Cyrus’s brow, how he seemed to have a million questions lined up in his brain and was trying his best to hold them back.  How his good and helpful nature shone brightly in his eyes. 

He eased into a small smile.  Hoped he was giving Cyrus what he was looking for.

“How come you didn’t reply to my note yesterday?” Cyrus asked.  T.J. saw the underlying anxiety in his face, and his eyebrows jumped up.  What was that about?

“I didn’t want to risk being caught by Metcalf.  I mean, I figured he'd keep me in there forever if I gave him another reason to."  He watched the immediate relief reach Cyrus’s smile, then his eyes, and T.J.’s stomach whirled.  What was going on with him today?  Maybe that math test was doing more than just melting his brain; it seemed to be diluting his entire body, one organ at a time.

“I was worried that maybe you didn't reply because you didn't want to talk to me,” Cyrus rushed out, all in one single breath.  Oh.  So that was why Cyrus wanted to know why he hadn't replied yesterday.

T.J.  nearly smiled.  He meant, at the fact that Cyrus cared.  As it turned out, not a lot of people did.

"Nah, of course not.  Promise."

Cyrus breathed out.  Like everything he'd been holding in had just released, like the air in a balloon.  Then he closed his locker door and studied him for a second. T.J. wanted to breathe out, too.  "So…do you have a tutor? I mean, for math." 

T.J. faltered for a second, instincts pushing at him with full force.  Alarm bells ringing in his head.  

He shut them out, set them on mute.  Maybe just this once he wanted to hear something other than the sound of him piling his walls up, brick by brick.

“Actually, my last tutor just quit,” he admitted.  It was true.  His tutor had quit, only a few days ago.  Just like all the other ones before her.  “She didn’t help me. I don’t think anyone can.”  He met Cyrus’s gaze bluntly, but Cyrus was already looking back at him.  

The bell rang.  They stayed still, standing in their own carved-out piece of the world.  T.J. kind of liked it, liked that his words seemed to matter, had their own weight to them.  That maybe he mattered, too.

“Hey, learning is different for everyone.  Every person has their own method.  We just have to find which one works for you.”  

Cyrus offered him a smile, hesitant but full.  T.J. returned it. Let the hope in it wash over him.

“Yeah.  I guess you’re right."

A distant locker slammed, and they both finally seemed to notice the emptiness of the halls.  Panic jumped in Cyrus's eyes. T.J. could've stayed there forever.

"We better go, before Dr. Metcalf gives us even more detention," Cyrus said.  There was a teasing lilt to his voice, and T.J. huffed softly, amused.

"I'll see you in detention," T.J. said.  It was like saying goodbye without really saying it.  But it felt just as final. Just as disappointing. 

“Detention it is,” Cyrus replied, smile wide.  Then, he turned the corner, and T.J. was alone, empty hallway and all.

The tardy bell rang, and T.J. rolled his eyes.  He walked to class, not in any particular hurry, if he was honest with himself, letting Cyrus's words roll around in his head.  He hoped Cyrus meant it. That they would find a way. Together.  

He looked at the note in his pocket again.  Smiled to himself. Then T.J. slipped it into his binder for safekeeping.  Who knew when he'd want to look back on these again?

Chapter Text

The Spoon was clattering with noise, and Cyrus swore he could hear every word he learned from their unit on onomatopoeia in English used that morning.  First the glasses were clanking, the forks, the spoons (the restaurant’s namesake, themselves). He heard a bang from the kitchen, a boom from the table over.  He didn’t know what to make of it all; it was overwhelming and calming all at once.

Normally The Spoon was far less active before school, but they’d been offering a special on baby taters, bacon, and eggs (it sounded like an odd combination, but it was delicious!) and everyone within the restaurant’s vicinity had flooded into the small hangout.  The three Good Hair Crew members had struggled to even acquire their own booth, but they managed, nevertheless, although their waitress hadn’t returned in 20 minutes to give them their food and their laminate table still had a sticky dew settled on its surface.

“I’m so hungry,” Cyrus whined, slouching as he rested his head on his chin.  A pout settled on his lips, and Buffy rolled her eyes playfully at her best friend in response.

“I’m sure it’ll be here soon, Cyrus,” she said, then added dryly under her breath, “or in four years.”

The bell attached to the door chimed, and Andi turned toward it expectantly.  A flash of red hair peeked out from behind the glass, and she frowned instead.  Gus.

“Meeting Jonah?” Buffy asked with a raised eyebrow.  Cyrus and Buffy were no strangers to this routine, and they often found their friend weaving her eyes through the booths and tables to gain a good view of the door.  Just a normal part of their day.

Despite this typical occurrence, Cyrus's stomach still managed to turn uncomfortably.

Andi nodded in response, stirring her chocolate milk distractedly with her bright blue straw.  “Yeah…we’re supposed to go to the library before school starts, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”  A pout crossed her lips and Buffy shot a look to Cyrus, her eyes filling with sympathy. Cyrus gave a half hearted smile in response.

It was difficult hiding his feelings from Jonah, Cyrus could admit, and a lot harder than what he had anticipated.  But what was even more difficult was hiding them from Andi.  He had only known Jonah since last year, but Andi had been his best friend since he was eight years old; she and Buffy knew him more than anyone else in the world.  Having a secret so big hidden from her was basically a prison sentence!  Even Cyrus was holding his breath until the day he accidentally let the truth spill out of him.  It was like a dam that had too much pressure building up, push after push; it was bound to burst sooner or later.

Buffy sent an understanding smile his way, and Cyrus gave a grateful shrug back.  

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Cyrus offered.  He hated the part of him that wished Jonah wouldn’t show up at all.  

“Yeah, I’m sure he will be,” Andi said hopefully, with a tone that didn’t quite reach her eyes.  Cyrus wanted to squeeze her hand to make her feel better, but Buffy changed the subject before he could, so he settled for a sympathetic smile instead.

“So, Cyrus,” she said, casting him a look.  He perked up at the mention of his name. “How was detention the other day?”

His mind automatically flashed to T.J., and he beamed.  “Better than expected!” he admitted. “I think I maybe even made a new friend.”

Over the course of the past few days, T.J. and him had been exchanging notes frequently between classes. It wasn’t even a surprise to find a note sitting on the middle shelf of his locker anymore (although it gave him an excited thrill nevertheless).  

Buffy smirked knowingly, and her ‘I told you so’ went unsaid (although the haughtiness of it seemed to hang in the air anyway).  “Who is it?” she asked instead.

“You don’t know him,” he lied.  Cyrus wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal about his newfound friend.  Were they even friends, anyway? Or just acquaintances? Detention buddies?  People-that-exchanged-notes-everyday? (Was that even a relationship status? Could he say that was what he and T.J. were on his Facepage profile?) After all, T.J. was the captain of the basketball team, and Cyrus was, well…Cyrus.

Besides, it wasn’t like Buffy would be too happy about it. T.J. did get her kicked off the girls’ basketball team...

The girls exchanged a confused glance, but merely shrugged at Cyrus’s vague answer.

“What’s he like?” Andi asked, her interest piqued as she took a sip of her drink.

Cyrus’s face lit up like a lightbulb.  “He’s sweet. Just misunderstood, I think,” he said, a soft smile crossing his face.  He really did think T.J. was misunderstood. And Cyrus didn’t think he’d even scratched the surface on who T.J. really was.  Yet.  At least, he hoped it was a yet.

He supposed he had a good chance.  They had at least five more days of detention left together, including tomorrow.  He just hoped T.J. didn’t change his mind about talking to him by the end of the month.

“Ooh,” Andi said suggestively.  “Sounds like someone has a crush,” she said with a knowing smile.

Only on your boyfriend.

“It’s not like that,” Cyrus protested, but Andi was already up from their booth, tossing a crumpled napkin that had been curled in her palm onto the table.  

“I’m going to go check on our food,” she announced, giving Cyrus one last teasing smile.  She smoothed down her overalls and sauntered up to the cook’s counter, flashing the waitress pouring coffee behind it a polite smile.  As soon as she left, the tight coils of wire that seemed to be strung through Cyrus’s spine vertebrae by vertebrae went slack, and he sighed in relief.

Buffy seemed to notice it, too, and she captured his hands from across the table.  “Are you okay?” she asked, a concerned glimmer flashing in her eyes. Buffy had known about his crush on Jonah ever since that fateful night in seventh grade at the Space Otters’ party, and she had made it her responsibility to check up on him every time there was a Jonah Beck filled conversation (and there were a lot, although Cyrus was responsible for initiating quite a few of them).  A year had passed since then, and Buffy had never stopped making sure he was okay.  A part of him hated talking about it, hated the way talking about him made his stomach crawl and his face burn, hated the jealousy that swelled in his chest at the mention of Jonah and Andi dating.  But he always found himself spilling his feelings to her anyway. Internalizing a lot of sadness made Cyrus feel like he was about to explode.

“I’m okay,” he tried, and she gave him an incredulous look, raising her brow as if to say, ‘I don’t believe you’.  Cyrus relented.  “Okay, maybe I’m not okay, but I’m happy for Andi.  I am.” He was happy for Andi.  Really. But, sometimes, in the dark corners of his mind, he wasn’t as happy as he should be for his best friend.  When it came to Jonah Beck, Cyrus felt like he was doing a lot of things he shouldn’t be, and the main one was harboring feelings for him at all.

“I’m really sorry, Cyrus,” she said, and he knew she meant it because she never used those words.  Not even when they were younger and she’d hit him with her plastic shovel in the sandbox. (He still couldn’t visit a sandbox without feeling a twinge of fear and a stinging sensation in his arm to this day.)

He sighed, and a frown threatened to pull down the corners of his lips.  He suppressed it and squeezed Buffy’s hands. “I’ll be okay, Buffy. Thanks, though.  I appreciate it.”

She took her hands back and flashed her familiar smirk.  “Of course, Cy-Guy,” she said, mocking Jonah.

A laugh bubbled in his throat and escaped his lips, and he forced it into a flat smile when Andi reappeared with their food.

“What are we laughing about?” she asked, amused.  She passed them each their own respective plates.

Cyrus scrambled for his fork.  “N-nothing!” he stammered. He inwardly cringed at how odd his voice sounded, too panicked to be innocent, and he rolled a baby tater between his teeth in order to distract his mouth.

Buffy shook her head too forcefully to be considered natural, and Cyrus ducked his head down at his cup.  He wished he could dive into it and disappear from this conversation.

“Oh, nothing!” she added on a beat too late, her voice dripping with over enthusiasm.  Even she seemed to realize how her words sounded artificial, over rehearsed, and she shoveled a forkful of eggs into her mouth.  

Andi gave them both a suspicious glance, but turned her attention toward her phone when it let out a low beep.  “Oh, Jonah’s outside!” she said, her voice lighting up in excitement. Cyrus felt that familiar envious knot form in his stomach once again as Andi waved her boyfriend over.  The bell chimed from the door as the Frisbee player entered through the entrance, but even the sharp ring of it sounded dull and melancholy to Cyrus.

“Ready to go?” Jonah asked Andi, a hand resting on his backpack strap.  Cyrus offered Andi an encouraging smile (not that she really needed it, but Cyrus wanted to give her one anyway), and she beamed as she collected her belongings.

“Yep!” she said, standing beside him.  They gazed at each other momentarily, and Cyrus hated that they were so adorable together; it just made the frenzy is his stomach go even more wild, and it turned his brain into a confused mush.

Andi turned away from Jonah and flashed her friends a smile.  “I’ll see you guys at school,” she farewelled, slinging her backpack across her shoulder. She tossed a few crumpled bills onto their booth table, and with a whirl and a chime from the bell on the door, she was gone.  

Cyrus set down his own fork, suddenly with a loss of appetite.  His stomach felt like an empty pit now. “I think I might go, too.”

He started to get up from the booth and Buffy surprised him by wrapping both arms around his neck. “You’ll be okay,” she whispered firmly in his ear.  She pulled back and offered him a soft beam. “I promise.”

Cyrus gave her a tight smile.  He might just hold her to that.

 T.J. walked through the halls with a hint of a smile pulling at his face, the people around him a blur, and for once he didn’t feel like he had to shove his peers out of the way to get to his locker.  That was sort of Cyrus’s fault, he guessed.

He didn’t know why talking to Cyrus made him feel lighter, like some of that anger bouncing around inside had just suddenly vanished into thin air, but he liked how the weight on his shoulders didn’t weigh so heavily.  So he guessed he couldn’t really complain. Not that he would complain.  He liked spending time with Cyrus.  

A voice in the back of his mind wondered if they’d ever hang out outside of detention, or at least outside of this school building, but T.J. tried to ignore it.

He punched in his locker combination and prepared himself for math class (God, he could already hear Mr. Coleman’s speech about his test grade), and just as he felt his smile slipping away, he found a note from Cyrus resting on his textbook.

T.J. closed his locker with a soft click and looked at the note in his hand.  

Ready for detention tomorrow?  I wonder if Dr. Metcalf is going to ask us survey questions on how our detention experience has been so far. -Cyrus :)

He snorted to himself.  Honestly, after some of the stunts and experiments Dr. Metcalf had pulled on the student body over the past two years, T.J. wouldn’t find a survey too hard to believe.  

T.J. took a blue Post-It note from his backpack and hurriedly scrawled on its surface in his loose handwriting.  

Wouldn’t be surprised.  And I can’t wait. -T.J.

T.J. smiled out of the corner of his mouth.  It was true; he couldn’t wait. He never thought he’d look forward to detention so much in his life.

On his way to math class, he made sure to stop by Cyrus’s locker to drop off his note, but he halted when he noticed a brown-haired boy a little shorter than him than him swaying in front of it.

Jonah Beck.

T.J. knew of him; well, they’d never really talked since they were in Little League together (not that Jonah probably even remembered that).  But he did know that Jonah was a really good friend of Cyrus’s, if not one of his best friends. T.J. had seen all of them at The Spoon a billion times to know that.  And at the Red Rooster, occasionally. A lot of the school went to the weekly performances, and sometimes Jonah sang.  He was pretty good, from what T.J. remembered.

None of this explained why there was something flaming in his chest, like his organs were singed and burned.

T.J. walked up to Cyrus’s locker and eyed Jonah cautiously.  The Frisbee player shifted impatiently from foot to foot, like he was waiting on someone who never showed, and T.J. looked at him expectantly.  Jonah met his blunt gaze with a look of surprise and confusion crossing his face, and T.J. refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Oh, are you waiting for Cyrus, too?” Jonah asked, confused.  T.J. slid his Post-It note into Cyrus’s locker, and he shook his head at the shorter boy.

“Nope.  Just dropping something off,” he said.  He felt the wall of tension inflating between them, but his feet refused to move from the ground.  For whatever reason, the fact that Jonah was waiting for Cyrus made an uneasy feeling swell into the pit of his stomach.  T.J. tried to shove it away to the back of his mind, tried to suppress the funny feeling swirling around in his chest, but it rose up steadily in his throat anyway.

Jonah’s eyes darted everywhere, refusing to meet T.J.’s bored (and somehow intimidating) gaze, and when the warning bell for class finally rang, he looked so thankful for it that T.J. thought that the Frisbee player might run all the way to his class period without stopping.

“I guess I’ll have to catch him later,” Jonah said, a wave of relief catching his voice.  T.J. nodded curtly in response.

He didn’t leave Cyrus’s locker until Jonah was completely out of the hallway.

When the bell rang a second time, T.J. turned toward his math class, and that uncomfortable feeling swept through him again.  What is wrong with me? he thought as he propelled himself through the hallway.  T.J. crudely bumped a few shoulders and nudged a few ribs, but his mind was too busy whirring for him to notice.  

Stupid, stupid, stupid, his mind chastised, the familiar mantra running through his head.  God, he was being so weird lately.

He jerked open the door of the math classroom, and when Mr. Coleman shot him a look for being tardy, T.J. just huffed into his seat in the back and droned him out.

This day can’t go by any slower.

After a whirlwind of numbers and scrambled equations, the bell rang dismissively, and T.J. had never been more grateful for a class to be over in his life.  

Just as he made his way to the door, Mr. Coleman called his name, and T.J. shoved down the urge to walk out and pretend he hadn’t heard him.

“Wait, T.J., I want to talk to you,” Mr. Coleman said again, flagging him down with what T.J. assumed was his test grade.  If he squinted, he could almost make out the giant red ‘F’ drawn in the top right hand corner.

T.J. swiveled on his heel and clenched his jaw, somehow channeling the small conscience he had so that he didn’t storm out of the classroom and get in more trouble.  He already knew what Mr. C was going to say.  He had heard this speech so many times, it had become as worn and thin as old thread. 

“What?” T.J. spat, his shoulders hunched up tensely.  He hadn’t meant for it to come out so harsh, but being defensive about this sort of thing had become like second nature to him over the years.  It was kind of sad that his first instinct was to deflect instead of open up.

That was just another thing he was bad at, he supposed.  Feelings.

“I want to talk about your most recent math test,” his teacher said.  His voice was calm and even, and T.J. kind of wanted to yell at him for being so composed.  T.J. wondered if Mr. Coleman even knew how much he wanted to do better, to be better, but he had grown so accustomed to not caring over the years that he didn’t even know how to.  

And, God, there they were again, emotions.  They sort of clashed with him, too.  Like math.

T.J. merely shrugged.  “What about it?”

Mr. Coleman sighed and took a seat on top of one of the desks.  “I still haven’t given up on you, T.J.,” and he said it with such sincerity that T.J. forced himself to turn away.  “I think I can find you a tutor. One that’ll help you this time.”

None of the tutors helped.  They never did.

T.J. sighed loudly out his nose, and he felt his own patience wearing thin.  “Can we talk about this later?” he said, his tone clipped. He heard how annoyed he sounded and felt a pinch of guilt go through him, but he didn’t bother softening his voice.  “I have lunch.”

Mr. Coleman’s intent gaze softened, and he relented.  “That’s fine. I’ll see you after lunch so we can talk about this more.”

T.J. faced the door and yanked it open.  “Okay.”

And then he was out the door without a second glance.

Cyrus tried to push through the sea of students in the cafeteria, weaving himself through the swell of people lined up on both sides of the lunchroom.  He desperately peered around the kids in front of them, straining to see the ornate tray of chocolate chocolate-chip muffins that taunted him everyday.

There’s one left! Cyrus thought, thrilled, but then he noticed the hoards of his peers in front of him, and he slumped in defeat instead.

Another day, another soul-crushing disappointment.

The day had gone from bad to worse, and Cyrus felt like a darkness was looming over him, waiting to swallow him up and crumble him into dust.  All morning, he had watched Andi and Jonah hold hands and laugh in the hallway, and the never ending chant in his brain chimed, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, over and over again, but Cyrus wasn’t sure if it ever lessened the heaviness swimming in his chest.

The image of the two seemed to be haunting his thoughts, a ghost of his jealousy lingering by his side.  It danced across his math textbook, glimmered on his history notes, flickered across his science flashcards.  His brain just wanted to keep reminding him how lonely he was again and again, a broken record looping on repeat.

So, yeah, maybe he was hoping his favorite sought after muffin would help cheer him up.  If only the universe would throw him a bone…

He watched Gus reach for the muffin (Cyrus guessed he was a masochist, forcing himself to watch the last one be snatched away like this), but a tall blue hoodie swiped it away before the red haired boy could.

“Hey!” Cyrus heard Gus exclaim, narrowing his eyes at the taller figure, but the thief shot him a harsh look, and Cyrus’s stomach doubled over. T.J.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it happen. Usually, though, it was a big band of guys from the basketball team, like some sort of chocolate chocolate-chip muffin gang.  But where had all of T.J.’s friends gone? And, more importantly, how had T.J. gotten that muffin without a vengeance filled claw mark sliced into his blue basketball sweatshirt?  As far as he knew, Gus would kill for one of those; he always had the same crazed look in his eyes as Cyrus did when they put them out in the cafeteria.

T.J. propelled through the crowd defiantly, and Cyrus frowned when he saw the annoyance pulling at the basketball player’s face, his normal irritation settled deep within the grooves and curves of his face.  Not unusual for him, Cyrus had noticed. That expression only ever seemed to melt away when they talked, but maybe Cyrus was just reading into things too much…

He studied him closer and detected something else.  Was T.J.—dare he say it—forlorn?  

He watched T.J. stroll back to class carelessly, the kids in the hall parting in what looked like fear as he weaved through the crowd, and the right corner of Cyrus’s mouth twitched up.  If only their peers could see the real T.J., like he could (or at least thought he could).  Maybe they would see that he wasn’t such a scary basketball guy if they looked deep enough, could see the guy behind the apathetic mask merely thrumming under the surface.

Or maybe Cyrus didn’t choose to see through his facade.  Maybe T.J. let him.

That note of realization made all the grime and envy crowding his mind wash away, and Cyrus—a sweep of confidence taking root of him—darted after T.J., dodging the shoulders of the students surrounding him.  He tried to call out after him in order to catch his attention, but running through the cafeteria made his voice disappear, his lungs too busy gasping for air. Seriously, no wonder he’d failed gym!

He paused by the bathroom entrance in the vacant halls, all of his peers having gone to lunch by now, and heaved, trying to catch his breath as he listened for T.J.’s footsteps. Cyrus heard a deep voice ring throughout the corridor, and then the clicking of the basketball player’s tennis shoes against the school tiles stopped.  What's that about? he wondered, a cloud of confusion creeping into his mind.

Cyrus peered around the corner, being hidden by the wall of lockers residing against the concrete blocks, and he was suddenly thankful he was so invisible to everyone in the school.  He didn’t want T.J. to catch him spying—which he wasn’t! Cyrus would call it more of a… therapy exercise.  He was merely making sure T.J. was okay!  No eavesdropping involved!

“I just don’t understand it!” Cyrus heard a younger male voice relent exasperatedly.  Cyrus’s stomach whirled.  T.J.  He peeked around the barrier of lockers, raising his eyebrows up in surprise when he saw the other person in the hallway.  Is that Mr. Coleman?  Cyrus knew T.J. had his issues with math, especially when it came to his tutor, but what did Mr. Coleman need to talk to him about?

Mr. Coleman spoke again, too soft for Cyrus to catch, and T.J. slumped his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt defensively, taking a step back from the math teacher.  “My brain just doesn’t work.  It’s broken.”

He felt taken aback by the basketball player’s words, a hard pang resounding deep within his chest.  Did T.J. really think about himself that way?

Suddenly, guilt pooled in his stomach for the first time during the entire conversation, and Cyrus took in a deep inhale.  I shouldn’t be listening to this…

His feet seemed to disagree, and they stayed glued to the floor in protest.

“I can help you, if you just keep an open mind—” Mr. Coleman offered.

“No,” T.J. said adamantly.  “None of the other tutors worked.  They just think I’m stupid.”

Wait, T.J. had had more than one tutor?  And none of them helped?  He wondered why T.J. hadn’t told him, and then the basketball player’s words flew back into his mind, practically hitting him in the face.  He doesn’t want me to think he’s stupid, Cyrus thought in realization.

Cyrus wished he could just waltz up to T.J., tell him that there was nothing wrong with him, admit how much he looked up to him (metaphorically and literally, by at least a few inches).

He stayed hidden behind the lockers instead.

“You’re not stupid—” Mr. Coleman protested, but T.J. interrupted him again.

“Yes, I am.  That’s why I just failed my math test, isn’t it?” he spat.

Cyrus’s eyebrows knitted together, and he almost took a step back in shock.  Failed?  Why hadn’t T.J. told him about that?  He could’ve helped him, or...well, he didn’t know, but he would’ve been there.  Even if they hadn’t known each other that long, Cyrus cared.  He cared a lot.

Mr. Coleman sighed deeply before saying, “T.J., wait—” but there was no response.  The only sound that Cyrus heard was footsteps coming toward him…

He jumped away from the locker bay and practically sprinted into the boys’ bathroom, heaving against a stall.  His heart was pounding in his chest, his ears, his head. Cyrus didn’t know what he would’ve done if he had been caught…

More importantly, he didn’t know what T.J. would’ve done if he had found him, either.

Cyrus inched against the concrete walls and peered around the corner of the boy’s bathroom entrance with caution, watching T.J. intently.  The basketball player didn’t see him, and he weaved a hand through his hair wildly. Cyrus had never seen him look so defeated.  Like he was collapsed in on himself, and his confidence had collapsed with it.  It was so different from the boy he’d seen in detention, and his heart twisted at T.J.’s dejected expression.

T.J. clenched his jaw, his muscles were hunched together tensely, and the thought of brushing a hand against his tightly drawn shoulders to relax them ran through Cyrus’s mind.

He shoved it away.

He considered jumping out behind the bathroom entrance, wondered if he should ask T.J. about what he’d just witnessed, but a tug in his stomach stopped him.  

I’ll wait until he’s ready to talk about it, Cyrus reasoned with himself.  I can wait until then, right?

He could not wait until then, apparently.

After school, when he was waiting for Buffy to finish track practice (or was it cross country?  He could never tell the difference), she had asked him what had him so distracted, and, to his surprise, it wasn’t Jonah Beck that had his mind feeling so full, like a bowl of cotton balls stuffed into his brain.

It was T.J.

That night, when Cyrus was going to bed, he closed his eyelids and tried to drift off to sleep.  No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, his mind refused to rest; it was like his brain was going a million miles an hour and Cyrus had no way to halt the thoughts tossing and turning through his mind.  How could he be expected to sleep when he knew T.J. was struggling with math (and more so than T.J. had originally let on)? Now that his mind had a grip on T.J.’s problem, it refused to let it go, and he felt that familiar pull in his chest.  The one that nagged at him when he wanted to help someone.

But the question was, how?

Cyrus tugged his blankets off of his body and threw them onto his wood planked floor, nearly tripping on them on his way out the door.  He paused, then winced as he tiptoed to the kitchen for a glass of milk (it was his only solution when he was anxious about something!).  Just as he pulled open the refrigerator door, he stumbled upon his dad pouring over case files at the granite counter.

“What are you doing up?” Cyrus asked his father in confusion.  He cast a glance to the plate of cookies beside him. “Are you stress eating?  You know that doesn’t actually reduce stress, right?” he told him, a teasing lilt to his voice.

His dad laughed at his remark.  “Yes, I have quite a few patients with the same problem,” he said, his mirthful tone mirroring his son’s.  Cyrus smiled as he poured himself a glass of milk. “Uh, oh,” Dr. Goodman said knowingly. “You only drink milk when you’re nervous.  Is there anything you want to talk about, son?”

Cyrus set down his glass and sighed.  Curse his tells!  And curse his shrink parents for being so good at their jobs!  “Actually, yes,” he said, walking over to his father. He hesitated before sitting down on the black stool beside him, and he relented.  “Dad, do you have any patients that struggle with school?”

His dad paused in thought.  “Yes. A lot of kids your age struggle in school.  It’s pretty normal; you’re concerned more with social status and finding yourself than you were before,” he explained.  He gave Cyrus a glance before asking, “Are you struggling with school, Cyrus?  Because if you are, your stepmother and I will always be more than happy to talk about it if you want—”

“No, no,” Cyrus interrupted.  “It’s not me who’s struggling.  It’s my…my friend,” he said, choosing his words carefully.  (He was still waiting for confirmation on that, as pathetic as it sounded.)

Dr. Goodman set down the thick manila file in his hand and raised his eyebrows understandingly, his eyes soft and clear of judgment.  Cyrus knew that was how he got his patients to open up so easily. He looked so trusting! It was hard not to tell him everything on your mind.  Cyrus didn’t know how he had kept the fact that he liked boys away from his dad so long, let alone the rest of his parents.  “Tell me about your friend,” he said, slipping into therapist mode.

Cyrus sighed, not even knowing where to begin.  “Well, he’s struggling a lot, I think. More than he lets on to most people.”  

“How is he struggling?” his dad asked.  Cyrus was grateful that he hadn’t even commented on the fact that his friend was indeed a ‘he’.  It would add on another layer of questions that Cyrus did not want to get into.

“I heard him say that his brain doesn’t work, that he doesn’t understand it.  And he failed his most recent math test,” Cyrus admitted. He couldn’t help but feel like he was betraying T.J. by telling his dad about his problems, spilling secrets that the basketball player hadn’t even told him about, but Cyrus waved the cloud of guilt from his mind.   I’m doing this to help him! he reasoned with himself.  The thought made him feel better, if only a little bit.  “He also said that none of his tutors have helped him and that he’s been through a lot of them.”

“Hm,” his father said, pursing his lips in thought.  Cyrus could practically see the puzzle pieces interlocking in his brain.  “Sounds like he could have a learning disability, kiddo,” he said, giving his son a knowing squeeze on the shoulder.

A learning disability.  It was like a light bulb had suddenly clicked on in his brain.  It all made sense!

“I think you’re actually right…,” Cyrus said, dumbfounded.  He scrambled from the stool beside his dad and practically ran back to his bedroom, his glass of milk forgotten.

“I’m glad I helped you,” Dr. Goodman called after him, making Cyrus halt abruptly in the threshold of the kitchen and the hallway.  “And make sure you get enough rest. A tired brain—”

“—is an unhappy brain, I know,” Cyrus finished for him.  He had heard the phrase a million times. “Don’t worry, I’ll go back to bed in a second.”  

His father smiled to himself in response and returned back to his patient files while Cyrus skipped back to his bedroom.  He knew how to help T.J.! Now he just had to prove his dad’s theory correct…

Cyrus hopped on the computer and cracked his knuckles dramatically (then winced when they popped) before typing ‘learning disabilities for math’ into the search engine.  I hope this works... 

Chapter Text

I feel like I need to come up with a better nickname for you.  Detention Guy doesn’t seem to fit all the way. -T.J.

Cyrus fidgeted with the dulled metal of his locker, impatiently shifting the pictures and magnets engulfing the inside door.  Last night’s discovery was still whirling around in his mind, like he’d unlocked a forbidden chest with a key he wasn’t supposed to use, and he didn’t know what to do.  Cyrus had been sure once he searched it up on his computer, once the word popped out from his screen like a Jack-In-The-Box.

Dyscalculia.  

Cyrus was familiar with a lot of learning disabilities, including this one.  He’d read case files of his parents’ patients that had similar problems, and he remembered his mother sitting down with him when he was younger, handing him books about psychology, books about kids, teenagers, adults and their different disorders, disabilities, and mental illnesses.  The information had always been there, lurking around in the corners and edges of his mind, but he’d never put the pieces together. At least, until now.  

He wondered when he should tell T.J., or if he should at all—but then realized that if he didn’t, it would find a way to burst out of him eventually.  Cyrus was a babbling brook, and his words always spilled through the cracks, squeezing their way through every imaginable boundary. There was no way he could keep this secret for long.  

He shut his locker door and tried to find the familiar bounce in his step, and soon enough he was being flagged down by Jonah Beck in the hallway with wide arms and fluid gestures.

“Cyrus!” he called out, causing Cyrus to pause in the hallway.  Because of his abruptness, a girl barely dodged him on the way to her class, and she shot him a dirty look.

“I’m sorry!” he apologized, his eyebrows knitting together in worry.  She walked away with a disgruntled huff and a string of words that Cyrus wasn't allowed to use muttered under her breath, and Cyrus tried to shrug the encounter off as Jonah neared him.  “Hey, what’s up, Jonah Babona?” he asked, his heart twinging in his chest; he wasn’t used to this sort of attention from Jonah.  Lately, all his attention had been captured by Andi…

He suppressed the jealous thoughts that tended to follow that statement.  He should be happy for his best friend!

Even though he told himself that, Cyrus knew his heart wasn’t entirely in it.

Jonah held his hand up and Cyrus clasped it, thumping each other once, then twice on the back as they did that Hug-That-Only-’Bros’-Do, the one Buffy had taught him back in seventh grade.  When he pulled away, Cyrus tried to ignore the undeniable hammering in his chest. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum.  It was going a million beats a minute, about to leap out of his chest.

“Nothing, dude,” he said, flashing his ever dazzling smile.  Cyrus somehow refrained from melting into a puddle on the floor.  How did Jonah manage to make everyone fall over their own feet for him?  “I was just wondering if you wanted to go to the Red Rooster with me after school,” the Frisbee player explained with a smile.  “I wrote a song and I want your opinion.”

Jonah wrote a song?  And he wants my opinion?  Cyrus couldn’t help but feel a rush of pure, giddy excitement go through his chest.  How he kept himself from bursting into a trillion pieces of rainbow confetti, he had no clue.  “Of course, Jonah!” Cyrus exclaimed.

“Dosh!”  Jonah beamed.  

Before Jonah could turn away, something dawned on Cyrus.  “Oh, wait,” he said, his heart sinking in his chest.  “I can’t. I have detention after school on Mondays and Fridays.”

Jonah’s bright smile fell momentarily, but it returned after a beat of silence.  “What about Tuesday?” he asked, a note of hopefulness ringing in his voice.

As if Cyrus could refuse.  “Definitely!” he affirmed with a bright smile of his own.  

“Great!” Jonah added on, mirroring his expression.  Cyrus hoped his face wasn’t too flushed. “Can’t wait.”  He walked away, but Cyrus’s mind was still spinning.

Can’t wait.  Cyrus’s mind flashed back to T.J.’s note from the other day, and he suddenly felt his stomach double over, a roll of reality punching his chest.  T.J.  I need to tell him.

Cyrus smoothed out the note T.J. had already given him that morning, and he put it in the binder with the rest.  I’ll tell him.  In detention, he decided.  Now he just needed to summon the nerve…

Trying to wipe the sudden trepidation from his mind, he took out his own piece of paper, scribbling back a note quickly.  T.J. wanted to come up with a new nickname for him?  He couldn’t help but smile at the gesture.

What’s not to love? he began to write back.  After staring down at the words for a few seconds, he scrubbed them out with his eraser, wearing the paper thin as a light blush crept up his neck.  It sounded too flirty.  He didn’t want T.J. to get the wrong idea!

He felt a pit form in his stomach.  Did T.J. even know he was gay?  He meant, sure, he wasn’t in the closet anymore, and he didn’t openly deny being gay to anyone who asked, but did T.J. know?  Was him being out common knowledge in the gossip mill of Jefferson Middle School?  And if it wasn’t, would T.J. even hang out with him if he found out?

Cyrus tried to wash away the sudden wave of anxiousness swelling in him, but it was an impossible feat.  He was pretty sure that the hemoglobin in his red blood cells carried anxiety instead of oxygen.

He wrote on top of his faded, erased words, constructing a better response for the basketball player, and then smiled to himself at his reply.  Just the right amount of self-deprecation! T.J. wouldn’t question that response at all.

Just as he closed his locker with a soft click , he slung his bag back onto his shoulder.  As he began walking towards his next class, fiddling with the note pinched tightly between his thumb and forefinger, he spotted two figures materializing in his peripheral vision, and he slowed down to match their pace.

“Hey Buffy, Andi,” he greeted his best friends, flashing each of the girls a cheerful smile.  “How’s it goin’?”

“Good,” Buffy responded while Andi nodded along in agreement.  Her gaze shifted to the piece of paper clutched in his hand, and her eyes flickered back to Cyrus questioningly.  “What’s that?”

Cyrus shoved the note into the safety of his binder, waving the inquiring glimmer in her eyes away.  “Oh, you know, just a note for a teacher,” he lied, his words not sounding quite as smooth as he hoped. He felt a sting puncture his ribs as the words leaked from his mouth like a bitter poison.  

It wasn’t like Cyrus to lie to his friends like this.  It wasn’t that he was ashamed of the fact that he was talking to T.J. Kippen (if anything it should be T.J. who was ashamed of talking to him), but, for whatever reason, he just wanted to keep it to himself before his friends could tear it apart, shred it to pieces.  They had this rule that they had to tell each other everything, but he knew they didn’t follow it half the time (Andi hiding the fact that Bex was her mom, Buffy lying about talking to Marty again, and him being gay were a couple secrets they'd kept from each other, and those were just off the top of his head) so he figured it would be okay if did the same with this.  

The real problem would be trying not to slip up.  He wasn’t too confident; he wasn’t the best at keeping secrets.

“So, ready for English?” Andi asked, breaking Cyrus from his thoughts.  She wrinkled her nose. “I really don’t want to work on that three page essay about the history of the typewriter.”  Their English teacher had a sort of affinity for old (and boring) things from his past, and the three were constantly stumped and riddled on why.  Nevertheless, the Good Hair Crew put up with their teacher’s odd fascination in order to maintain their exemplary GPAs.  Besides, it had sort of become a running joke with their class.  

“Yeah,” Cyrus said distractedly, his eyes trailing locker 153.  T.J.’s locker.  “Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced to his friends, quickly scurrying off to the side restrooms.  He watched them from behind the door, witnessing their suspicious glances at his abrupt departure.  After exchanging a confused shrug, the two girls headed to their shared English class, and Cyrus wiped invisible beads of sweat from his brow as they left his line of sight.  

This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

 I don’t mind it!  What else could you even call me?  ‘Unathletic Guy’? `‘Boy-That-Runs-Into-Glass-Doors’? -Cyrus, AKA Is Yet To Be Determined

Once the last bell of the day rang dismissively, T.J. made his way to the detention room, pivoting his body away from the rigid shoulders of students flooding from their respective classrooms to go home for the day.  T.J.’s eyes followed all of the room numbers attached with their corresponding doors, struggling to remember which number was the detention room. He hated himself for not remembering a number so simple, but numbers themselves just didn’t seem to stick.   They were always fleeting, a small flicker of a match going off in his brain but never igniting long enough to make an impression on the surrounding darkness.

A voice in the back of his mind asked him why he could remember Cyrus’s locker number so well without ever purposely committing it to memory, but T.J. knew it was because he’d spent so much time looking at it that it stuck out to him like red in a sea of greys and blacks and whites.  

He tried to push the voice away anyway.

T.J. stumbled upon a familiar looking classroom.  He peeked inside, the cold, deafening atmosphere itself already giving away what the room’s purpose was, and he huffed out a sigh.  Yes, this was the classroom.  T.J. was sure of it.

His eyes flitted to the room number etched into a plaque beside the door, and he tried to commit it to memory.

34, 34, 34, he repeated over and over in his head, like a mantra.  It’s the same as your basketball number, T.J. reminded himself.  You can remember that.  

All of last year he’d thought his jersey was 43 up until his first game, when his coach had announced each of their jersey numbers and names aloud at the annual pep rally held beforehand.  He’d assumed ever since then that all the numbers he saw were jumbled around. T.J. wasn’t sure if that was normal, but he was never gonna admit it. Not in a million years.

T.J. plopped down into the same seat he’d sat in on Monday and hooked the straps of his backpack onto the head of his desk chair, drawing a a black pen and a sheet of notes he and Cyrus had been exchanging over the past few days from his bag; he already knew how he was going to spend the hour of detention.   

He’d been giving notes to Cyrus all week, notes about detention or things that he had deemed so mindless that he hadn’t bothered to say them out loud.  But Cyrus made those random thoughts feel important. Like they meant something. (As lame as that sounded.)

Even on Tuesday, Cyrus had helped him feel better about his whole math thing…then he remembered his chat with Mr. Coleman yesterday, and a sour feeling seeped into his chest.  Maybe he should tell Cyrus about that, too.  Maybe.

He looked back down at the notes and smiled at the words and doodles crowding the page, making a mental note to put it somewhere safe so he didn’t lose it later.

The conversation they’d had yesterday stuck out in particular, and T.J. gave it a once over, his mouth curved upward.

Cyrus had written first in blue pen, saying, How are you so good at sports?  Today I sprained my ankle just by walking out of the locker room in dance class!

T.J. wrote back, I’m guessing you’re accident prone.  Is that why you were wearing that brace?

You saw that?  Also, yes! I asked the nurse if I could have a wheelchair but she said no :( Besides, Buffy refused to wheel me to class anyway.

I would’ve wheeled you.  I got your back.

I’ll keep that in mind for when I inevitably break both of my legs!

Then Cyrus had drawn a bunch of random stars (he’d assumed that Cyrus had doodled them in class; he got kind of restless and fidgety when he was worried about an upcoming assignment, T.J. had noticed), so T.J. had drawn a moon to go with it.  And he scribbled some lines next to one of his stars to make it a shooting star, saying, make a wish.  

He wondered if Cyrus did.  Make a wish, he meant.

The thought made him beam.  Just a little bit.

Soon enough, a pair of footsteps joined him and broke him from his thoughts, and T.J.’s eyes flitted up in curiosity.  A wave of something he didn’t recognize went through him as he was met by Cyrus, who had look of surprise tweaking his eyebrows together.

“You’re here early,” the boy remarked, perching himself onto his seat with a smile stretching across his face.  

“Even before you,” T.J. commented with a snort, facing Cyrus in his seat.  If he moved forward just a few inches, their knees would knock together.

Cyrus shook his head.  “I wait a few minutes in seventh period after the bell rings so I don’t get trampled on in the hallway.”  T.J. shot him an amused look. “It’s so crowded at the end of the day! Once I lost a shoe!” he protested.  T.J. laughed.

“It’s not that bad,” T.J. said, giving him a smile.  Cyrus gave him an incredulous glance.  “Next time we have detention, I’ll walk with you,” T.J. promised.  He leaned forward, bumping against Cyrus’s knee, and tried to ignore the fluttering in his chest.

“Really?” he asked, excited, but then something sad flickered in his eyes and he pulled himself back, tightly clasping his fingers together.  Something seemed to be on Cyrus’s mind, like a string pulling at the back of his head, and the boy leaned forward intently, as if he were about to say something.  T.J. raised his eyebrows expectantly, but the two were interrupted before Cyrus actually spoke.

"You're both here," he remarked, causing the two boys to jerk their heads up in startlement.  He pounded across the room, storming to his desk.  T.J. didn’t think he was storming because he was mad; he was pretty sure it was just their principal’s normal walking stance, like he had concrete slates in his shoes, making every footstep sound like an angry march.  “On time today, are we, T.J.?” the principal asked sarcastically, feigning surprise.    

T.J.’s brow arched up in annoyance as sarcastic words bubbled up in the back of his throat, yearning to pass his lips.  Dr. Metcalf hardly scared him, not by any means, and he wasn’t afraid to let him know that.  However, he noticed the way Cyrus had shrunk down into his seat, as if he were trying to compact himself into as small of a particle as possible, and decided not to provoke their principal any further.  Just for Cyrus’s sake.

“Yep, got here early,” he told the principal, letting out an annoyed sigh.  He suppressed the grimace threatening to cross his face.

“Keep it up,” the principal said, his eyebrows raised pointedly at him.  It was probably the most encouraging thing he had ever said to T.J. in the two years the basketball player had known him.  Whatever.

“Anyway, you know the drill,” Dr. Metcalf started, setting down a thick stack of papers on the desk in front of him.  “No talking, no texting, no moving around.” He didn’t even glance at the clock this time before muttering, “The hour starts now.”

A beat of silence passed before T.J.’s pen was scratching his paper idly, replying to Cyrus’s note from before.

Also, about what you said earlier, good nickname options.  I’ll keep those in mind, he wrote, snorting to himself.  Boy-That-Runs-Into-Glass-Doors? Cyrus was funny, intentionally or not.  And not in a laughing at him kind of way (the way that T.J.’s old friends, like Reed, used to do, not that he liked to think too much about that).  He was just…great. T.J. didn’t know how else to put it.

He passed the note to Cyrus, clicking his pen in boredom as he waited impatiently, and the boy tossed back their shared paper within seconds after scribbling back his reply.

Just wait.  I’m sure it’ll come to you :)

A wave of warmth surged in his chest at his words.  Yeah.  Cyrus was great.

Before he could even form a coherent sentence to reply with, a loud blaring erupted from Dr. Metcalf’s phone, and he quickly unhinged the front. (Who still had a flip phone these days?)

“Hello, this is Dr. Metcalf,” the principal answered.  T.J. rolled his eyes at the authority ringing in his voice while Dr. Metcalf kept a steady gaze on them as a voice rattled off words into his ear, almost as if he were suspicious that they’d do something while his attention was captured.  He was so tightly wound, T.J. figured that he’d give Cyrus and him 5 extra days of detention just for breathing too loudly.

“Emergency in the chemistry lab?” he repeated incredulously.  

T.J.’s eyebrows twitched in curiosity, and he and Cyrus exchanged a glance at the words.  He could practically hear Cyrus’s thoughts, his mind churning across from him: What kind of emergency?

T.J. hoped something exploded.  He was definitely counting on skipping out for the rest of the hour if Dr. Metcalf left.

He wondered if Cyrus would come with him…

Dr. Metcalf hurriedly collected his suit jacket and briefcase as he spoke frantically into the phone, his cell being trapped in the nook between his tilted head and shoulder.  “I’ll be there right away,” he assured in a clipped tone, pulling his blazer on as he did so.

He let the cell drop into his hand and snapped it shut, giving the two boys an incisive look as he halted in the threshold of the detention room door.  “The science club has had a chemical accident that I need to attend to. I expect both of you to be here when I get back,” Dr. Metcalf warned them, his tone cutting and his gaze pointed.  As always.

T.J. felt an amused smirk tugging at his lips, but he suppressed it until his principal was far out of his line of sight.  Once Dr. Metcalf had briskly walked all the way to the science classroom (which was way on the other side of the building), T.J. stood up and collected his belongings.  

“You skipping with me?” he asked, arching a questioning brow.  He stuffed their sheet of notes into his backpack as he slung one of his backpack straps onto his shoulder.

Cyrus’s eyes widened like saucers.  “Skip ?  What if Dr. Metcalf catches us, or—”

“Relax,” T.J. said, putting a hand on his shoulder.  The resistance in Cyrus’s eyes seemed to melt away. “Trust me.”

They kept a gaze for a moment, and something like waves swelled in T.J.’s stomach, rising to his chest and throat as Cyrus cracked a smile, standing up beside him.

“Dancing with danger is on my bucket list,” he admitted, and T.J. smirked back, beginning to walk toward the exit.  “Where are we going?”

T.J. paused in the threshold of the doorway, twisting around to flash Cyrus a reassuring smile.  “Don’t worry. I have a secret hiding spot.”

“You come to the swings, too?” Cyrus asked as soon as they reached the playground.  They’d been walking for fifteen minutes, and although Cyrus had to stop twice to catch his breath, they had finally made it in record time.

Well, as record as it could be when you had an allergic-to-sports kid tagging along.  At least that was what Cyrus had called himself the other day when he had been complaining about dance class.

T.J. found it all more endearing than anything.

“Yeah,” T.J. said, feeling the steel chains dig into his palms as he gripped them.  He hopped onto the blue seat, his feet sinking into the mulch below. “I do.”

“So do I,” Cyrus said, faintly running a hand against the chains.  He perched himself onto the seat adjacent to T.J. “I come here whenever I’m feeling bad about myself.”

T.J.’s mind automatically flashed to yesterday, when Mr. Coleman and him were conversing tersely in that empty hallway during lunch, and he clenched his jaw.  “Yeah, I can see why you do that,” he replied, almost curtly.

“Is that why you come here?” Cyrus asked.

T.J. kicked against the mulch and his eyes bored into the ground, not quite sure what he’d do if he met Cyrus’s gaze.  “I dunno. I guess. I never thought that swinging could actually help.” He started coming here to escape, because he knew his friends wouldn’t be caught dead at a playground.  Sometimes it was nice to get away from them. To be alone.

Now he didn’t have to worry about them at all.  It wasn’t like they were his friends now, anyway…

“Try it,” Cyrus suggested, halting the train of thought in T.J.’s mind.  T.J. gave a careless shrug, and he began pushing off the ground, listening to Cyrus’s advice.  

T.J. was up in the air now, weaving his body back and forth as he continued to garner speed, and the knot he carried in his chest seemed to unfurl.  Like he had left all his problems on the ground, with the mulch and the grass and the trees, and now they were a million miles away from his spot in the sky.  He could touch the clouds if he wanted. He felt free.

T.J. laughed (which he felt like he hadn’t done in years) and he beamed over at Cyrus, who was just twisting his body awkwardly, hardly moving as he did so.  “Come on, get up here!”

He glanced down at the boy.  “This is as up as I go,” Cyrus admitted lamely.  

T.J. smiled again, and at the peak point of his pendulum, he leaped up into the air, his feet burrowing into the mulch below him.  He ran so fast over to Cyrus that mulch was flying in the air, and he appeared behind him, giving him a gentle, yet unexpected, push.  Cyrus yelped in surprise, and T.J. grinned, feeling so carefree that he couldn’t care less about the obstacles that were constantly being thrown at him.

“T.J.!” Cyrus squealed in protest.  “Woahhh!”

T.J. braced the palms of his hands against the brunt of Cyrus’s shoulder blades, pushing him so far up that the chains on the swings rattled.  Had he shoved him with a little more force, making Cyrus go just a bit higher, T.J. was sure that he would launch Cyrus into outer space, with the moon and stars.  Just like the ones on their notes.

As he kept on propelling Cyrus into the air, he wondered if the exhilaration from swinging so high and so fast was contagious because he found his own heart soaring in his chest.  Whether it was from the pure, raw excitement coursing through his veins or just the way Cyrus made him feel, he wasn’t sure. With Cyrus, he always felt more than this stupid, scary jock that he had molded himself to over the years.  He felt like he could just be himself without any of the consequences.

Like he could do anything.

With one final push, T.J. ducked underneath him, shouting, “Underdog!” as he dove underneath the swing.

Cyrus swung back, his knuckles white as he looked ready to lurch forward in his seat.  He whooped, exclaiming, “That was exhilarating!” He kept coming back and forth, not even bothering to dig and drag his feet into the mulch to slow himself down, and T.J. smiled.  

“I’m glad,” he said, tilting his head to the side as he spoke.  The giddy feeling was starting to fade, but his stomach didn’t stop dancing a jig of its own, causing something to well up in his chest.   Then he realized he was staring at Cyrus, and he jerked his head away.  

It wasn’t the first time T.J. had caught himself doing it, either.  That was what scared him the most.

T.J. breathed in deeply, trying to swallow the weird lump in his throat.  “Thanks for reminding me about swinging,” T.J. said.  Even though he was the one who had brought Cyrus here, he doubted that he would’ve felt this way without him.  Free.  “It helped." He didn’t know he was going to say this, hadn’t anticipated revealing what had happened with Mr. Coleman just yet, but the words were falling out of his mouth before he could stop himself.  “ I want to tell you what happened yesterday, with Mr. Coleman—”

“Actually, I have to tell you something, too,” Cyrus confessed suddenly, his hands curling tightly around the steel chains.  He looked serious.  And nervous, too. Well, Cyrus always looked nervous, like he was waiting for someone to shoot out and scare him from behind, but this anxiety was lined with something else.  Fear. Guilt.  T.J. wasn’t sure, and suddenly his chest felt a lot heavier than it did a few seconds ago, like a concrete block was resting on his ribcage.  The lump in his throat tightened. “I think I may know why you struggle in math.”

T.J. suddenly felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.  No, Cyrus couldn’t—no .  

His eyes darted around the playground wildly to make no one had heard. No one seemed to be close enough within their vicinity to catch their words, but people were staring at them.  Cyrus seemed to notice, too.

“Do you want to go somewhere more private?” he asked nervously.

T.J. nodded wordlessly, his mind whirling, and he followed Cyrus on the sidewalk, the rough surface working against the soles of their shoes.  He knew the playground was teetering with life, with gravel crunching, swings creaking, people talking, but his ears didn’t process all the noise and chatter.  It was like he’d suddenly gone deaf, that everything around him was moving too fast and his brain was too overwhelmed to catch it all. Pure white noise.

Cyrus led him over to a bench near the swings, and at first it was just the two of them staring at each other, Cyrus biting his lip and T.J. waiting for him to finally tell him what everyone else really thought.  That he was stupid.

The rational part of his brain tried to reason with him, tried to tell him that Cyrus was different, that he wouldn’t say that, but a swell of frustration rose up in his chest in disbelief.  

“T.J...,” Cyrus spoke softly, and T.J. hated the way it made his anger pause in its tracks.  He swore his heart stopped. “I overheard you and Mr. Coleman talking yesterday.”

Something flared in his chest.  “You overheard?” It was on the verge of accusatory, and Cyrus gave a small nod.  

“I think you might have dyscalculia.”

And then came the confusion.  “Dyscalculia?” T.J. said, moving his mouth around the unusual word.  He felt inadequate for not knowing what it meant, but the boy across from him didn’t seem to mind.

Cyrus nodded, and he inched closer to him on the bench.  T.J. wondered when his heart would start beating again. “It’s a learning disability,” he explained.  “It’s completely normal to have—”

T.J. missed the rest of his sentence as he felt that familiar surge of anger wash over him, felt it pool in the back of his eyelids, blinding him until he couldn’t see straight.  “No,” he said adamantly.  His head was pounding. “I don’t—”

“T.J.,” Cyrus said understandingly, and T.J. forced himself to meet his gaze.  He didn’t recognize the sudden emotion that rushed to his chest, but it made his face burn.  “I’m not saying you do or don’t, but you could get tested, or at least tell Mr. Coleman.  Just so you’d know for sure.”

A mother called for her child nearby, breaking them from their isolated bubble of conversation, and Cyrus placed a hand on T.J.’s forearm, his eyes questioning.  T.J. felt like he was on fire, and that the whole playground was burning with him, too.

“T.J.,” Cyrus said again, his voice understanding.  Why did he keep saying his name like that?  T.J.  “It’s okay.  You’re—”

He drowned him out.  T.J., T.J., T.J.

T.J. never knew he could like the sound of his name so much.

“Are you okay?” Cyrus asked, bringing him back to reality.  Then T.J. remembered where he was and what was happening, and he pulled back because everything felt too much, too fast.  

“I gotta go,” he said, his voice sharper and more urgent than he had intended.   He propelled himself through the mulch, through the grass, through the trees, and he didn’t stop until he was out of the park, away from Cyrus, away from his problems, away from everything.  T.J. ignored the urge of his to look back behind him as the sound of Cyrus saying his name still rang in his ears.

T.J., T.J., T.J.

Chapter Text

His alarm clock beeped once, then twice, and T.J. groaned into his pillow, already dreading the day to come.

It had been a long weekend.  (Sort of the understatement of the century.)

For a few minutes, T.J. just stared up at his ceiling, trying to remember how to make his limbs move.  And then coherent thoughts started to seep in, like a valve in his mind screwed open, and everything suddenly felt too full.  His head, his chest.  His anger.

Toxic T.J. strikes again, T.J. thought, rolling his eyes at himself.  He just always had to ruin the good things in his life.  Had to push Cyrus away the second he was going to let him in.

God, why did he storm away from him?  He had been so happy one minute, unbelievably genuinely happy, and then his entire world felt like it was crumbling around him, disintegrating into ash at his feet.  And Cyrus was there, his hand resting on his arm, his blunt, understanding gaze keeping him on that stupid bench.  

And then his vision was fumbling out of focus, and T.J. ran, away from the park, away from Cyrus.  Away from confronting the weight that sat so heavily on his shoulders. Just like he always did. He deflected and dodged bullets as they came, always anticipating the next blow.

The memory of when he got back from the swings that day flashed in his mind, and a tired feeling seeped into his body, like a block of lead soaking his bones.  It had taken everything in him to not punch a wall, or shatter his mom’s vase, or do something to get all the feelings welled up inside of him out.  

Sometimes T.J. just wanted to scream a Queen song and never stop.  He never really thought of himself as the type to sing his feelings out (that was more of Jonah Beck’s thing; he’d seen him perform at the Red Rooster a few times, but then he remembered Cyrus sitting in the crowd, listening to him intently, and his stomach turned, so he shoved the image out of his brain), but it seemed more appetizing than talking about them.  T.J. wasn’t good with words, and he couldn’t ever manipulate them into coming out right when it came to talking about his feelings.  Which was probably just another reason why he lashed out. He didn’t have to think about what he was going to say; the words just bubbled out of him like a spring, spilled from his lips without him having to even blink an eye.

T.J. was trying to work on that, though.  He didn’t know if he was doing too good of a job.  

After he trudged back from the park, he started shooting hoops outside his house in an attempt to subdue his anger and confusion (basketball season had just ended, but he still liked to play with the beat-up goal in his yard year round), trying not to let his mind wander too far beyond his driveway.  But it did. It always did, annoyingly enough.

What if Cyrus is right? he asked himself.  The guilt was beginning to gnaw on him now.  What if I have dysc-whatever it’s pronounced?

Too many ‘what if’s began plaguing his mind, and T.J. let the ball drop from his grip, jogging up the stairs to his bedroom with questions pouring into his head until he couldn’t think straight.

He slammed the door behind him—no one was home, but that wouldn’t have stopped him anyway—and T.J. punched in words on his keyboard, typed in the disability that Cyrus had told him about.  He was pretty sure he spelled it wrong in the search engine, but the web page figured it out for him.

The first line he came across was Dyscalculia Symptoms.  He skimmed through the list.

And skimmed through it again.  And again. And again.

T.J. didn’t stop looking through it until his eyes grew bleary, until he could read the words forwards and backwards, could recite it like a sonnet.

Because it described exactly what he struggled with everyday.  

And then a wall of guilt and self-directed anger slammed into him all at once, because Cyrus was right, right about everything, right about him.  Of course he was.

And all weekend T.J. had been dreading this exact moment, the one where he’d have to get out of bed and face the school and—more importantly—face Cyrus.  What would he even say? ‘You were right’? ‘I should’ve listened to you’?

They all sounded so stupid.  And not good enough.  

He wasn’t sure if anything he did was good enough, but Cyrus made him feel like he was.  Or, at least, could be, if he wanted to.  But none of that mattered if Cyrus wouldn’t even talk to him anymore.

T.J. sat down at his desk, his hair mussed and his clothes rumpled, and he took a Post-It note from his backpack, his mind blanking and whirling all at once.

He hated having to sit down and think like this.  Dwelling on what was swimming in his mind gave his feelings too much leeway.  They always ended up crowding every corner of his mind, spilling over the edges, taking up too much space.  Sometimes his head was so full of words and just other things he couldn’t identify that he thought he’d drown in them.

T.J. sighed, then scribbled down a quick apology, throwing himself into the shower and hoping his mind went numb.  He wanted to say a lot more to Cyrus than just an apology, a lot he didn’t even know how to explain, but now that the words were floating around in his brain, he wished that he just couldn’t feel at all.  

Cyrus’s heart hammered against his chest, his ribs tilting with each rapid beat.  He drummed his fingers in no particular rhythm (the only beat Cyrus knew by heart was anxious) against the arms of the stiff chairs in the school office, nervously awaiting his prison sentence.  Ever since Dr. Metcalf’s secretary had called T.J. and him over the PA system in her wobbly voice, he had been completely stricken with pure fear.  Was he in trouble for skipping the rest of detention with T.J. on Friday? What if he received more detention days because of it?

Then again, Cyrus didn’t think he’d mind it if he had to spend a few extra days in detention, as long as he got to do it with T.J.  Not that he thought T.J. wanted to talk to him ever again…

He hadn’t heard from the basketball player since Friday (which was kind of expected, especially since they hadn’t exchanged numbers, but the radio silence still made his stomach twist and turn uneasily anyway).  Was T.J. never going to talk to him again? He was just trying to help, but what if T.J. didn’t want his help?

There he went, meddling in everyone else’s affairs and tangling their lives up again.  When would he learn?

Cyrus sighed to himself as the guilt plagued his mind again, and not for the first time that morning.  The thing was, he was afraid he’d never learn.  He always managed to talk himself into something he couldn’t find his way out of.  

His tapping against the chair became more anxious, too staccato and not at all syncopated, and his heart plummeted to his stomach. What if T.J. wasn’t going to even come to the principal’s office because he was there?  Or what if he did come, and he didn’t spare him a single glance?  Or what if—

The door clicked open, and what felt like a dozen waves rolled over in Cyrus’s stomach.  Oh.  T.J.

The basketball player glanced around, and his eyes didn’t stop weaving through the room until his gaze landed directly on Cyrus.  Cyrus was pretty sure his heart stopped.

“Hey,” T.J. said, a note of something Cyrus didn’t recognize ringing in his voice.  Cyrus's stomach turned as T.J. sat down, one of T.J.'s hands hiding behind his back. Cyrus would’ve been suspicious if he hadn’t felt so overwhelmed with worry.  

“About Friday…,” T.J. huffed out a sigh frustratedly, and Cyrus wasn’t sure if it was directed at T.J. or himself, “I wrote out an apology, but I was called in here before I could put it in your locker.”  

He drew a crinkled paper from his jeans with his free hand and thrust the folded Post-It note to Cyrus.  Cyrus felt a wave of shock bloom in his chest. T.J. was apologizing to him?  What did T.J. need to apologize for?

Cyrus unfolded the note, glancing up at T.J. incredulously with his eyebrows raised, and trailed the line of words scribbled in T.J.’s loose handwriting.

I shouldn't have stormed off.  Not my best moment. -T.J.

A swell of relief so strong washed over Cyrus that he couldn’t help but crack a smile.  “Don’t most apologies have the words, ‘I’m sorry’ in them?” he teased good-naturedly, but inside his stomach was whirling.  Maybe T.J. wanted to be friends just as much as he did. The thought made him smile.

T.J. snorted and indulged him.  “Fine,” he drawled, lightly rolling his eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

Then he pulled the hand from behind his back and handed Cyrus a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, a stack of napkins resting underneath the wrapper to catch the crumbs.  Cyrus glanced up at him in shock, and a surprised—yet delighted—smile curved his mouth.

“This was my backup in case the apology didn’t work,” T.J. explained, and Cyrus grinned so wide that his cheeks hurt.

“Well, it’s working!” he told him sincerely, taking a giant bite of the treat.  It had been so long since he’d had one, he’d almost forgotten what they tasted like.  “How did you know this was my favorite muffin?”

A flash of something Cyrus didn’t recognize gleamed in T.J.’s eyes before it vanished, like a light flickering on and off.  “I thought everyone liked them,” he said, adding a shrug.

Cyrus beamed.  “They’d be crazy not to!”  He took another bite.  “By the way, I’m sorry, too,” Cyrus said, talking around the muffin.  He swallowed and he looked at T.J.

“What for?” T.J. asked, confused.  

“For meddling,” he elaborated. “It’s a bad habit!  I blame my four shrink parents.”

T.J. huffed out an amused breath, and Cyrus returned it.  “As long as you’re the only one trying to get me to open up and not your four shrink parents, I think I’ll be fine.  It’s our thing, right?”

Cyrus felt all the anxiety pooling in his stomach fall away, like an ice cream cone melting on a summer’s day.

It’s our thing, right?  

Yeah.  It kind of was, wasn’t it?

In Cyrus’s opinion, just saying that was the best thing the basketball player could’ve ever given him. (Even better than a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin.)  (And that was saying something.)

“Right,” Cyrus affirmed, a smile pulling at his features.  “I’m glad.”

T.J. returned it, mirth dancing in his eyes.  “Me, too.”

They held a soft gaze momentarily, neither of them noticing the secretary creeping in on the edges of their peripheral vision.  She cleared her throat in order to garner their attention, and the two boys jerked their heads toward her, Cyrus in question and T.J. in annoyance.  

“B-boys, Dr. Metcalf is w-waiting in his office for you,” the secretary stammered.  Her words were always unstable, like her voice was on the brink of breaking, but they still managed to squeeze Cyrus’s heart painfully.  His previous nervousness crept back into his body, clinging to his chest as he stood up with trembling legs.  What am I going to do?  

“Are you nervous?” T.J. questioned, lightly guiding him forward.  His hand rested on the small of Cyrus’s back, and Cyrus halted right in front of Dr. Metcalf’s door.  They both could sense the uneasy tension swelling up on the other side, and Cyrus was sure that the metal door handle would slice his hand in half if he touched it.

“Nervous? When am I not nervous,” Cyrus tried to joke.  It fell flat from the rattled shaking of his voice, revealing the anxiety lying behind the thin veil of faux confidence.

His anxiety was always going up, up, up, like an elevator.  Sometimes it didn’t stop until it reached the very top, and then Cyrus felt like he was plummeting, free falling in the sky.

T.J.’s hand moved from his spine to his shoulder blade, and he squeezed it comfortingly.  “You’ll be fine. I promise,” T.J. reassured. “I’ll be right there beside you the whole time.” Cyrus smiled.  He liked the sound of that.

They pushed through the door, neither of them making eye contact as they situated themselves in front of Dr. Metcalf’s desk.  

It was different from the last few times he’d been in the principal’s office.  The first time had been Dr. Metcalf’s second day of school, when he and Buffy and Andi all dressed in prison garb.  It had been easier then; he had Andi and Buffy with him, and he didn’t have to crack under Dr. Metcalf’s intimidating presence by himself.  The time after, he’d gotten called in to make that school video, the one that failed horrendously, and he’d been so nervous that he couldn’t stop bouncing his leg (and Cyrus hadn’t even been in trouble that time).

At least he had T.J. this time.  That’s what he kept thinking to himself: At least I have T.J.

Well, he didn’t have him, have him, not like that but—whatever!  He knew what he meant!

At first, Dr. Metcalf said nothing, and the tense silence felt like it was swallowing Cyrus whole.  That’s all he could feel right then: tension.  It was bound to the oxygen in the air, filling his lungs

Cyrus looked over at T.J., who looked like he couldn’t care less that he was about to get in trouble, lectured by the school principal.  He didn’t even think it was a mask—T.J. just looked bored by the entire situation, period.

T.J. Kippen was so much cooler than he ever could’ve imagined.

Dr. Metcalf was the first to break the silence in the room, and Cyrus almost shot up out of his seat in startlement.  “Do you both know why you’re here?” he asked, even though they both were painfully aware of the situation at hand.

Cyrus nodded and hung his head in shame while T.J. merely shrugged.   Dr. Metcalf didn’t seem to find his apathetic demeanor as nearly as cool as Cyrus did.  “You’re here because you both skipped detention yesterday,” he said sternly, giving them each an equally pointed look.

Cyrus was sure his bones were rattling like loose screws in a toolbox, and he tried to suppress the sudden tightness in his throat with a painful swallow.  “Dr. Metcalf, I—”

“Now is not the time, Cyrus,” the principal chided, giving him an incisive glance.  

Cyrus thought he might explode, whether out of embarrassment, guilt, or fear, he wasn’t sure, but then T.J. squeezed his forearm, as if to remind him that he was there.  He bet T.J. could feel a pulse if he pushed down on his wrist hard enough, but, then again, he wasn’t even sure he had one at the moment.

T.J. pulled away from him all too quickly, and Cyrus almost frowned.  “So? Can we go now?” he asked flatly. Cyrus could practically feel T.J.’s annoyance emitting off him in concentrated waves; it was so strong, he could almost adopt it as his own.

Dr. Metcalf’s eyes flared dangerously at the question, and for a split second, Cyrus thought T.J. was going to get killed.

Wow, his stepmom really wasn’t joking when she told him he had an overactive imagination.

“No, T.J., you and your partner in crime,” the principal added bitingly, jerking his head toward Cyrus, “broke the rules.  And because of this, I’m rewarding you both two extra days of detention.”  He said this like it was an honor, a badge they should wear with pride on their chest.  It felt like the exact opposite of a trophy.  At least to Cyrus.

“Okay,” T.J. said, his tone annoyed.  Now Cyrus wanted to squeeze his arm.  

He kept his hands in his lap instead.  He wasn’t nearly as confident as T.J. was.  “I understand,” Cyrus said sullenly.

Dr. Metcalf looked at the two boys once again, and his gaze was so incisive that Cyrus wondered if he was trying to cut them with his eyes.  “Now you may go,” the principal said, his voice almost sarcastic.  He turned away from the boys in his swivel chair and made a move for his phone, probably to tell the secretary to bring the next batch of kids in.  Cyrus immediately felt sorry for them.

With a scoff of his own, T.J. was out of his seat and on the other side of the door, not even giving Cyrus a chance to catch up with him.  Cyrus gave Dr. Metcalf one last apologetic (and slightly frightened) glance at T.J.’s abrupt departure before he weaved through the hallways, his eyes scanning for the basketball player.  

Cyrus found him by his locker, giving the metal door of locker 153 an aggravated jerk.  “That was rough,” Cyrus remarked, the corner of his mouth downturned.

T.J. paused momentarily at his words.  “Yeah, but you got through it,” he said, and the anger flashing in his eyes seemed to soften.  Cyrus’s stomach did a flip. “I knew you would.”

Cyrus remembered T.J. squeezing his arm, and something hopeful fluttered in his chest.  Hope that maybe he’d found a friend in T.J. And maybe T.J. had found one in him, too.

“It’s all thanks to you,” Cyrus told him sincerely, adding on, “partner in crime.”  T.J. rolled his eyes playfully, a hint of a smile on his face as he closed his locker shut.  “ I think it has a nice ring to it,” Cyrus protested.  “Just think: we could get matching T-shirts!”

“Matching T-shirts?” T.J. said, raising an eyebrow in amusement as they began their trek down the hallway.  A flashback to Jonah’s reluctance to wear matching jackets after that sports game (was it hockey?  Basketball?  Cyrus was there, and even he couldn’t remember) flickered in his mind, and his stomach gave an unpleasant twist.  Would T.J. react the same way? He knew T.J. and Jonah weren’t the same person, but his heart seemed to freeze anyway.

“Yeah, only if you wanted to, of cour—”

“I’m down,” T.J. said, giving a careless shrug.  Cyrus’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise. Well, that was unexpected.

A spark of excitement fired in his chest, and before he could ramble on about T-shirt colors and sizing and oh, what design should we get?, T.J.interrupted him, saying, “Wanna hang out after school tomorrow?”

The spontaneous invitation made Cyrus halt in the middle of the hallway, and T.J. paused with him.  Had he heard that right?

“You want to hang out with me?” Cyrus asked incredulously, his eyebrows raised.  T.J. turned to face him in the hallway, attempting to stick to the right side next to the lockers in order to prevent other students from running into him.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” T.J. questioned, giving another shrug.  Wow, that boy sure did shrug a lot.  Cyrus kind of wanted to lean up and force his shoulders down.

Cyrus resumed their walking, and T.J. followed suit, mirroring his actions.  “Well, you’re the captain of the basketball team, and I’m kind of invisible,” Cyrus mused aloud, like it was obvious.  Well, it was obvious.  At least to him.  “I’m sort of surprised you’re talking to me at all,” he confessed.

“Underdog, you’re not invisible,” T.J. replied with a shake of his head, a smile that Cyrus only ever managed to extract from him lighting up his face.  “At least, not to me.”

His words made something unfurl in Cyrus’s chest, like a block of ice thawing in his heart, and he returned T.J.’s beam.  “Thanks.”

T.J. smiled again.  “So, are you in or out?”

Cyrus’s mind briefly flashed back to their original topic, and he let out a frown, his lips pursing themselves together in worry.  “I can’t, actually.  I’m helping my friend Jonah Beck after school tomorrow.  Can I get a raincheck?”

The bell rang just then, and T.J. clapped him on the shoulder.  “Yeah.  Whenever.”

They farewelled, then parted, heading to their respective classes.  But as Cyrus watched him walk away, he noticed the way the strained way basketball player was holding himself, his shoulders tense and his back too rigid to be considered casual, and Cyrus frowned.  Had he said something wrong?

He ran their conversation through his mind, and it suddenly dawned on him for the first time during their entire interaction that T.J. had called him Underdog.  His chest swelled.

I guess T.J. found my new nickname, after all, he thought with a beam.  Then, in a flourish, he bounded to class, not even struggling to find the bounce in his step.

Have fun with Jonah today. -T.J.

Cyrus felt the excitement thrumming in his fingertips, like his atoms were humming to life, full of boundless electricity.  This was it! What he’d been looking forward to all week!

After his interaction with T.J. on Monday, the day had seemed to drag on for forever.  Dr. Metcalf even kept a relentless gaze on them all throughout detention, as if he didn’t trust them enough to even breathe without making a mess, so it had been a little uneventful.  Cyrus didn’t even think they exchanged more than two notes the entire period.  

But he found one from T.J. in his locker this morning, so it kind of made up for the lack of them yesterday.  And it made him smile. As always.

He didn’t think T.J. could write a note that didn’t make him beam.

Cyrus breathed in contentedly as he took in his surroundings, feeling the store’s familiar sharp copper and leather smell fill his nose.  He was so glad that he’d finally made it! He didn’t get much time to spend with just Jonah, usually because the Frisbee player was with Andi or going on double dates with Buffy and Marty (Cyrus used to be invited along, but he always felt like a fifth wheel, so he stopped after a while), so this was a nice change.  A really nice change.

He discovered Jonah in the corner, plucking up a beaten acoustic guitar that resided permanently in a guitar stand off to the side.  It was the same instrument he always played in his performances, and Cyrus was as accustomed to its fraying strings and washed out body as Jonah was.  

“Hey, Cyrus!” Jonah called, waving him over.  Cyrus strode to the corner, where Jonah was fiddling with a small container spilling over with a colorful array of guitar picks.  

“Hey, Jonah, what’s up?” he asked, a bright smile lighting up his face.  He’d played over what he would say all day, had mulled and tossed it over so many times that he was anticipating every corner and dip of their conversation.  Jonah was a guy of few words, and Cyrus wasn’t expecting him to stray far from their normal topics of dialogue: Frisbee, guitar, school, Andi.  He could do this!

“Nothing much, dude,” Jonah replied with his normal dazzling smile, idly fussing with his guitar.  His fingers pinched and twisted the tuning pegs, and Jonah tested them each individually by strumming a melodious chord.  After adjusting all six pegs, the Frisbee player hummed contentedly to himself.

“So, are you friends with T.J. Kippen or something?” Jonah asked conversationally.  The way he said it was so casual, just like normal small talk, but Cyrus’s eyes went wide like saucers.  

“How do you know that?” he asked, almost desperately.  Had Jonah seen them together? Did Buffy and Andi know, too? He hadn’t planned on T.J. Kippen being in their topic of conversation.  Not in a million years!

Jonah shrugged, like he didn’t seem to notice the urgent weight to Cyrus’s words.  “I dunno.  He just came by your locker the other day and dropped off something while I was waiting for you.”

Jonah was waiting for me? a thought rang out, but Cyrus snuffed it, feeling a rush of relief sweep through him.  So only Jonah had seen him. Good.

“He was probably dropping off a note for me,” Cyrus explained, then halted, wishing he could shove his words back into his mouth and swallow them.  He really was the worst person at hiding stuff!

If he was being honest with himself, it was bound to slip sooner or later, but he let himself sit in the denial for just a little longer.

“That’s cool!” Jonah replied offhandedly, his fingers ghosting over the frets of his guitar.  

“Please don’t tell Andi and Buffy,” Cyrus pleaded, trying to get his point across.  He knew he needed to stress this to Jonah; if there was one thing the Frisbee player wasn’t good at, it was at keeping secrets (not that Cyrus was any better), and even though Cyrus had thought of it as an endearing trait of his before, right now it was making his stomach twist.

“How come?” Jonah asked, confused.  Jonah’s eyebrows drew together in the cute way it always did when he was perplexed, and Cyrus kind of wanted to smooth out the line between them with his thumb.  “Are you guys dating or something?” he joked. Jonah was too oblivious to even mean that statement, but it made Cyrus’s heart spike nevertheless.

“No,” Cyrus protested, “but Buffy has always hated the boys’ basketball team, including T.J.,” he said.  He hadn’t even considered it as a reason to hide his relationship with T.J. until the words were past his lips.  It was kind of true.  She’d been complaining about them since seventh grade, when they didn’t let her on the boys’ basketball team and she was forced to form her own for the girls.  “Besides, I just…wanted to keep this to myself for a little bit.  Is that weird?” he rambled. He didn’t know why he was spilling all the things swimming in his head, but the pressure weighing on his chest felt somewhat alleviated, at least a little bit.

Jonah shook his head understandingly.  “It’s not weird. And chill, dude; your secret's safe with me.”  Jonah clapped him on the shoulder, and that alone made Cyrus better, but a small ball of worry and fear still seemed to be lingering in his stomach. What if Jonah did tell?

Before the doubt could creep too far in his mind, Jonah spoke, saying, “Anyway, can I show you my song now?”

Cyrus was grateful for the distraction and he nodded, flashing a wide smile.  “Show me what you got, JB!”

Jonah gave out a hearty laugh that reminded Cyrus of twinkling bells, bright and clear, and they sat down in the shabby arm chairs, Jonah nestling his worn guitar between his arm and his thigh.  The tuning pegs nearly poked Cyrus in the face, but he couldn’t care less as Jonah began to strum something slow and soft and nothing like Cyrus had ever heard the boy play before. He was captured by the way Jonah’s nimble fingers were gliding over the gleaming strings and sliding fluidly across the frets, the smooth trill of each strum emitting from the acoustic guitar.  It was clear that Jonah knew the song like the back of his hand, could tell Cyrus every small dip and groove in the notes. That was what Cyrus admired about him so much: Jonah Beck was just so perfect.  Cyrus figured that as long as Jonah’s smile never lost its brilliant shine, his feelings for the boy would never wane.

Jonah began to sing, belting out the notes in a strong tenor, and Cyrus was so enthralled by his performance that he let himself think, as stupid as it was, that the song was about him.  That Jonah was singing this beautiful, romantic love song to him, not to Andi, not to Amber, just Cyrus.  And maybe it was a little pathetic, deluding himself like this, but it was like a spell had washed over him, making Cyrus only see cartoon hearts in the air.

Finally the singing and strumming stopped, and Cyrus sat there in his dazed state, looking at Jonah with the widest smile he could possibly conjure up.  (Not that it took much effort. Not in the least!)

“So?” Jonah said, breaking Cyrus from his thoughts.  He was breathing a little hard, like he’d given away all the oxygen in his body for the song.  “What did you think?”

Cyrus perked up.  “What did I think?  I thought it was fantastic!  No person in their right mind would be able to hate that song.”

Jonah broke out into a relieved smile.  “Do you think Andi will like it?”

And then suddenly all of his awe fell away, crumbling into dust until he was just a skin of sadness and disappointment and unmet expectations.  The embodiment of loneliness.

“Andi’s gonna love it,” Cyrus promised, but something inside of him was splintering.  Cyrus couldn’t tell if it was mind or his heart. Or maybe just him entirely.

A sudden urge to run out of the Red Rooster overwhelmed him, like when he kissed Iris during that documentary and couldn’t stomach it long enough to stay for the rest, and words were spilling from his mouth before he could register them.  “Actually, I just remembered, my mom wanted me home to help with some therapy stuff, so I’ll see you at school,” he said hurriedly, scrambling to his feet.

The light in Jonah’s eyes didn’t wane in the slightest, still shining exceptionally bright, like nothing could eclipse it.  Cyrus guessed he got what he wanted. After all, he said he never wanted Jonah’s smile to lose its shine, and now that he felt like he was breaking, Jonah remained as unfazed as ever.

Cyrus didn’t know how he felt, but suddenly Jonah wasn’t making him feel like a sunbeam.  Not like he usually did.

“Bye, Cy-Guy,” he farewelled, returning back to his plucking.  Cyrus didn’t even bother turning around to catch one last glimpse of him, instead pushing himself out the door and trying to shove down the tightness in his throat.  

Bye.

Okay, this time T.J. swore he wasn’t stalking Cyrus.  Not that he had been the other times, but this time he definitely wasn’t.

T.J. had been thumbing through a stack of glossy vinyl outside, doing a quick browsing session (once Reed had tried to convince him to steal one of the albums, but T.J. thought that even he wasn’t stupid enough to try that) when an abrupt chime sounded from the Red Rooster’s door.  The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost a reflex, when he saw the person’s familiar dark hair and collared shirt.  

Maybe the universe just wanted them to hang out.  The thought amused him.

“Hey, Underdog,” he called out boldly.  Cyrus swiveled around, and T.J. struggled to make out his expression from the distance.  “What’s up?”

Cyrus inched closer to him, and a flash of confusion flickered across T.J.’s face, a frown pulling at his lips.  Cyrus looked ripped at the seams, like even the air he was breathing was laced with defeat.

“Nothing much,” Cyrus said, his lips turned down.  His voice wavered. “What about you?”

T.J. ignored his question, his confusion still overflowing at the edges of his mind.  “You okay?”

Cyrus drew in a shaky breath, as if he were trying to stabilize his lungs.  “I will be,” he said, his shoulders tilting up in a shrug. T.J. felt a pang ripple in his chest.  “What are you doing here?”

T.J. tried not to sigh in frustration.  He wanted Cyrus to talk to him, to tell him what was on his mind, but it didn’t seem like Cyrus was going to say much, at least not right now.  He decided not to push him any further. “Just browsing. And I’m guessing you’re hanging out with Jonah, right?”

T.J. had written a note to Cyrus that morning, telling him to have fun with the Frisbee player, so he knew they were hanging out.  A small part of him had meant the words a little sarcastically, but he didn’t know why.  He didn't know a lot of things, lately.

Well, not that T.J. had ever known things, much less understood them.  But he felt a lot more confused than usual, which was new.  And weird.  Definitely weird.

Luckily Cyrus had thanked him for the note later that day, so it didn’t seem like he’d caught on, but now T.J. felt guilt plaguing his stomach for meaning it that way.  Especially now that it seemed like Cyrus hadn’t had that much fun, if the sad gleam in his eyes was any indication.

Cyrus’s eyes dimmed at the mention of it, and T.J. wondered what exactly had caused him to turn sour.  “Yeah, just hanging out with my bro, you know how we do,” he said, but he could tell that Cyrus’s heart wasn’t entirely in it.  T.J. decided to humor him anyway, to play along with his charade.

But if Cyrus thought he wasn’t going to bring this back up again later (in their notes or otherwise), he was dead wrong.

“Niceburg,” he said.  A voice in the back of his mind said that he wouldn’t have made Cyrus feel bad if they’d hung out, but T.J. pushed it to the side.  Stop , T.J. said to himself.  He refrained from rolling his eyes at himself.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Before he could say much else, a buzz sounded from his back pocket and T.J. drew it from his pocket, sighing.  “That’s my mom. I gotta go. See you tomorrow?”

Cyrus nodded, his eyes still dull, and T.J. tried not to frown. “Yeah, of course.  Bye, T.J.”

His mind flashed back to that day at the swings, how Cyrus had kept saying his name.  Like if he put enough pressure on it, he’d send the world flying into shards of glass.

A rush of emotions surged through his chest, so muddled that T.J. couldn’t identify them.  “Bye,” T.J. said endearingly, almost as if he were saying it to himself. He ruffled Cyrus’s dark hair before he realized he was doing it, and Cyrus’s eyes seemed a bit brighter, like the spark of a match had gone off in his pupils.  He was glad that the light in his eyes was visible again, and his stomach formed a knot as he wondered what Jonah had done to eclipse it.

He turned to walk home, trying to shake the sudden surge of emotions from his chest, but just as he began to saunter away, Cyrus called out.  “Hey, T.J.!”

He turned back his head, catching Cyrus’s gaze, and a smile that he hadn’t been expecting tugged itself onto his lips.  “Yeah?” he asked, his tone coming out more cheery than he had anticipated. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice.

A soft smile grew on Cyrus’s face.  “Thanks.”

T.J. wondered what he was thanking him for.  For making him feel better?

If anything, T.J. should be thanking Cyrus for that, for making him feel better about a lot of things over the past week.  Heck, he should even be thanking him for pulling the dumb fire alarm that day, the same day he’d…

Well.  That wasn’t important.    

“Anytime, Cyrus,” he said, his voice too, too soft.  That funny feeling went through him again, and T.J. shoved it down until his mind went numb.  

As he strolled back to his house, T.J. tried not to think about why he wanted to say ‘bye’ one more time, or why the urge to look back and catch a glimpse of Cyrus was so strong he could taste it in his mouth, like sage exploding on his tongue.

Instead he kept driving himself forward on the sidewalk, not stopping once all the way home.

Chapter Text

Today’s detention.  Don’t forget your pen and paper.  -T.J.

Cyrus found himself shuffling around the order of his locker, just like he had been last Friday.  It was another nervous tactic of his, he supposed. He had about a billion of them, and even he couldn’t keep track of them all.

He lined up the books on his shelves by class order, arranged all his ink pens and mechanical pencils by color, and coordinated the magnets on his locker door, shifting the pictures of him and his friends wedged underneath.  There was something so calming about organizing his locker; it kind of helped straighten out the mess in his mind, too. Like he was taking his feelings and unraveling them like a ball of yarn, separating and sorting them into different boxes.  (Was it possible to give your sadness and loneliness away to Goodwill?)

Ever since that Tuesday at the Red Rooster, Cyrus had felt lost, like a muddled fog was swirling around in his mind, taking up too much space.  He felt confused about Jonah, mostly, not that he’d ever been able to figure him out.  Sometimes he felt like he never would.

Cyrus wondered if he was being overdramatic about the whole situation.  After all, he’d witnessed Jonah and Andi’s romantic status fluctuate more times than he could count, and it never had this much of an effect on him.

Maybe there was only so much he could handle before he broke.  And maybe he had discovered that, too, in his clutter of feelings.  That he could break.

Suddenly organizing wasn’t so much fun anymore.  

His hand ghosted absentmindedly over a picture from seventh grade of Jonah, Buffy, Andi, and himself at the Frisbee park, watching one of Jonah’s first meets of the year.  The hint of a fond smile reached his mouth; he was wearing that 20 pound vest of his, and Jonah had an arm wrapped around his shoulders, not even caring about the bulk of sunscreen, snacks, and energy drinks strapped to his chest.  It was the first time he realized that Jonah actually wanted to be his friend. That they were friends.  

The memory was tainted with melancholy once he thought about it, once he let the day roll back in his head.  He hadn’t known he was going to be in this mess only a mere year later back then. He wished he could talk to seventh grade Cyrus.

Don’t let yourself fall for Jonah Beck, Cyrus would say to his past self.  It’s not worth it!

It probably wouldn’t have worked, anyway.  Cyrus was pretty sure he’d fallen for Jonah by then.  He just hadn’t realized it yet…

“Hey, Cyrus!” a familiar voice called out from afar.  Cyrus jerked his head in surprise, then felt his stomach roll over in discomfort.  Jonah.  Speak of the devil!   

He shut his locker door, smoothing down in his shirt in an attempt to feel some control over what was happening.  If Cyrus had it his way, he’d be halfway across the school by now.  (Why did he have to be allergic to running? Or to all sports, for that matter?)

“He-hey, Jonah,” Cyrus greeted back, his voice cracking.  He hadn’t had a voice crack like that since seventh grade, and he definitely hadn’t been faltering as much around Jonah lately, at least not like he used to.  All that seemed to have gone out the window. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say thank you, you know, for the other day at the Red Rooster?” he said, as if Cyrus didn’t remember it.  Cyrus’s brow drew together. “I feel like you’ve kind of been avoiding me,” Jonah admitted lamely, shifting the backpack strap lazily hanging off of his shoulder.   

A burst of guilt erupted in his belly.  He hadn’t purposely been avoiding Jonah.  He just happened to go the other way when he saw him in the hallway, or somehow managed to miss him at The Spoon.

Okay, so maybe he had been avoiding Jonah.  Just a little bit.

“I would never!” he claimed, shaking his head fervently.  His own voice sounded synthetic, saturated with fakeness, and Cyrus internally cringed.

Jonah cracked a smile, and Cyrus tried to contain his sigh of relief.  Good.  Jonah believed him.  “Whatever, dude, just…thanks for helping me out,” the Frisbee player said with a beam, patting Cyrus on the back as he moved past him.

Cyrus sighed to himself, his lips pursed as Jonah walked away.  He wondered when Jonah Beck would stop being able to make him go weak in the knees just from flashing his pearly white smile.

More importantly, he wondered when he could tell someone about Jonah, about what he felt.  He didn’t know…he hated that Buffy was stuck in the middle of him and Andi, like a wedge driven in between them.  A wedge that he had put there.  He wanted to tell Andi so badly about his feelings for Jonah, about how sweet and cute and just plain frustrating he could be sometimes, but his stomach turned at the thought of confessing his crush to her.  She was just so happy with Jonah lately. He didn’t want to disrupt that!

Especially when he remembered how Andi had reacted to Buffy and Walker being a thing for a month or so earlier this year…

Cyrus tried to shake the thoughts from his head.  He’d be fine!  He could just drown in his feelings, no big deal!

He didn’t know if he convinced himself or not.  

He caught a pair of green eyes in the hallway, ones that didn’t belong to Jonah, and he smiled to the figure, waving excitedly.  “Hey, T.J.!”

The basketball player flashed him one of his amused smiles, the kind that lit up his eyes and made them crinkle at the edges.  

“Hey, Underdog!” he returned just as brightly, passing by him as he made his way through the hall.  A few weeks ago, a cheery tone coming from T.J. Kippen would’ve jarred Cyrus, and maybe everyone else, too.  But now a beam from him seemed almost natural, like an reflex.  Cyrus soaked them all up, no matter what; you could never get enough smiles from T.J., he had decided.

He briefly entertained the thought of telling T.J. about his crush on Jonah, and, more importantly, about telling T.J. that he was gay.  It was possible T.J. already knew the latter, especially since Cyrus didn’t exactly hide it anymore, didn’t keep it like a hand of poker cards to his chest, but who knew how common of knowledge it was?  T.J. could’ve thought he was as hopelessly heterosexual as Jonah Beck for all Cyrus knew!

The weird thing was, Cyrus wanted to tell him.  He wanted to spill all his frustrations and insecurities and things stuffed inside of him that were never meant to escape to the basketball player until his jaw was sore.  Because even though T.J. could’ve easily shunned him that first day of detention, could’ve ignored him like he was that invisible boy Cyrus saw himself as, he listened and talked to him and accepted him.  And Cyrus got the feeling that he’d do the same with this, too.  

Still, a tug in his stomach kept stopping him.  He wondered when he’d ever gather the courage…

Shaking his thoughts from his mind, Cyrus walked to class, trying not to let everything thrumming through him sweep him away.

I’ll be there :) -Cyrus

His first few classes flew by in a whirlwind and, before he knew it, Cyrus was sitting down at his usual table, joining the four other members of their normal lunch group.  None of them seemed to notice him sit down, all of them lost in the fog of their own separate conversations, and Cyrus poked at his lunch dejectedly, trying not to feel like he was a fifth wheel.

No one needs a fifth wheel, he thought solemnly to himself.  Nobody at all.

Buffy suddenly chimed in with a teasing laugh, the kind that was hard to draw out of her, and Cyrus didn’t even need to glance up from his lunch tray to see who had caused it.  Marty from the Party.  Of course.

His eyes flickered up to the other couple across from him, Jonah and Andi, while the two of them shared a fleeting, almost private gaze.  His face burned, and Cyrus lowered his glance back down to his tray. He felt like he was intruding, trespassing on something that he shouldn’t have seen in the first place.

Cyrus couldn’t help but think that he could rush out of the cafeteria right then and the four of them would still be laughing, acting like they were all in on some kind of private joke that only couples could understand.  (Did that happen when you dated someone? Like your eyes were opened for the first time? Cyrus had never felt that way about Iris; he’d always felt like a fogged up window, like he had to squint to make out figures and shapes.)

He didn’t know when he had started feeling like an intruder in his own friend group, or when the Good Hair Crew had become the Good Hair Crew and Ensemble.  Maybe it was when Marty was a recurring character in their visits to The Spoon again, or maybe when Jonah and Andi had gotten back together, making everyone surrounding them feel like they were on the outside of their relationship bubble.  

It was different when it was just Buffy, Andi, and him (with occasionally appearances from Jonah), but now Buffy had someone, too, and when they were all together, it was like he was forgotten, an afterthought.

He didn’t know.  All he knew was that he wished he could have someone there beside him.  Someone that wouldn’t make him feel as lonely as he did right now.

Buffy finally seemed to notice that he had sat down next to her and she tore her attention away from Marty, flashing him a smile.  “Hey! What’s up?” she said, her attitude seeming more cheery than usual.  Marty and Jonah continued talking, but Andi’s eyes flickered to Cyrus, scooting away from the boys and toward the other two Good Hair Crew members.

“Yeah!” she said, scooting closer.  Cyrus had to strain to hear her over Marty and Jonah’s conversation (they were droning about something sports related, not interested).  “I feel like we haven’t talked in forever! How’s detention, Cyrus?”

“Good,” he said, nodding nonchalantly.  He ignored the part of him that was bursting at the seams to talk about T.J. and their notes and everything else they shared, but he forced himself to choke it down.  

“So, how’s your ‘detention buddy’?” Andi asked suggestively, leaning forward in interest.  Oh, why was she taunting him so?  One more look like that and he was going to spill everything!  “When do we get to meet him?”

Cyrus shook his head, understanding what she was implying.  “I don’t like him like that, Andi—”

“I’m not saying you do, I just think it’s interesting how you won’t tell us anything about him is all,” she said with a knowing smile.  Cyrus was pretty sure she had been reading too many Nancy Drew novels; she was looking into things too much, observing him with her mental magnifying glass!  Was this how people felt when he meddled?

Nah, Cyrus told himself.  They couldn’t!

“Yeah, who is it anyway?” Buffy piped up, a smirk on her face.  

Cyrus’s eyes flickered over to Jonah, who suddenly seemed quiet on the other side of the table.  The Frisbee player’s eyes quickly glanced away, and Cyrus could practically see the guilt engraved in his features.  Please, don’t ask Jonah why he looks suspicious, Cyrus prayed to himself.  

“It’s no one!” he insisted.  He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this charade up, or if he even wanted to, but he didn’t want to answer them right now.  Not yet.

Soon.  Maybe.

The two girls shared a private glance, like they were in on some kind of inside joke that they hadn’t let him in on, and then they both went chattering back to Marty and Jonah, talking about whatever couples talked about.  Cyrus frowned into his pizza.

A weird part of him wished that T.J. were here.  Maybe they could joke like they usually did, or talk about important things.  He didn’t know…he always felt like they were on the same page, neither one of them a step ahead of the other.  

T.J. made him feel seen, even if Cyrus still couldn’t quite believe that the basketball player was talking to him sometimes.  

A burst of laughter erupted from the table, probably from a joke that Marty had told, and Cyrus put on a false smile, trying to match their note of mirth.  

Back to being left out, I guess, he thought glumly.  

Then he felt guilty for feeling so left out by his friends, friends that were trying to include him despite having significant others and school and their own lives, so he tried to ignore the turning in his stomach and stood up from his chair.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he announced, his voice unintentionally gloomy.  Buffy and Andi’s eyes shot to him in concern.

“You okay?” Buffy questioned, her eyebrows raised in concern.  The four all turned to look at him, and the sudden flood of attention made him feel flustered.  He didn’t like when the spotlight was put on him in bad situations, at least not when he wasn’t alone with Buffy and Andi.  He only liked it when he got a good grade on his English test, or he pulled off a difficult move in dance class without twisting his hamstring.  Now he just felt all fidgety, and he wanted to get away, away from their prying eyes. It was like were shredding him to pieces with their gaze, his heart bared on his sleeve for all to see.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he told them, not sounding so convincing.  He tried again. “Just a bad day in dance class.”

Everyone returned back to their lunches, seemingly convinced, but Buffy kept pushing.  She was always like that. Pushed until she broke through. It was one of Cyrus’s favorite things about her, that she was always trying, never giving up, but right now he wished she wasn’t so headstrong.  

“Do you want to talk about it?”  He saw her eyes flit to Jonah and Andi out of the corner of her vision, and Cyrus shook his head.

“No,” he said, probably too adamantly.  A tug of guilt went through his stomach, and then, softer, he added, “I’ll be good.  Thanks, though.” He gave his best impression of a smile, although it felt fake, even to him, and Buffy nodded cautiously.

“We can talk about it later, then,” she said, giving him a pointed look.

Instead of fighting with her, he nodded with a half-hearted and turned.  Later. Sure. He could do that.

He’d probably leave out the part where Marty and Buffy were making him feel left out, too.  He was already causing enough havoc in their friend group for one day. There was no need to make Buffy feel bad about something she couldn’t control.

Once he reached the bathroom, Cyrus leaned against one of the sinks, his hands clutching both sides of the porcelain, and he glanced at himself in the mirror.  You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, a voice spoke in his mind (that sounded suspiciously like Buffy).  Despite repeating it to himself a bunch of times, he wasn’t sure if it had any effect on the raging war in his chest.

A figure formed out of the corner of his eye, and he could only make out a sweep of light hair from the reflection of the mirror stuck to the wall.  Cyrus turned, finding himself face to face with T.J. Kippen.

“Oh, hey,” Cyrus said, a sort of sad smile reaching his lips.  It was odd, being alone with T.J. Kippen in the boys’ bathroom, but he found that he didn’t really mind.  Not at all.

“What’s up?” T.J. asked, raising his eyebrows in question.  He leaned against the mirror. Only T.J. could make leaning in a odor-infested boy’s bathroom look cool.  At least, that was what Cyrus thought.

“Hiding from my friends,” he admitted.  “You?”

“Just chilling,” T.J. said casually, strolling forward.  He rested a hand on the sink adjacent from Cyrus. “Why are you hiding from your friends?” he asked curiously.

Cyrus sighed, then ran his hands under the faucet.  It took a second for the water to warm up. “I feel like I’m their fifth wheel,” he confessed.  He pumped soap into his palm, desperately trying to get the feeling of school lunch that was clinging to him off.

T.J. snatched a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser, handing the stack wordlessly to him, and Cyrus sent him a thankful smile.  “And why’s that?”

Cyrus crumpled the paper towels with his hands and tried to toss them into the trash can.  He missed, hitting the rim instead. “Well, Buffy and Marty are a thing, and Jonah and Andi are dating, of course, so I guess I feel kind of left out.  No one needs a fifth wheel,” he revealed sullenly. He felt selfish for feeling that way, but a part of him was happy to get the feelings out now instead of later; at least he didn’t have to hold onto it for the whole day, mulling it and tossing it over so many times in his head until it became as cracked as worn leather.

“Well, you can always sit with me at lunch,” T.J. offered casually, shrugging.  The invitation probably wasn’t a big deal to T.J., but it made Cyrus’s heart skip a beat.  “I mean, I eat alone, so I guess you can be upgraded to second wheel instead of fifth,” T.J. joked lamely.

“Bikes do need two wheels,” Cyrus remarked with a smile.  And just like that, T.J. was taking part of the weight off his shoulders, making him forget it had even been there in the first place.

“And, thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine,” Cyrus continued, a small smile still ghosting his lips.  “I’m kind of used to it.” Then T.J.’s words hit him, rolling behind his eyelids. “Wait, you eat lunch alone?  Why?”

T.J. looked like he was frowning, but it was hard to tell.  “I just do,” he said, shrugging.

Cyrus wanted to push, nudge deeper into the issue, but T.J. looked uncomfortable, like something heavy was weighing down on his shoulders, so Cyrus chose to swallow his curiosity down instead.  “Anyway, ready for detention?” Cyrus asked. He felt a shift in the heavy atmosphere, like everything had been eerily still and was now churning back to life.

“Always am,” T.J. replied indifferently.  “Are you?”

Cyrus nodded, beaming.  “Yep! Got my pen and paper like you told me to,” he teased, referencing T.J.’s note from that morning.  He silently wondered what they’d talk about. After all, they seemed to have been straying away from writing about heavy topics, like T.J.’s possible learning disability, or why he’d run out of the Red Rooster on Tuesday.  Maybe they were trying to save it all for detention, so they could let it run out of their pens until their words bled through the paper. “You’ll probably beat me there, though,” Cyrus added. “The hallway at the end of the day still terrifies me.”

T.J. tilted his head to the side, like he was contemplating something.  “Well, I did promise you I’d help you get over your fear,” T.J. reminded him, mirth dancing in his eyes.  Cyrus eyebrows jumped. How exactly was T.J. planning on helping him? As far as Cyrus knew, it was part of his irreversible trauma (he had a lot!).  “What’s your seventh period?”

“Science,” Cyrus answered cautiously.  “Why?”

T.J. grinned, and a part of Cyrus’s stomach twisted at the expression.  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you after the bell rings,” he said, lightly hitting Cyrus in the chest.  He smiled, then walked out of the boys’ bathroom, leaving a million questions whirling through Cyrus’s head.  

What does he mean by seeing me after the bell rings?  Does he mean at detention? Cyrus asked himself as he pushed open the boys’ bathroom door.

He watched the basketball player stroll away, his eyebrows drawn together as he wondered what T.J. had up his sleeve.  

He guessed he’d have to wait until the end of seventh period.

T.J. was not kidding when he said he’d be there after the bell rang.

After all his classmates rushed out like a powerful wind was sucking them out the door, Cyrus fiddled with his belongings, collecting them at his own leisure pace.  The hallways rattled with noise, and with the door closed and the classroom vacant, he felt like he was in his own little bubble, isolated from the world.

Mrs. Speck cleared her throat.  “Turn the lights off when you leave,” she reminded him, her voice pinched and clipped as she walked toward the exit.

Well, almost isolated.

“Bye!” he farewelled, but the door flew open before she could leave, a tall boy in a basketball hoodie pounding through the entrance (and nearly bumping into her in the process).  Cyrus smiled familiarly, like he was used to occurrences like this, even though he so, so wasn’t.

He wondered if he ever would be.  Used to T.J. Kippen, he meant.

How could he get used to someone who was always surprising him?

“Hey,” T.J. said, tugging on his sleeves.  Mrs. Speck huffed, giving him a distasteful eyeful before she squeezed out through the door.  “You ready?”

Cyrus’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise.  This was not what he had been expecting.  “Already?  We’re not going to give them a head start or anything?”

T.J. snorted in amusement, and he shook his head.  “C’mon it won’t be so bad. Besides, sometimes you just have to dive in, Underdog,” he said.  

Cyrus shifted the shoulder strap of the backpack, his shoulder feeling tense from all the books stuffed in it.  “Are you—woah!” T.J. snatched his hand and dragged him out of the classroom door, plowing through the hallway.

He was holding Cyrus Goodman’s hand.

It was kind of a weird feeling.  Holding someone’s hand, that was.  T.J. was accustomed to high fives, the fleeting squeeze that came with bro hugs, but never this.  A palm clinging to his, their fingers clumsily tangled, wrists pressed together.

T.J. didn’t even know why he grabbed it, anyway.  It just felt right.  A lot of things felt right with Cyrus.  

He weaved Cyrus strategically through the claustrophobic hallway, with kids bounding through the narrow corridor, lockers slamming, books slapping against the hard tiled floors, janitors bustling with their neon yellow carts, ready to start their shifts.  T.J. gave him an assuring glance as they were running, and a smile worked itself onto his mouth at the exhilarated expression sparking up Cyrus’s face. Cyrus could be so adorable sometimes.

T.J. pushed the thought aside and kept moving, hoping that if they moved fast enough, he could leave his thoughts behind altogether.  

“Is this what a police escort feels like?” Cyrus exclaimed aloud, his voice lighting up in wonderment, and T.J. couldn’t help but laugh, that familiar funny feeling coiling through his chest.  

T.J. wanted to take that feeling and shove it down until he couldn’t feel it anymore, until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

They cut through a hallway, a shortcut that T.J. knew by heart, with him still guiding Cyrus forward and Cyrus still blindly following him, like he trusted him to lead the way, to get him through the students and the slamming lockers and everything else that could possibly be in their path.

A horde of kids were circling them, staring at them like they were aliens from Mars, and T.J., for once, was able to shut them out.  

He almost expected his old friends to pop up, to make some kind of show about the whole ordeal, but he couldn’t really see anything except Cyrus trailing behind him, wearing a beam that lit up the entire hallway, like fairy lights.  Luckily all their peers were parting like the Red Sea for them anyway, so T.J. didn’t really need to do a whole lot of paying attention.

They finally reached Cyrus’s locker, locker 120, and Cyrus heaved against it, clearly out of breath from their adventure.  T.J.’s heart pounded, but he was sure it was because of a different reason than Cyrus’s was.

They were still holding hands.  And T.J. hated that he didn’t want to let go.

He was so used to shoving things down, keeping them at bay, but now they were bubbling up, and it was becoming harder and harder to fight off.  He just hated thinking, hated thinking about the way his heart seemed to skip a beat every time Cyrus flashed a smile in his direction, hated thinking about that funny feeling constantly washing through him.  

T.J. wanted to shut his mind off, wanted it to go numb.  Wanted it all to go away.

Now he really wished he could replace his brain…

“That was exhilarating!” Cyrus exclaimed, the same way he had that day at the swings.  It broke T.J. from his consuming thoughts, and he came back to himself, feeling around for the edges of reality.

Oh, right.  Cyrus’s hand.

“Yeah,” T.J. said, untangling their fingers.  Something clawed at his stomach, and T.J. stuffed his hands in his pockets to suppress the weird tingly sensation surging through his palm.  “See. I told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“You were right,” Cyrus admitted with a beam, poking at his lock.  He yanked it open after putting in his combination, the numbers on the dial all blurring together.  (T.J. didn’t even like to think about how long it had taken him to learn his own combination.  Sometimes he still had to pick the lock open.)

Cyrus’s locker was heavily decorated, and (not surprisingly) organized.  From what T.J. knew about the boy’s schedule, he had all his textbooks in order, and he also had a colorful array of pictures and magnets stuck to the locker door with a bunch of other memorabilia that T.J. didn’t understand (why did Cyrus have an old poster that said ‘Freedom of Dress’ on it?).  He noticed a blue artbox with a thick stack of folded papers stuck together by a paperclip beside it.

“Are those our notes?” T.J. asked, pointing at the pile.  He swept them in his palm.

Cyrus paused in the middle of sliding his science textbook onto his top shelf, his eyes flitting to what T.J. was talking about.  

“Oh, no, that’s—” T.J. unfurled one to see his and Cyrus’s handwriting, and he gave the other boy a pointed look.

Cyrus sighed.  “Yeah,” he admitted, his cheeks tinged a little pink.  A whirl went through T.J.’s chest, like someone was doing cartwheels in his ribcage.  “I keep them all,” he confessed sheepishly.

T.J. let a smile curve his mouth, unable to hold it back.  “I keep all of them, too.”

They shared a smile before Cyrus realized he still hadn’t put up his science book, and T.J. reached above him, pushing it into the slot for him.  “Here, I got it.”

Cyrus stepped away, a soft smile on his face.  “Thanks!”

“Anytime,” he said, just like he did on Tuesday.  Cyrus seemed to recognize the line, and he playfully nudged T.J. as they began to stroll down the now vacant hallway, everyone else already having had fled outside for the buses or for sports practice.

“Do we have time to stop by your locker?” Cyrus asked.  They bumped into each other every few steps or so, and every time the contact would jostle something in T.J.’s chest.

T.J. shook his head.  “Nah,” he said, giving a shrug.  “We’ll be late to detention if we do.  I can go after.”

For the first time since the bell rang, it seemed to click in Cyrus’s mind that they still had detention, and his eyes widened in realization.  “We better hurry up!” the boy said hurriedly, shifting his backpack anxiously. “We can’t be late.”

T.J. laughed good-naturedly, something that a few weeks ago would’ve been hard to draw out of him.  “I don’t think—” but then Cyrus was grabbing his hand, dragging him all the way to room 34.

And T.J. didn’t let himself think.  He just let Cyrus tug him in whatever direction, knowing if he let his thoughts run, they would never stop.

They arrived at detention, and T.J. didn’t even have to look at the clock to know they were late.  

When they rushed through the door, Cyrus was practically a heaving puddle, and T.J had to fish out an inhaler out of Cyrus’s backpack (the boy didn’t end up needing it, but it made Cyrus feel better knowing he had it curled in his palm, T.J. guessed).  None of this mattered to Dr. Metcalf, however, who told them to take their seats with his usual incisive glance, the one that made fire bubble in T.J.’s chest.

“Do you two even know when detention starts?” their principal asked sarcastically.  Neither of them answered him; T.J. didn’t see why he should even bother. As far as T.J. was concerned, he could hang the moon and Metcalf would still give him that same cold, hard look in his eyes, like he was a delinquent at heart.  Just like he had two weeks ago, the day he had handed him those six days of detention…

T.J. shook the memory out of his mind, instead boring his eyes into the notebook paper Cyrus had placed on his desk.  Keeping a wary glance on Dr. Metcalf (who was signing what looked like important documents with one of those professional ink pens that CEOs used), he unfolded it, his eyes trailing the other boy’s words.

I know we haven’t really talked about this since Monday, but what are you going to do about your math thing?

T.J. noticed the careful way he had written ‘math thing’, trying his best not to use the term ‘dyscalculia’ or ‘learning disability’, even though they both knew he probably had one.  

He pulled a pen from his pocket, scribbling back a reply.  He wanted to hand it to Cyrus immediately (T.J. had never had good patience skills), but he knew they had to be more careful.  Ever since Dr. Metcalf had called them into his office on Monday, he’d been far more observant of the two, and they had to be quick to pass notes back and forth, even if it took a while to get a response.

After about ten minutes of torturous staring, Dr. Metcalf dipped down his head to sign something, and T.J. swiveled the note over to Cyrus’s desk.

I don’t know.  I don’t know if I want to talk to Mr. Coleman yet.

T.J. didn’t know why he was so hesitant to tell Mr. C.  It wasn’t like he was in denial or anything; he trusted Cyrus, and he knew Cyrus wouldn’t have even brought the whole learning disability thing to his attention if there wasn’t a huge possibility.  And basketball season had just ended, so it wasn’t like he could get kicked off the team for having one.  (Could they actually do that? Kick him off the team for having a learning disability? Knowing Dr. Metcalf, probably.)  

Maybe he just didn’t want Mr. Coleman to look at him again with that same dispirited gleam in his eyes.  Like T.J. had scored far below all the expectations waiting for him as soon as he entered his classroom. And this one he couldn’t even help.  

T.J. was even a disappointment on accident.  Figures.

It was probably dumb for him to care about something like that, or to care about it at all, but Cyrus was making him care about a lot of things.  A lot of things T.J. never thought he would. Or would want to, even.

After another painfully long interval of time, Cyrus passed the note back to him, and T.J. tried to shake the thoughts from his mind.

How come?  I could come with you if you want.

Something in his heart twisted at the thought of that.  He ignored it and wrote out a reply, clicking his pen impatiently while he waited for Dr. Metcalf to stop watching them.

The principal dropped a paper, ducking down to retrieve it, and T.J. flicked the note over to Cyrus.

I don’t know.  I would rather him just think I’m stupid.

When Cyrus read it, he shot him a confused glance, one that made his eyebrows draw together and his lips purse, like he was trying to understand an unsolvable problem, and he quickly scribbled back a reply.

T.J., you’re not stupid.  There is nothing wrong with you.  

That funny feeling swept through him again, churning so hard that T.J. couldn’t turn a blind eye to it.  The scary thing was, Cyrus’s words went farther than his math issues, piercing that part of him that he didn’t like to dwell on.  The part he wished would disappear.  

He swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat, pressing down so hard that his pen punctured the paper.

Maybe I’ll tell him.  We’ll see.

Then, on the line below, he added, So, if I’m talking about this, you have to tell me about what happened at the Red Rooster.

T.J. tapped his pen against the paper impatiently, waiting for Dr. Metcalf’s attention to be captured again so he could pass the note to Cyrus.  After what felt like eons of just sitting there, Dr. Metcalf’s voice boomed, “It’s five minutes after four.  You can go.”

T.J.’s head shot to the clock.   There’s no way…

The clock on the wall read 4:05, just like their principal had said, and he bit back the curse brewing on his tongue.

Metcalf stood up, shooing them out.  “I said, ‘go’.  You’re not the only ones that have lives outside of this school building,” he said, his face hard as he plucked up his briefcase.  Cyrus and T.J. jolted out of their seats at their principal’s instruction, with Cyrus bustling through the exit as if he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  T.J. considered taking his time, just to spite Dr. Metcalf, but he wanted to catch Cyrus before he left.

“Hey,” he called out, striding beside him.  Cyrus slowed his pace, flashing T.J. a smile that made him feel weak in his knees, and T.J. knocked their shoulders together as he caught up to him.  “I wanted to ask you something. Walk to my locker with me?”

“Sure,” Cyrus said, seeming happily surprised.  

They strolled for a few steps before Cyrus spoke again.  “What’s your question?” Cyrus questioned curiously, his eyes bright with wonderment.  T.J. didn’t know why he kept noticing things like that, like how the light would catch Cyrus’s hair sometimes, making it look lighter than it was, or how his lips would purse together when he was thinking hard about something, but it was like he was collecting all these little details, tucking them into the corners of his mind.

T.J. didn’t know what he was saving them all for, but he liked to run them through his mind before he went to bed.  Just so they’d stick.

“How come you ran out of the Red Rooster on Tuesday?” T.J. asked, pausing in the hallway.  Cyrus halted with him, facing him in the middle of the corridor.

T.J. saw the hesitance resting in the grooves of his face, the faltering look gleaming in his eyes, and he gave him a reassuring smile.  “Hey, you don’t have to tell me. I was just wondering,” he tried, reaching out and squeezing Cyrus’s shoulder. T.J. was pretty sure it had more of an effect on him than it did on Cyrus.

Cyrus resumed their walking, silence filling their ears for a beat before Cyrus spoke.  “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you.  It’s just…it’s a part of my stuff,” he explained, like T.J. was supposed to understand what that meant.

“Your stuff?” he asked, light confusion lacing his voice.  

“Yeah.  Don’t you have stuff?” Cyrus asked him.  

I have more than I’d like to.   “Yeah,” T.J. said instead.  The words felt like sandpaper on his tongue.  “I’ve got stuff.”

He finally realized that they had reached his locker, momentarily forgetting that they weren’t just rambling aimlessly, and he fiddled with his lock.  Cyrus’s eyes felt heavy on him as he tried to concentrate on opening it, but the numbers were a blurry haze. T.J. yanked at it once, to no avail, and tried again.

Why do numbers have to follow me wherever I go? T.J. asked himself, annoyed.  

He forced it open on the second try, and Cyrus’s eyes raked through the interior of his locker, his eyebrows tweaking together like a light bulb had gone off in his brain.  Then, without warning, he asked softly, “Is math part of your stuff?”

T.J.’s paused, and he turned to meet Cyrus’s blunt gaze, his unabashed curiosity.  His heart pounded.

“Part of it,” he admitted, the corner of his mouth dipping down.  T.J. didn’t even know what the other part of his stuff was exactly, just that it was there and it was consuming, taking up so much space that he didn’t know what to do with it.

T.J. met his gaze, his eyes latching onto Cyrus’s, and he tried not to drown in them.

He was already drowning anyway, drowning in all of his issues, his insecurities, his feelings.  And Cyrus washed all of his stuff away, like a sponge wiping out the black grime crowding his mind.  A clean slate.

T.J. forced himself to look away first, not quite sure what he’d do if he didn’t.

“Hey, T.J., is that Dr. Metcalf?” Cyrus asked, his voice sounding unnaturally high-pitched.  He pointed in a random direction behind T.J.

T.J. snorted, then turned behind him.  Of course Cyrus would want to be as far away from Dr. Metcalf as possible.  

“Where?” he asked, looking in the area Cyrus was pointing at.  He didn’t see anything but more lockers and a gleaming floor, like someone had recently mopped it.

Confusion sweeping through him, T.J. turned back to face Cyrus, who was awkwardly holding something behind his back.  He looked suspicious, as if he were hiding evidence from a crime scene.

“What’s that you got there, Cyrus?” he inquired, amused, an eyebrow raised.  

“No-nothing!” Cyrus stuttered unconvincingly.  He pressed himself against the lockers behind him, and T.J. knew he could easily find out what he was hiding if he wanted to, could try and reach around his back, but he wasn’t sure what such close proximity would do to his brain.

Probably melt it.  He decided to let it go.

“Okay, well, see you later, Underdog,” he farewelled, mirth still dancing in his eyes.  

“Bye, T.J.!”

T.J. smiled to himself as he walked all the way home.  Note to self, he thought, adding something to his mental list.  Cyrus Goodman is a terrible liar.  

Cyrus wiped invisible beads of sweat from his brow as he entered his bedroom, the events from T.J.’s locker whirling back into his head with a dull ache.  That was a close one!

He unloaded the heavy item from his backpack and dropped it on his desk with a loud thump, the object staring glaringly at Cyrus: T.J.’s math textbook.

Cyrus could admit, it was an impulsive decision to steal T.J.’s algebra book, but it was just sitting there, waiting to be stolen!  If he hadn’t done it, then someone else would’ve!

He knew that was a complete lie, but he let himself believe it, just to lessen the pit of guilt sitting in his chest.  

T.J.’s notes from detention rolled back into his head, and Cyrus frowned as the memory of them hit him again.  T.J. seemed so helpless, like nothing he could do would fix his trouble with math.  Maybe Cyrus wanted to remind him that he could still do it, could still try and not have to fail, that this wasn’t worth replacing his brain over.  That he was no different.

Cyrus knew what being different was like.  He didn’t want T.J. to feel that way. Not ever.

He took out several stacks of different colored Post-It notes and unsheathed his favorite blue pen from his pencil case, flipping open to the first page of the basketball player's math textbook.  Here goes nothing...

Chapter Text

“From the top!” Amber called out, her hand hovering over the boombox.  Cyrus groaned mid-heave, his lungs aching in his chest. Had he ever mentioned that he hated dance class?  

Mondays were a blessing and a curse.  A curse because one of his first periods of the day was spent cracking his bones and straining his muscles after lounging around the house and making frequent visits to The Spoon all weekend.  And (thankfully) a blessing because it meant detention, which meant spending time with T.J. Mondays and Fridays in detention were the best, even if he was stuck in a room with Dr. Metcalf for an hour after school.  Lately he didn’t mind, though. A lot of the time T.J. made his fears float away, like they weren’t even there at all.

Cyrus fumbled through the dance routine, trying his best to get down all the movements, but even that didn’t feel like enough.  (He didn’t ever dance.  Dancing is what Amber did, light and graceful on her feet, all fluid movements.  He was all waving arms and pointed limbs, clumsy gestures. Cyrus still didn’t know how he was passing this class.)  He was starting to feel discouraged, like he’d never understand whatever it was that Amber had shown him moments prior, and he paused the music, his lungs burning like sizzling irons in his chest.

“I need to take a break,” he complained, almost wheezing.  He coughed (maybe a tad dramatically, but he wasn’t going to give himself away!).  Amber playfully rolled her eyes in response, a smile on her face.  She was so far from the girl he’d known from seventh grade. The old Amber would’ve laughed dryly in his face, made a heartless comment about how clumsy he was.  She wouldn’t have even offered to help him in the first place.

Cyrus liked this Amber much better.

“Again?  You only have one week until your dance exam, Cyrus!” she exclaimed exasperatedly.

“Easy for you to say!” Cyrus retorted.  His voice was on the verge of whining, but he didn’t really care at the moment.  “You’ve been doing this since you could walk.  This is the same guy who can only do the first half of a push-up, remember?”

Amber just shook her head to herself, choosing not to argue with him.  Cyrus was grateful for her lack of berating, and he leaned against one of the balance beams used for gymnastics in order to catch his breath.  

Just as he went to tell Amber that they could run it from the top again (with a reluctant sigh, he might add; hey, if he had to endure it, he was going to make it as miserable as he could for the both of them!), a figure out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, causing him to startle in surprise.  

T.J.?

Cyrus didn’t even know why he bothered to be shocked anymore.  T.J. would show up in random places, always when he least expected it, every time he hadn’t drummed up any sort of preparedness beforehand.  T.J. had somehow intertwined himself so deeply within the grooves of his life that Cyrus didn’t think he could ever be removed. Not that he wanted him to be, obviously.

The transition of his life from before he met T.J. to after was so seamless, so natural, that it was like slotting in a missing puzzle piece, no remnant of it ever being gone in the first place.  Cyrus had always known something was absent, not completely there, and now that it had interlocked with the rest, it felt...complete. And, sure, maybe some pieces were tattered and beaten, something he couldn’t mend for a change, but so was he!  Cyrus was torn at the seams, frayed. Broken.

Weren’t they both?

Maybe Cyrus was tired of perfect.  Just a little bit.

“T.J.  What are you doing here?”  he asked with a soft smile, standing up to meet the basketball player.  His eyebrows knitted together. “Don’t you have class?”

T.J. let that endearing huff out of his nose that Cyrus had grown accustomed to, and he shook his head slightly, as if he were amused by the question.  “I told Ms. Bender that I felt sick and she just let me leave,” T.J. explained, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Cyrus would never try anything like that, even though Ms. Bender was a notorious germaphobe and would throw sick students out of the school permanently if she had the chance.  (Cyrus had recommended that she talk to one of his shrink parents once and she declined, offended, and had been especially pinched to him since.) The fact that T.J. had the guts to do something like that was pretty cool.  He wondered if any of T.J.’s confidence would ever rub off on him.  

Cyrus could feel Amber’s questioning gaze prodding splintering stakes into his back as he replied. “Why are you here, though?” he asked, hurriedly adding, “Not that I’m mad about it or anything.”

T.J. snorted again, and something unidentifiable rolled in Cyrus’s stomach, like a small stone playing hopscotch in his belly.  “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out after school on Wednesday.”

The fact that T.J. had ditched class just to ask him to hang out heightened that feeling, like it was spreading from his stomach to his toes, making him as light as air.  Cyrus didn’t know if he had ever been so flattered!  T.J. probably skipped class all the time, at least more frequently than he should’ve, but his stomach remained doing a happy jig nevertheless.   

“And you couldn’t have waited until later to ask me?” Cyrus asked incredulously, but his voice was teasing and T.J. was smiling right back.

“It was only history and I wanted to get out of there, anyway,” T.J. lightly defended with a shrug, crossing over from the entrance to lean against the beam across from Cyrus.  A bubble of doubt seeped into his chest; history was T.J.’s favorite subject; why would he want to skip?

Confused, Cyrus tried to shake the alluring fog of curiosity from his mind.  He was probably reading into things too much, as usual.

“Besides,” T.J. continued, an entertained beam adorning his face, “maybe I wanted to see what dance class is like.  You make it sound like a torture chamber,” T.J. said, snorting.

“It is a torture chamber!” Cyrus insisted, jumping up.  The comment earned an eyebrow raise and a small laugh from Amber, who he had forgotten was in the room with them.  Whoops!  “This week I have to choreograph a dance and perform it in front of the whole class for my third term final!” he rambled exasperatedly.  He let out a groan, collapsing defeatedly against the balance beam, and a flash of an endearing smile crossed T.J.’s face.  It was so fleeting that Cyrus wondered if he was even supposed to see it.

“Hey, you’ll do great,” T.J. promised, lightly nudging him with his shoulder.  Cyrus’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Plus we get an entire week of spring break after Friday, so you can take a break from dance class for a while,” the basketball player reminded him.  Cyrus had nearly forgotten about that! There T.J. went, making him feel better again. It wasn’t the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last (well, at least Cyrus hoped that was the case).

He heard Amber tiptoe over without even having to glance behind him. “Come on, slowpoke,” she teased, jabbing him in the side.  Cyrus groaned again and sat up begrudgingly.

“Fine, I’ll do it, but you owe me a basket of baby taters,” he said in a warning tone.  

Amber rolled her eyes, shaking her head to herself.  “I’m the one helping you!”

They bantered back and forth until Amber finally convinced him to run through the routine, to which Cyrus reluctantly agreed.  His eyes flickered nervously to T.J., who shot him a reassuring glance in return. He could practically hear T.J.’s words in his mind: Come on, Underdog.  You can do this. I know you can.

Cyrus took a deep breath, pressing play on the CD player.

T.J. was pretty sure he was dying.  Well, at least a part of him was. He knew that for sure.

He meant, yeah, Amber, the blonde girl helping him with the dance, obviously knew the routine better than Cyrus did, and she didn’t stumble nearly as often, either, but the movements screamed Cyrus at the core.  All the random twists and showy hands and plain cheesiness of some of the dance moves?  Definitely Cyrus.

It was all so adorable that T.J. couldn’t help but laugh a little to himself.

There was that word again.  Adorable.   It just kept blinking on like a neon sign when T.J. was around him, searing his brain every time it popped into his mind.  He was still learning how to figure out how to shut his head up when it did that, when it would just say words that were bubbling in his chest.

He didn’t know if he was doing such a good job or not.

The music shut off with an abrupt hit of the boombox, T.J. couldn’t help the amused smile ghosting his lips as Cyrus turned to face him, the boy’s eyebrows drawn together in worry.  “Were you laughing? Was I that bad?”  Cyrus asked.  T.J. thought about stepping forward and smoothing down the line between Cyrus’s brow until all the anxiety drained from his face.

“No, of course not!” T.J. defended truthfully, still smiling.   God, did he have no control over his emotions anymore?  “I liked it. It was cute,” he admitted. And there he went again, throwing around words without registering what he was saying.  It kind of reminded him of when he was angry, how things would just spill from his mouth without him having to think twice, except now he was saying very, very stupid things instead of mean ones.

T.J. internally rolled his eyes at himself, his familiar mantra running through his head.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.  It was the only voice in his head that T.J. didn’t bother quieting; maybe because a small part of him still believed it.

That was changing, though.  Cyrus was changing a lot of things, it seemed.  

“Thanks,” Cyrus said, a small beam fixing itself on his face.  Something curled in T.J.’s stomach. “And, by the way, I can hang out on Wednesday,” he affirmed with a smile.  

T.J. reached forward and squeezed the other boy’s shoulder.  Cyrus’s shirt was a little damp from his profuse sweating, but T.J. didn’t mind.  Not really. “Cool,” he replied with a beam of his own.  Then, without a second glance, T.J. was bounding out of the dance room, slipping through the locker room entrance.

Once T.J. exited through the door, Cyrus bounced on the backs of his heels, feeling his excitement burst through him like a wave of meteors erupting in his chest.  He was going to hang out with T.J. Kippen on Wednesday!

What were they going to do?  Go to his house? The aquarium, the zoo, The Spoon?  The possibilities were endless!

Cyrus really wished he weren’t hiding this huge secret from Buffy and Andi at that moment; who else would let him gush about it all?

He took a careful sip of his water bottle, a smile still curving his mouth, and he jumped as Amber snuck up behind him.

“You’re friends with T.J. Kippen?” she burst, her voice a mix accusatory and incredulous.  The water caught in his windpipe and he choked, coughing into his elbow.  

“Warn a guy before sneaking up on him!” Cyrus said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Amber ignored him.  “Isn’t he, like, one of those mean guys on the basketball team?” she asked, judgement lining her tone.  Cyrus was surprised that she knew of him, especially since she went to Grant and not Jefferson, but, then again, she had several ties to the middle school.  She probably knew about a lot of people just from talking to Jonah and Andi.

“You used to be a mean girl, too, you know,” he said, giving her a pointed glance.  Her face shifted into a softer look. “Besides, he didn’t seem that mean to you, did he?”

Amber sighed.  “Fine, I guess you have a point,” she said, giving in.  Cyrus smiled. He didn’t know why he sought approval for his relationship with T.J.  Maybe he just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination. A false lens of his reality.  

“And, by the way, can you not tell Buffy and Andi?  You know, about...T.J. and me?” he asked, a hopeful lilt to his voice.  His tone caught her attention, and her eyebrows tweaked together curiously.

“How come?” Amber asked, tilting her head in question.

“I just….” Cyrus trailed off.  Why was he keeping this from them again?  He meant, yeah, he didn’t want Andi and Buffy to keep teasing him about T.J. (they were already doing that enough about his ‘detention buddy’, and Cyrus hadn’t even revealed his identity yet), but was it worth all the obstacles that seemed adamant on stumbling into his path?  “I just want to tell them myself,” Cyrus finished lamely.

Amber nodded, her eyes almost mischievous in the glint of the overhead lights, and she smiled.  “No prob! I can keep a secret,” the girl promised. She hurled a towel around his neck, sashaying away. “Anyway, hurry up.  We’ll run through it again in five!”

Waving the thoughts from his mind, Cyrus groaned to himself, his muscles prickling with stiffness just at the mention of dancing again.  This is going to be a long morning.

The bell rang soon enough, and Cyrus was out the door, skipping into the locker room to change back into his normal attire.  He pushed the door open, his arms weighing down at his sides like lead, and he wrinkled his nose as the stench of dirty socks filled his lungs.  

Typical boys’ PE locker room fashion, he thought, rolling his eyes good-naturedly to himself.  Sometimes he really wished they’d accepted his proposal of separate locker rooms.  (The school board had laughed in his face.  Literally!)

He fiddled with the combination, jerking the locker open, only to find a single strip of paper resting on the top of his neatly folded clothes.  

Don’t worry about dance class.  You can do it, I promise. -T.J.

Cyrus wasn’t even sure how T.J. knew which locker was his, but T.J. always seemed to commit everything to memory.  He even knew things that Cyrus didn’t even remember telling him!  Weird, right?  Who knew someone could actually pay attention to Cyrus so much?

He changed quickly in an empty stall, paranoid that someone would walk in on him otherwise.  Then he gathered his gym clothes, tucked them tidily into his narrow locker space, and smiled admiringly down at T.J.’s note again.  I’ll have to write him back after class, he noted silently to himself.

Just as he went to slide the paper into his pocket, footsteps pounded outside of the door, and someone pushed through the entrance.  A swell of panic rose in Cyrus’s throat as he recognized the figure.

Reed.

Cyrus’s stomach turned.  Please let him not see me, Cyrus silently pleaded (which was impossible since they were the only two in the locker room.  But, still, a boy could dream). He wished he could back up into the corner of the locker room, but his feet were frozen to the ground.  

Reed wasn’t necessarily a bully; at least, not by conventional standards.  He was one of the guys on the basketball team that liked to poke fun of him, liked to laugh when Cyrus tripped in the hallway, as if it were his duty to make Cyrus feel unwelcome as he could.  Cyrus thought he’d rather be invisible than be noticed, at least when Reed was around. It was like the boy had X-ray vision, able to see all his underlying insecurities and twist them to his own advantage.

So, naturally, he scared Cyrus.  Just like Dr. Metcalf. Cyrus thought he might choose Dr. Metcalf over Reed if it ever came down to it.  He hoped he never had to make a decision like that in his life.

“Hey, Goodman,” Reed said.  His voice would’ve sounded casual to an outsider, friendly even, but Cyrus detected a hint of a mocking note in his tone.  His voice disappeared into his chest. “Whatcha got there?”

Reed’s eyes flickered down to the note in his hands and, before Cyrus could even blink, the boy snatched it out of Cyrus’s grip, nearly ripping it in the process.  Reed smoothed out the edges, his eyes trailing the words on the paper, and T.J’s words flashed back into Cyrus’s mind. You can do it, I promise.  

“Hey, give it back!” Cyrus said, his voice rising back up in his throat.  He wasn’t sure what came over him, but the solid block of fear lodged in his throat seemed to soften.  Not entire gone, but just...smaller. Like a melting ice cube.

Reed held it back from his reach, his face twisting into a sneer, and his eyebrows jumped.  “Oh, so you’re who Kippen’s been hanging out with, huh?” Reed asked, his brow arched challengingly.  Cyrus stood there, frozen, not quite sure how to retort. “I mean, I’m not really surprised, especially after what he did a few weeks ago.”  He smirked at Cyrus like he had a piece of vital information, dangling it like a carrot over his head. Cyrus’s mind was whirling, spinning so fast that the walls in the locker room almost seemed to be crumpling inward.  

“What do you—” but before he could even form a coherent thought, Reed was crumpling the note and tossing it on the floor with one last searing sneer, branding Cyrus’s brain with its contorted imprint.  

“Anyway, I gotta go do some real sports.  Have fun with dance class,” he added with an almost taunting laugh.  Just as the boy turned away, Cyrus caught the faint shadow of a dark circle around his eye.  It could’ve been a trick of the light, or maybe even his mind playing a joke on him, but something bubbled in his stomach that told him otherwise.

Once Reed left, he was alone again, silence filling the locker room.  But his head was full of noise, questions pouring into him until he couldn’t remember his name.   What was that about?

He gathered the rest of his belongings, the chill of uncertainty hanging like pointed icicles in the air, and he pushed himself out the door, trying to ignore the shaking in his hands, and, even more so, the confusion rising up in his chest.  

What had Reed meant?  And, more importantly, what had T.J. done a few weeks ago that Reed made sound so bad?  

He tried to shake off the nagging feeling clinging to him, the alarm bells in his head warning him that something was off about the entire exchange, but Cyrus pushed it to the side.  T.J. would explain everything! Maybe it was just some misunderstanding!

Cyrus walked to his next period, struggling to brush the spooky encounter from his mind.  

So, what exactly are we doing on Wednesday?  Anything specific in mind? -Cyrus

By the time lunch rolled around, the exchange between him and Reed was far from his mind, the five-page essay assigned in English and their upcoming history test crowding his head instead.  He sat down at their usual lunch table in a whirl, mentally writing down his introductory paragraph as he took a bite of his cookie. It took a blinding couple of seconds to register that Jonah and Andi were fighting, and once it did, Cyrus wished he could crawl into a hole and hide.

“Jonah, I can’t believe you actually wrote that song for me!” Andi burst, all the light drained from her face.  

Looks like the honeymoon phase of their on-again-off-again relationship is over, Cyrus thought silently to himself.  He bit his lip, trying to avoid eye contact with either of the couple.  

“I don’t understand why you’re upset!” Jonah replied, his eyebrows drawn together.  Cyrus and Buffy shared a glance across the table, and she didn’t even have to speak for Cyrus to know the word ringing in her head: Yikes.   Cyrus agreed wholeheartedly.  

In fact, the whole argument felt like a slap in the face, a bucket of ice cold water being poured over his head.  It was reiterating the events of what had happened that day in the Red Rooster, how hurt he’d been…

Cyrus internally sighed.  He wished he weren’t so distraught over a stupid song, but his heart didn’t seem like it would get over it any time soon.

“Because,” she huffed, crossing her arms, “you wrote an insensitive song!  About me!” Cyrus stomach turned as he watched the situation unfold like a piece of paper.  Except that the paper was on fire, and it was rapidly turning into ashes before everyone’s eyes.

Jonah’s face twisted in confusion.  Cyrus silently wondered if he could make any other face besides ‘cute puppy’ and ‘confused teenage boy’.  “Cyrus listened to it last week and he said it was great!” Jonah defended, jabbing a finger towards him. Cyrus felt a stab in his chest.  Why did he always have to be dragged into this stuff when he was trying not to be!

Andi looked at him expectantly, clearly waiting for Cyrus to side with her, and his eyes flickered back and forth between the two.  How could he side with either of them when he didn’t even remember the words to the song?  Because he had been so wrapped up in the ‘romance’ and the ‘ Jonah Beck ’ of it all that all of the words had blurred together into a steady hum?  How could he explain that?

Well, he couldn’t explain.  At least not without outing his feelings to both Jonah and Andi.  And that was the last thing he wanted.

“I thought it was a nice gesture!” Cyrus offered, and a flicker of betrayal crossed Andi’s face, hurt and anger sharpening her features.

“Well, it wasn’t,” she burst, and in a whirl the girl was picking up her lunch tray and fleeing the table, stomping through the exit.  Buffy rolled her eyes at Jonah and gave Cyrus a sympathetic half-smile before jumping up from her seat, racing after her best friend. The three boys were left with the atmosphere hanging heavily in the air, the tension as tangible as the cracked laminate on the tables, and Marty pushed himself off the bench.

“I have to go to the, uh...the bathroom,” the runner excused, hopping up from the table.  Cyrus suspected that he just wanted to leave behind the thick air behind, and he couldn’t blame him.  Cyrus would leave if he could, too.

Because he was stuck with Jonah alone.  And for once he wished that he wasn’t.

Not missing a beat, Jonah asked, “Dude, what do I do?” An edge of panic stuck out of his voice like a pointed needle, and Cyrus tried to coax him before the Frisbee player could stumble into a panic attack.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said soothingly.  He placed a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “Maybe you could rewrite it?” Cyrus offered.  “What part made her upset, anyway?”

“I don’t know!” Jonah exclaimed, worry filling his face.  “Help me!”

The bell rang, and Cyrus (relieved, as selfish as it sounded) shot up from his seat, grabbing the worn plastic of his lunch tray.  “I…,” he faltered, searching for a solution. A light bulb went off in his brain. “Meet me after class, okay? We can brainstorm then,” he said.  

Jonah nodded, seeming to understand.  “Thanks, man.”

“No problem!” Cyrus said.  A lie. A painful, scorching lie.

He whisked himself off to class, racking his brain to fix the current situation at hand.  At times like these, it was hard for Cyrus remember why he still harbored his feelings for Jonah, why he didn’t just let them go like balled up string.  It was just so hard, so unnecessarily, unbelievably difficult to always cater to Jonah’s needs sometimes.

He felt horrible for thinking it and brushed the thought aside.  He better get to math class before Mr. Coleman counted him tardy…

Just chilling.  We might go the park or something, I’m not sure yet.  -T.J.

Sometimes it was really hard to get his stuff for class, put a note in Cyrus’s locker, and get to his next period on time within a four minute passing interval.

Oh well, T.J. didn’t really care about being late.  What were they going to do to him for being tardy, anyway?  Give him detention?

He smiled mirthfully to himself.  Oh, what a severe punishment that was turning out to be.  Dr. Metcalf really got him there.  

T.J. stopped quickly by his locker, his math book still glaringly absent from his shelf.  (Mr. Coleman had berated him in front of the entire class for forgetting it; how unfair was that?  It wasn’t like he could’ve misplaced it.  His textbook never left his locker except for 4th period algebra).  He snatched his English textbook and slammed the door shut, bounding over to Cyrus’s locker.  

He halted as he neared locker 120, almost rolling his eyes to himself.  Why was Jonah Beck in front of it again?  Was he Cyrus’s bodyguard or something?

The Frisbee player was standing impatiently at the foot of the locker bay, his hands stuffed into fraying jeans pockets and his feet tapping rapidly, like a song was trying to escape from his body.  T.J. sighed. Why was the world working against him today?

He waltzed up to Jonah, raising his eyebrows at him expectantly.  The boy was all fidgety, like a million strings were all tugging at him in different directions.  T.J. could relate to that feeling.  He wished he didn’t.  

“So, you’re Cyrus’s detention buddy?” Jonah asked.  The question took T.J. by surprise; he didn’t expect the Frisbee player to strike up a conversation, let alone one about Cyrus.

T.J. huffed out an amused breath through his nose, an unexpected smile reaching his face.  “Is that what he refers to me as?” he questioned, sliding the note into Cyrus’s locker. He heard it rustle for a few seconds, then land with a soft crinkle.  

“Yeah, actually,” Jonah admitted with a smile.  T.J. was surprised by that, too; the last time they’d been in this similar tableau, Jonah was shaken, almost scared by him.  T.J. considered this a vast improvement.  “He’s kind of weird like that,” he explained.  A tug of defensiveness pulled at T.J., yanking in his chest, but he got the feeling that Jonah meant weird in a good way.

“Nah, it’s fine,” T.J. replied before he could stop himself.  “It’s cute.” And there was that word again, filling his mouth without him having to think about it.  What was wrong with him today?

What was wrong with him, period?

There were lots of things wrong with him, T.J. decided.  Things that he didn’t entirely understand, that he didn’t want to understand.  It was uncharted territory that T.J. did not want to explore.  He’d rather keep everything at bay until his emotions exploded, poured out of him like a waterfall.

Expressing his feelings had never been T.J.’s strong suit.

“I think it’s cool that you guys are friends,” Jonah continued, that smile still stuck to his face like masking tape.  T.J. wondered if he painted it on like clown makeup every morning.  He didn’t think Jonah Beck was capable of frowning, anyway; his lips weren’t trained to dip down below his dimples.  “I mean, I was a little unsure at first since Cyrus asked me not to tell Buffy and Andi—”

“Tell them what?” T.J. interrupted.  His brow drew together in confusion.

“That you guys are hanging out or whatever,” Jonah supplied with a shrug that indicated he didn’t realize the weight of his words.  Knives felt like they were wedged between the gaps of his ribs, ready to puncture him with one wrong twist. Cyrus doesn’t want his friends knowing we’re hanging out?

His heart turned hard, his valves doused in a coat of black tar.  Of course Cyrus wouldn’t want his best friends to know that he was talking to some stupid scary basketball jock.  Could T.J. really blame him?

The bell rang, and T.J. turned so hard on his heels that sharp pains shot through his feet.  He trudged to class with another chip on his shoulder, trying not to push everything defiantly out of his way.  Even Cyrus saw that something was wrong with him.  The one person who he thought didn’t.

That funny feeling that was constantly thrumming through him vanished, only leaving a sour one in its place.

The rest of the day was miserable.  As far as T.J. was concerned, a black hole could’ve came and sucked them all up, and then everyone could feel as empty and hollow as he did.  Could’ve felt like nothing.  

Maybe he’d prefer it that way.  At least then he wouldn’t feel as alone as he did right now.

When he reached detention, he could feel the skin of his old self creeping back in on him, and he didn’t even care enough to shake it off.  T.J. sat in his seat, his shoulders hunched so tensely together that an innocent bystander would’ve thought someone was pointing a knife to his back, and he ripped his math homework out of his folder, trying to make sense of the numbers floating around on the page.  After a few seconds of agonizing concentration, T.J. tossed it to the side in frustration, shoving it under his binder. God, why was everything in his way?  He wished he could plow through all these obstacles like he did on Friday, when he was dragging Cyrus through the hallway—

No.  He shouldn’t think about Cyrus.  

He shouldn’t think at all.

He heard Cyrus waltz in, quickly followed by Dr. Metcalf, and T.J. didn’t even glance over, kept his eyes bored to his desk.  He didn’t know what he’d do if he met either of their gazes; he’d probably lash out at Dr. Metcalf, curse until his voice was zapped, and with Cyrus?  

God, he’d probably let Cyrus talk himself out of his anger.  T.J. knew he would.

Dr. Metcalf announced the beginning of detention in his usual sarcastic drawl, and T.J. could hear the scratching of Cyrus’s pen out of his left ear.  He allowed himself to peek at Cyrus out of the corner of his eye, and he clenched his jaw. He looked so unaware, like his usual happy self, and something in T.J.’s chest sparked, fire catching on fresh flint.  How could Cyrus not know ?

Then again, the more T.J. thought about it, Jonah Beck was kind of like an oblivious golden retriever.  He doubted he had even told Cyrus about their encounter.

Why am I making excuses for Cyrus? T.J. wondered, rolling his eyes at himself.  

That was the thing.  He didn’t know why.  And a little voice in the back of his mind told him he’d do it a million times over, until his brain melted from granting a pass to every small mishap.  

T.J. shoved that voice away.

He heard a faint tap on his desk, a piece of paper that clearly had lots of writing on it appearing on the corner.  Despite the fire coiling in his chest, T.J. unfolded the note, his eyes trailing the words scribbled on its surface.

Sorry I’m a little late!  Jonah dragged me into his relationship problems (again) and I had to help him smooth things over with my best friend Andi.  So far it’s been a pretty hectic day (if hectic was an understatement!). How has yours been? -Cyrus

The mention of Jonah and Andi (his best friend, T.J. noted bitterly) only dug more salt into his wound, and T.J. gritted his teeth, pushing the note to the corner of his desk like it was about to singe the hair off of his arms.  He forced himself to start on his math homework, even though it didn’t grasp his attention long, even though the words kept jumbling together. The note caught his eyes every few seconds or so, and then all those bad feelings would roll over in his stomach again, reminding T.J. of just how stupid he was.  How he was nothing.

Cyrus must’ve noticed something was wrong (not that T.J. was looking at him or anything; every time he did, something in his chest seemed to shatter all over again) because another note found its way on his desk, plaguing T.J. until he ripped it open with an annoyed demeanor.

What’s wrong?  Did I do something? :(

A pinch of guilt went through T.J. at ignoring Cyrus, but the anger thriving inside of him took hold instead, pouring out of him like steam.  

Why don’t you ask your friends?  You know, the ones that don’t know we’re hanging out?

T.J.’s words were like poison, even on paper, and the sting of them sat on his tongue like a paperweight.  He swallowed them down.

What are you talking about?   Cyrus wrote back.  

T.J. rolled his eyes and huffed.  His hand flew to his pen, and he scribbled back so fast that the pitch black ink smeared on the paper, his anger swelling thickly in his throat like acid.  

Jonah said that you asked him not to tell Buffy or Andi that we’re friends.

T.J. could feel his own impatience growing as he waited for Cyrus’s response, like an itching buzz humming on his skin.  When Cyrus tossed back the note, he almost ripped the paper in anticipation

T.J., I can explain.

He clenched his jaw.  What was there to explain?  Cyrus was embarrassed of him, ashamed, whatever he wanted to call it.  T.J. didn’t want to hear who he’d thought was his only friend go on about how he was a disappointment.

You know what?  Don’t bother.

As Cyrus read the note, T.J. could practically feel the dull ache in the boy’s chest from the desk over, throbbing in the air like a strained pulse, but he ignored it, instead setting his jaw so he couldn’t feel the bitter taste pooling in his mouth.  More than ever he wished he couldn’t feel. Emotions caused him nothing but trouble. Especially when it came to Cyrus Goodman.

When Dr. Metcalf finally dismissed them, the principal was the first to leave the room, and Cyrus was quick to close the door behind him, locking it and trapping T.J. inside with him.  

Oh, great, an ambush, T.J. thought sarcastically to himself.  That’ll fix everything.

“Well?” T.J. asked expectantly, his shoulders shrugging, his face stone.  A part of him was ready to lash out like a whip, ready to push him away, but the other part just wanted to melt at Cyrus’s feet and forget that anything had even happened in the first place.

Feelings were confusing.  

“T.J., please, let me explain,” Cyrus stressed.  His brow was furrowed together the way it always did when he was worried about something, and T.J.’s stomach turned sourly.

“If you don’t want your friends to know you’re hanging out with a stupid jock, it’s whatever.  I don’t care,” T.J. spat out with a defensive shrug, even though he so, so cared, but the blinding anger was sweeping him up like tidal waves, trying to push him over the edge until he only saw red.

“That’s what you think?” Cyrus asked in disbelief, his eyebrows more raised than T.J. had ever seen.  A voice in his head made a comment about how nice they were, about how nice Cyrus’s face was in general, but he drowned them out with his anger, let the thoughts bubbling up in his head evaporate like steam coming out of his ears.

“What else would it be?” T.J. said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.  He crossed his arms, desperately feeling a need to put a barrier between them. His face was tight, trying to hold back all the emotions swimming in his chest.  

“T.J.,” Cyrus said the way he always did, like his name had the weight of the world on it.  He took a step forward, and a tug in his stomach stopped T.J. from taking one back in retaliation.  

Cyrus took a deep breath.  “I told Jonah not to tell Buffy and Andi that we’re…well, friends ,” the boy stumbled on the word, like he wasn’t sure if it was the right one to use, “because they would’ve kept hounding me about it.  They devour stuff like that, and I didn’t want to drag you into that mess.  And Buffy hates all the guys from the basketball team because they wouldn’t let her on the team, and I just…I wanted to keep you to myself, which was selfish, and wrong, and I’m sorry,” he rambled.   T.J. didn’t know what to believe, even if every atom in his body was tugging at him to grab Cyrus’s hand and forgive him within the blink of an eye.

God, he really was a wreck.  

At his stilled silence, Cyrus pressed further. “And I’m not ashamed of you.  If anything, you should be ashamed of me,” he joked lamely, a sort of sad smile tracing his mouth.  T.J. wondered if all of his insecurities were thinly veiled by a punchline.  Then he wondered if anyone else had even noticed.

T.J.’s face must’ve been unreadable because Cyrus decided to add, “Look, if you don’t believe me, I have something for you.”  He slung his shoulder bag off of him and fished through, producing an object riddled with wrapping paper.

“What’s that?” T.J. questioned, confused.  It wasn’t his birthday, and it definitely wasn’t Christmas, and he was positive that it was too big to be a note.  What else could it possibly be?

Cyrus handed the object carefully to him with his lips pursed, his eyebrows so tightly drawn together that T.J. wondered if the expression would be permanent.  The rectangular prism weighed heavily in his palm. “Just…open it,” Cyrus instructed, nodding toward the item.

T.J. scraped off the wrapping paper (dinosaur themed, he wasn’t surprised), only to find his math textbook buried beneath all the tape and torn wrapping.  Is that why Cyrus looked so suspicious on Friday? Had he stolen this right out of his locker?

T.J. didn’t have time to ponder on the questions churning through his brain because he discovered a note taped to the front, and his throat tightened.  

I’m sorry I stole this, but I hope you remember that there's  nothing   wrong with you every time you open it.  -Cyrus, AKA Underdog.

He flicked through the pages, uncovering what seemed like hundreds of Post-It notes stuffed into every corner of his textbook, tucked into random places, crowding over equations.  One said, You can do it, T.J.! and another read, I believe in you :).  

All the doubt plaguing his chest melted away like ice, and that funny feeling pooled in his chest, the air around him feeling thin.  It was the best present he’d ever been given, even if it was his math book that Cyrus stole.  Cyrus was always surprising him in the best ways possible, and right then T.J. could’ve pulled him forward and hugged him until the entire world fell away.  

He didn’t know what was stopping him.  From hugging Cyrus, he meant.

Maybe it was the feeling that he’d burst into a million pieces if he did.  Or the thought that he’d never let go.

He was pretty sure both were right.

“Thanks,” T.J. choked out, surprised to hear how quiet his voice sounded.  He swallowed down the meekness ringing in his words. “It means a lot, Underdog.”

Cyrus smiled, so relieved that his eyebrows finally dipped down back to normal, and he brought a hand forward and squeezed T.J.’s shoulder.  T.J.’s stomach flipped over, like a swimmer springing off a diving board.

“Anytime,” Cyrus said, giving him a playful nudge.  What felt like a thousand lightning bolts jolted through T.J.’s chest.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” It was expectant, hopeful. T.J. let out a soft beam.

“Yeah.  Tomorrow.”  Cyrus smiled back at him, his hand lingering a second longer than necessary.  Before he could leave the room, T.J. called out, "Cyrus?"

Cyrus twisted around to face him.  "Yeah?"

T.J. beamed.  "I'm not ashamed of you either."

Cyrus grinned so wide that his eyes crinkled.  "Thanks."  Then he was out the door, leaving T.J. alone with his burning thoughts.  

After Cyrus left, all T.J. could do was stare down at his newly ornamented math book, beaming like an idiot.  His entire body felt like it was on fire, scorching at the edges, and for once T.J. didn’t suppress it, didn’t push down the feelings constantly rising up like waves in his chest.  He just…let them run free.

Chapter Text

Tuesday was better.

It was better because math class didn’t feel like a million concrete blocks on T.J.’s chest, making everything in him weigh down like lead.  It was better because everytime he got stuck on an equation he could just look down at his textbook and find something encouraging written within its pages.  And it was better because he got a D+ on his math homework, something that a month ago would’ve seemed like climbing Mount Everest.

Well, it still was that difficult.  But maybe he had a little inspiration to try harder.  (So what if that inspiration was Cyrus?)

It was fourth period when Mr. Coleman had been passing back their most recent assignments, giving praise and notes of encouragement along as he strolled up and down the rows.  T.J. was tapping his pencil, trying not to let his growing anticipation push him into annoyance as the last few minutes of class fell away.

Great, T.J. thought to himself, trying not to roll his eyes into the back of his head.  Another F.  Nothing I’m not used to.  

Finally, his math teacher made his way to the back row, pausing beside his desk.  T.J. held his breath and averted his eyes, willing Mr. Coleman to drop it off and stalk away so T.J. could stuff the paper into his binder and never look at it again.  

The paper fell onto his desk in a surprising ripple, and T.J.’s eyebrows raised in shock at the grade shimmering in red ink at the top right hand corner of his assignment.  

“Looks like you’re improving, T.J.,” Mr. Coleman said encouragingly, semi-satisfaction ringing in his voice.  T.J. was in too much surprise to respond, and Mr. Coleman continued, lowering his voice. “I know you’re adamant on not getting a new tutor, and I still think you could use some help.  But I’m glad you’re putting forth the effort. Nice work.” He waltzed to Gus next, leaving T.J. to stare down at his paper in disbelief.

Nice work.  It was such a rare thing to hear off of the basketball court, and even more rare to hear from a teacher who saw more F’s from him than passing scores.  The only person that was ever proud of him regardless of his faults was Cyrus, which only made T.J. more confused.  How could someone so amazing manage to see past all of his rough corners and sharp edges?

Cyrus Goodman was made of magic, T.J. was convinced.  Magic and kindness and even some hope for the world and everyone in it, which was something that T.J. had none of.

Well, maybe he did have a little hope for the universe.  But that was Cyrus’s fault. He was always pushing his good into him, making T.J. see things in a brighter light than he was used to, and now he had no one to blame for his new personality change but Cyrus Goodman, the boy with the scrunched eyebrows and collared shirts and smile that could light up the whole room.   

T.J. wondered how Cyrus did it.  How he accepted people and cheered them on and changed them for the better.  All T.J. did was make things worse.  He couldn’t imagine caring so much but, then again, Cyrus was teaching him how.  

T.J. cared about a lot of things now.  Maybe even some things he shouldn’t.

When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of the period, T.J. got up from his chair distractedly, still staring down at his math textbook filled to the brim with Post-It notes.  He thought about what Cyrus had said the other day in detention, about telling Mr. Coleman about the dyscalculia. About how he could help. Cyrus was rarely ever wrong, and now, weirdly enough, T.J. was actually considering his suggestion…  

T.J. scribbled down a note on a blue Post-It, and, for the first time in maybe ever, left math class with a smile on his face, slipping the note into Cyrus’s locker before heading to the cafeteria.  

Maybe telling Mr. Coleman isn’t such a bad idea after all, T.J. thought to himself before he was swallowed up by the noise of the lunchroom.  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Meet me by my locker after lunch.  I want to talk to you about something. -T.J.

T.J. rapped his knuckles against the metal of the lockers behind him in boredom, somehow managing to ignore all the eyes on him as he waited for Cyrus.  Usually he would’ve sneered and scoffed at everyone staring at him, but the person he used to be was so foreign to him now that he wouldn’t even know what he’d do if his old self strutted up beside him and tried to start a conversation.

He’d probably punch him, T.J. decided.  Old T.J. definitely deserved it. Besides, he was used to punching things now.  Or people, at least.

The memory crept in the back of his throat like sour acid, and T.J. swallowed it down, trying to push down the events from that were pulling at the edges of his brain.  He didn’t like thinking about it too much, about what he did. Sometimes he considered telling Cyrus about what happened that day with Reed, but he was afraid that maybe that would be the one thing that was too much for the boy to accept.  The one thing that drove him away. And he couldn’t lose Cyrus.  Cyrus was the only good thing in his life, the one thing T.J. was determined not to leave in pieces under his fingertips.

Another agonizing minute passed, the whole world watching his every move, and then Cyrus was beside him, panting for air like a labrador.  

“Sorry,” he heaved, gulping for air. “I didn’t see your note until I got back from lunch!”

T.J. felt amusement pull at his features, all of his previous annoyance melting away, and he put a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder.  “You okay?”

“Yeah!” Cyrus said.  His voice sounded strained from his labored breathing, and he tried again.  “I’m fine!” he insisted.

They locked eyes for a second, the background behind Cyrus blurring into indistinguishable fuzz, and then Cyrus tore his gaze away, searching for something in his shoulder bag.  T.J. tried to ignore the ripple of disappointment going through his chest, how it seemed to rip right through him like scissors with fabric, and shoved away the feeling, swallowed it down.

“By the way, did you get the permission slip for Friday?”  Cyrus retrieved a slip of paper from a folder, gripping it with an excited gleam that lit his face up like the sun, and T.J. didn’t bother hiding his own smile at the boy’s ecstatic expression.

“Permission slip for what?’ he asked, beginning to walk forward, his hands shoved in his pockets.  Cyrus followed him, his heels bouncing against the tiled floors as he spoke, a certain light to his voice that T.J. rarely ever found in his own.  Or, at least he used to not be able to. Cyrus made it appear more often than not these days, and sometimes T.J. wondered if he’d lost the hard edge to his throat that he’d always had before, the contorting sneer that always wound around his words.  He didn’t mind the change, though. Not really.

“The field trip!” Cyrus exclaimed.  “You know, the annual one we’re supposed to have every year?”

T.J. internally groaned, nearly rolling his eyes.  The Field Trip.  The one that the teachers held over their heads, threatening to revoke their invitation if they didn’t get good enough grades.  Dr. Metcalf had actually cancelled it last year, saying it was because of bad exam scores, but T.J. personally thought he got joy out of making them miserable.  “What is it this year?” T.J. asked.

“I’m not sure!” Cyrus said, eyes glancing over the paper.  “I didn’t want to look until I found you,” he admitted. A roll of something T.J couldn’t identify inflated in his chest like a balloon, feeling heavy and light all at once, and he grinned.

“Well, I’m here now,” he said with a smile.  That funny feeling felt like it was leaking out of his pores.  T.J. hoped he wasn’t picking up on it, how Cyrus managed to make the entire focus of his vision shift like stars in the sky.  “What is it?”

“It’s at Moore’s Rollerblading Rink.  Hmph,” Cyrus huffed disappointedly. His mouth curved downward, and T.J.’s mind couldn’t help but come up with ways to make it right side up.  Maybe even a way that he shouldn’t of…

Stop, T.J. told himself.  His mind was treading dangerous waters ever since yesterday.  Even T.J. wasn’t able to push down all of his feelings anymore.  More often than not they were escaping his tight grip, whirling around inside until he couldn’t stand it.  “What’s wrong?”

Cyrus’s eyebrows scrunched together the way they usually did, and T.J. shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t move forward and smooth out the line forming between them.  “Where do I start? First of all, I can’t rollerblade—”

“You can’t rollerblade?” T.J. interrupted.  He was sort of surprised; he meant, Shadyside wasn’t exactly bursting with places to go besides The Spoon, the Red Rooster, and the Alpine Slide.  T.J. assumed everyone knew how to rollerblade since it was one of the only few things to do in town.

“Once my mom rented the whole rink out for my seventh birthday and I almost broke my ankle,” Cyrus exclaimed exasperatedly.  “I had to sit out by myself and watch all of the other kids have fun.” Cyrus pouted, and T.J. laughed.

“That must’ve been a memorable birthday for you,” T.J. commented with an amused smile.  

“Oh, they all are in their own way,” Cyrus promised.  “Trust me, the Goodman family loves throwing parties.  You should’ve seen my bar mitzvah last year!  It was insane!”

“Don’t worry, I believe you,” T.J. replied with a laugh.  He was pretty sure that if he couldn’t believe Cyrus, then he couldn’t believe anyone at all.  “When is your birthday, anyway?” He wasn’t sure why he was asking, he knew it was random, but he liked collecting little details like that, liked running them through his head.  It wasn’t even a new thing, either; as far as T.J. knew, he’d been doing it since that first day in detention. Maybe even before they met, actually…

“March 30th,” Cyrus admitted with a beam.  T.J. felt his eyebrows raise in question; that was only in two weeks.  “My mom hasn’t sent out the invitations yet or anything, but…you should come.”  A bright smile lit up his face, and that familiar weird feeling danced in T.J.’s stomach.  

“I’m there.”  A beat of silence passed between them.  “And, by the way, if you can’t rollerblade?  I can help you with that,” T.J. offered, not able to help himself.  Words always spilled out of his mouth uncontrollably when he was with Cyrus, seeped through like ink bleeding through paper.  He wondered how long it would take for him to call Cyrus ‘cute’ or something stupid right in front of him. Probably not long, at least not with the track he’d been on lately.  

Cyrus’s eyes brightened visibly, his eyebrows scrunching together in disbelief.  “Really?”

“Yeah, sure,” T.J. shugged carelessly, even though on the inside it felt like the bullet shells were ricocheting in his ribcage.  “We can even sit on the bus together, if you want. Well, as long as your friends don’t mind.” The words came out a little sour, but they escaped before T.J. could hold them in.

“I’m going to tell them,” Cyrus insisted.  He paused in the hallway and squeezed T.J.’s shoulder, and T.J. vaguely wondered if anyone else had ever felt like this around Cyrus, like they were about to erupt into stars at the slightest touch.  He wasn’t so sure if it was normal or not, but he was sure that Cyrus could melt him under his fingertips if given the chance. He sort of wanted to let him. “That we’re friends, I mean. I promise.”

“Okay,” T.J. said, nodding.  He didn’t know if he could get any more words out than that.

“Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?” Cyrus asked, a curious look pooling in his eyes.  They were stopped outside of Cyrus’s fifth period, history, and T.J. didn’t know why he knew that. He’d sort of always been watching Cyrus, keeping an eye on him without even realizing, and he guessed this was just proof that he’d been paying attention.  Maybe more than he should’ve been, for a boy he hadn’t even known until recently.

The warning bell rang, reminding students to go to their classes, and T.J. felt the time of the clock press against his chest, rushing him to get his words out.  “I wanted to tell Mr. Coleman about my dyscalculia,” T.J. admitted. The words used to feel like such a heavy weight on him, bricks on his shoulders, but ever since yesterday when Cyrus had given him his math book with all those encouraging notes in them, the phrase felt on light as air on his tongue.  How could Cyrus manage to make him feel totally okay with something that months, even weeks ago would’ve made him kick and scream and yell?

“That’s great, T.J.!” Cyrus exclaimed with a smile.  The genuine look in his eyes was bright enough to rival the afternoon sun.  “I’m so proud of you.”

There it was again. Cyrus’s infinite pride and support in him.  He didn’t even think his dad was that proud of him, at least not most of the time.  “Thanks, Underdog,” T.J. said, squeezing his shoulder. That funny feeling shot into his stomach again.  “And we’re still hanging out at the park tomorrow, right?”

“Definitely!” Cyrus affirmed with a bright smile.  T.J. wanted to keep his smile going, racked his brain to keep it from fading from Cyrus's face, but a figure appeared in front of them and cleared their throat.  

“Ahem,” a voice interrupted sternly.  Everything bubbling up in T.J.’s chest was suddenly shoved down with a wave of annoyance.  Dr. Metcalf.  Of course.  Of course he had to come and interrupt him and Cyrus.  Of course it had to be right here, right now, because his timing could never be better.

Before T.J. could let the red stirring in him sweep him away, he caught Cyrus’s slightly alarmed gaze, and he choked down any anger brewing in his stomach.

“What’s up?” T.J. asked, mustering up the smallest amount of enthusiasm he could manage.  He earned a glare from the principal anyway, and he clenched his jaw together to keep anything he’d regret from falling out of his mouth.

“Well, as I’m sure you both know, the school field trip is this Friday.”  He spat out the phrase field trip like it was a vile poison on his tongue.  Anything resembling fun in Dr. Metcalf’s eyes probably did feel like poison, at least in T.J.'s opinion.  

“What about it?” Cyrus asked politely.  T.J. was surprised that he was talking to Dr. Metcalf without that familiar waver in his voice, and he felt an unexpected smile tug on his lips.

“Well, as you can see on the itinerary—” Dr. Metcalf whipped out a stack of papers, and T.J. nearly rolled his eyes into the back of his head in boredom at the word itinerary “—we’ll leave the school at 8:15, arrive at the rollerblading rink at 8:30, skate until noon, take a lunch break until 1:00, then continue blading until 4 o’clock, then leave and arrive back at the school by 4:30,” the principal sped off.  T.J. just let the numbers bounce off of him, didn’t even bother to commit them to memory (it wasn’t like they’d stick, anyway; hardly anything did), but Cyrus nodded like he understood.

“So, detention…?” Cyrus started.

“Is being moved due to conflict of schedule, yes,” Dr. Metcalf continued with a reluctant sigh.  He almost seemed disappointed by the change; T.J. wondered how someone could get so much joy out of running detention for two students that did nothing for the entire period except exchange notes, but, then again, there was a lot of things he didn’t understand about Dr. Metcalf.  He didn’t think he’d ever fully get his principal.

“When is it being moved to?” T.J. asked bluntly.  Dr. Metcalf nearly scowled at him, keeping his annoyance masked by a thin veil of authority that he always wore around him like a cloak.

“The first of April,” he said with raised eyebrows.  Dr. Metcalf glared at T.J.  “And don’t bother trying any pranks on that day.  I won’t be exercising my sense of humor if you do,” he warned, giving Cyrus a pointed look.  The boy gulped noticeably, and with that, the principal stalked away, his shoes thudding eerily all the way down the school hallway.

“Well, guess that’s out the window,” T.J. said with a shrug, amused.  Then he turned to Cyrus, asking, “We should have some celebratory party, to mark the end of detention, or something.  I swear we’ve been going to it for years,” he joked lamely.

Cyrus beamed in a way that made T.J.’s lungs feel tight.  “It’s only been a few weeks,” he replied, shaking his head in amusement.  “But we should have some kind of party. With streamers and cake and—”

“—man, you really like parties,” T.J. interrupted, mirth dancing in his eyes.  

“I told you.  It’s a curse!” Cyrus exclaimed.  The bell rang again, and T.J. placed a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder, squeezing it before leaving him with a breeze of a smile.  

“See ya,” he farewelled, pulling away.  Cyrus waved, ducking into his history class, and T.J. strolled to his own, wondering when his heart would stop pounding in his chest.  

“Jonah, help me, please,” Cyrus whined, plopping onto the beaten couch.  The Red Rooster was almost always dead immediately after school, and right now was no exception.  Besides a few eight-year-olds flitting in and out for their weekly guitar lessons with Bowie, Jonah and Cyrus were the only ones in the front room except for a mellowed-out woman sitting behind the counter.  Cyrus got the feeling that she wasn’t listening in on their conversation that much. “I helped you with that song you wrote for Andi so now it’s your turn!”

Jonah, as usual, was not good at smoothing things over on his own, so Cyrus had had to help him with it on Monday.  In fact, he had been so busy helping Jonah re-serenade Andi that he had been late to detention yesterday. The horror…  It was mortifying!

“Relax, relax,” Jonah laughed, putting his hands in surrender.  His laugh still sounded like bells, even if it made Cyrus’s chest ache a little.  “What is it, Cy?” Jonah asked in concern, his smile dazzling like the sun. Cyrus waited for that familiar pull in his stomach, the one he always got when Jonah beamed at him, but it didn’t fire in his belly like he thought it would.  He frowned.

“I’m going to tell Buffy and Andi about T.J.,” Cyrus burst suddenly.  Jonah nodded along, looking slightly surprised. “But I’m afraid Buffy’s gonna kill me when I tell her my friend from detention is T.J. Kippen.”

“Why do you think that?” Jonah asked curiously, absentmindedly tuning his guitar.  He strummed every few seconds or so, and Cyrus would've smiled at the action if he weren't freaking out so much.

“Because he’s the captain of the basketball team!  They wouldn’t let her on the team last year because she’s a girl, remember?” Cyrus exclaimed.  He always got a little hysterical when he was freaked out by something, and Buffy was usually the one to snap him out of it, but he couldn’t go to Buffy.  Not about this.

“Oh, yeah!” Jonah said, a note of realization ringing in his voice.  “I remember that.”

Sometimes Cyrus couldn’t help but wonder if Jonah paid attention to anything except guitar and Frisbee.  It was a horrible thought to think, but it popped into his mind regardless (and not for the first time in his life, either).  

“But what do I do?” Cyrus asked desperately.  “I promised T.J. that I’d tell Buffy and Andi about our friendship, since you told him about that.”

Jonah at least had the decency to look guilty.  “I’m sorry, dude! I just thought I was supposed to not tell Andi and Buffy!”  Cyrus shook his head playfully, the guitar player already forgiven in his mind, and felt a small smile pull at his lips at Jonah’s obliviousness.  

“It’s okay, Jonah, I’m not mad,” Cyrus promised.  “I just don’t know how I’m going to do this without Buffy killing me and T.J.”

“Buffy can be scary,” Jonah nodded along.  Cyrus knew how much pleasure it would give her just to hear Jonah say those words, and he held back a grin.  “What’s the plan, Good-man?”

Cyrus smiled, his heart feeling light that Jonah was on his side, helping him for a change.  Sometimes he couldn’t help but feel like their relationship was one-sided, unbalanced, but moments like these made him remember how good of a friend Jonah could be sometimes.  He was nice like that.  Probably the nicest person Cyrus had ever met, even.  His heart melted a little before he internally warned himself, reminded himself how his feelings for Jonah always burned him up like scorching water when he let them take over.  

Why was it so hard liking Jonah Beck?

“Okay, so I want you to make sure they’re both in good moods. Butter them up for me!” Cyrus instructed.  Jonah tilted his head, half-confused, and more than ever he looked like a golden retriever, that innocent look in his eyes reminiscent of a dog begging for treats somehow.  

“Why?” Jonah asked curiously.  Cyrus almost face-palmed. How could he make this scheme any more obvious?

“The better moods they’re in, especially Buffy, the less likely they are to be mad at me,” Cyrus explained.  The words themselves almost flew him into a sense of panic, like a dozen knots trying to untangle themselves in his chest, and he took a deep breath to subside the sudden wave of anxiety.  He wished he weren’t so worried about this, wished he could just tell them, wished they’d just be happy for him no matter who he was friends with.  But they weren’t so accepting of him befriending Amber last year either. If he remembered correctly, Andi fled The Spoon at the news and Buffy interrogated him, asking him “Why?” a dozen times.  At least for Amber he had an answer, a coherent one he could put into words. With T.J., all he got was this feeling, something that just rose up and filled him. How could he explain that?

Jonah nodded, like he at least somewhat understood.  He smiled, his teeth sparkling. “Easy enough. I’ve got this, Cyrus, don’t worry!”  Jonah clapped him on the shoulder and Cyrus couldn’t help but hold his breath, trying not to speed his heart up more than necessary.  

“You’re a lifesaver, Jonah Beck.”  Jonah laughed, sending a dull ache in Cyrus’s chest, and beamed proudly at the words.  Jonah could probably dazzle like that just off of pure compliments if he wanted to.

“No problem, Cy.”  A beat passed, and the silence put an undeniable hum on Cyrus’s skin, like he was waiting for something to happen between them.  Which it never would obviously, because he was Jonah and he was dating Andi, but Cyrus couldn’t help but feel that pull of want, the cloud of romance his heart seemed endlessly stuck on.  

If Jonah felt anything of the sort, he didn’t show it.  “Here, I have to go do my weekly guitar lesson with Bowie, so I’ll see you at The Spoon later, right?”  Cyrus cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his delirious state.

“Yeah, of course.  Bye!”

“Bye!” Jonah farewelled, waving.  Then, with a flash, he disappeared behind the curtain, and Cyrus couldn’t help but feel the thing he had been hopelessly seeking after for forever was once again snatched out of his hands.  

But had it really ever been his in the first place?

On Wednesday morning when Cyrus waltzed through the double doors, he immediately saw T.J. heading right towards him, the basketball player’s face lighting up like a flame.

“Hey, Cyrus, what’s up?” he asked casually, bumping into him as they walked side-by-side.  It jostled something in Cyrus’s chest, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Nothing much, just heading to my locker.  What about you?”

T.J. clutched the strap of his backpack, then glanced at Cyrus.  “I’m about to head to Mr. Coleman’s class. You know, about my math thing.”

Cyrus nodded, flashing him a proud smile.  “That’s so great! I’m glad you’re getting the help you need.”

T.J. nodded along.  “Right. Except I was wondering if you’d come with me,” he suggested.  Cyrus’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. T.J. wanted him to come along?  “You know, to tell Mr. Coleman.  Without you, I’d probably still be getting 50 percents on my homework instead of 68s,” T.J. snorted.  “You’re the one who really helped me. Not my tutors or anyone else, so if you’d come with me, that would be—”

“Of course I will, Teej!” Cyrus exclaimed.  He didn’t know where the nickname came from, just that it had fallen out of his mouth.  Hmm.  Teej.  He might have to use that more often.  “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

T.J. grinned, hooking an arm around his shoulders as they walked through the hallway together.  “Thanks. You’re amazing.” Cyrus smiled even wider, his cheeks going hot at the compliment.

“Don’t mention it!  Now let’s go find his classroom!”

“Mr. Coleman?” T.J. clenched his jaw in annoyance at how his voice sounded, shattered and collapsed, and he willed his confidence to bleed through.  “I want to tell you something,” he admitted, more clearly this time.

Their teacher paused mid-sentence on the dry erase board (something about the Pythagorean theorem, T.J. was pretty sure), his palm marked blue from writing today’s notes with his left hand.  He capped the marker, setting it on the tray attached to the wall with a dull ping. “Yeah, of course, T.J.,” he started, then noticed the boy behind him, “and Cyrus. I didn’t know you guys were friends,” he remarked.

“Yeah.  We are,” T.J. said after a beat, glancing back at Cyrus with a half-smile.  Cyrus gave him a shy beam, and T.J.’s heart spun like a Tilt-A-Whirl.

“Well, come on in, have a seat,” Mr. Coleman said, gesturing to the two front row desks.  They shuffled over to the two in the dead center, sliding in while an easy silence filled the room.  Mr. Coleman leaned against his own, crossing his arms in what T.J. could only describe as an authoritative manner.  “What brings you two boys here in the morning before school starts?”

“Actually,” T.J. started, sparing Cyrus a look.  Cyrus nodded once, his eyes pooling with encouragement.  “I wanted to tell you about the reason why I have trouble with this class so much.  Cyrus helped me realize it,” T.J. explained.

“Well, what is it?” Mr. Coleman asked, leaning forward in interest.

T.J. exhaled.  “I think I have dyscalculia.  It’s a learning disability.”

Something seemed to click in their teacher’s brain, puzzle pieces shifting in the windows of his eyes.  “I can’t believe I didn’t have you tested sooner, T.J.,” Mr. Coleman said, running a hand through his hair.  “I wish I would’ve known! I’m sorry, T.J., I’ve been giving you a hard time about this for so long and you aren’t even being taught correctly—”

T.J. waved him off, suddenly feeling piles upon piles of guilt on how he’d previously treated Mr. Coleman after math tests and failed assignments build in him like brick on brick.  “It’s not your fault. And I haven’t been the most easy to get along with, anyway,” he said, the two of them sharing an amused smile. “Honestly, I’m just…I want to be able to learn math, Mr. C.  Like everyone else.”

Mr. Coleman cracked a smile, and suddenly the tension wrapped around T.J.’s chest in hot coils shattered like ice.  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, T.J. I’ll get you set up with a specialized tutor as soon as possible and get you officially tested, okay?”

T.J. nodded.  “Okay. Thank you,” T.J. said, standing up to meet his teacher.  He and Cyrus shared another smile, and, relief swelling up inside him, T.J. turned to walk out the door, Cyrus following suit.  However, before he could leave, Mr. Coleman clapped T.J. on the shoulder, causing him to whirl around.

“I’m proud of you for telling me,” he spoke, his eyes gleaming like Cyrus’s did when he achieved something, like he won a gold medal or something.  T.J. didn’t think he deserved it, that pride, but it melted him, destroyed every shred of doubt humming on his skin. “I’ll see you both in class,” Mr. Coleman said, nodding to the both of them.  He removed his hand, and T.J. could only manage to smile back, his voice disappearing in his chest before he could reply.

Once they were back in the hallway, Cyrus beamed so widely that T.J. wondered how his cheeks weren’t aching.  “See!” he exclaimed. His eyes shone like T.J. hung the moon. If only Cyrus knew that T.J. thought that way about him.  As far as T.J. was concerned, Cyrus had constructed every constellation in the sky.  “I told you you could do it!”

People were beginning to arrive and stroll through the hallway now, weaving around them, and T.J. felt their eyes on them, surveilling their conversation, and for once T.J. pushed away their stares, put a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder instead.  

“Without you, I couldn’t of.”  Without Cyrus, T.J. couldn’t do a lot of things.  He couldn’t get through the hallways without lashing out at everyone who looked at him the wrong way, couldn’t get through math class without bursting at Mr. Coleman.  Couldn’t be himself.  Well, whoever that was.

“That’s not true,” Cyrus replied, shaking his head.  “You can do more than you think you can.” Cyrus’s eyes poured into him, dazzling like the stars outside of T.J. bedroom window, and T.J. thought if he got one inch closer, he might drown in them.  Just as T.J.’s gaze shifted down to his mouth (a fleeting, impossible second of wondering, what if?), the bell rang, clearing them out of their shared daze.  

“I'm sorry, I have to go,” Cyrus said, giving an apologetic smile.  T.J. blinked. What was that?

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat.  Cyrus’s hand brushed against his back, and then he was gone, dashing to his class in the other direction.  T.J. considered looking behind him, getting one last glance, but he drove through the hall instead, silently wondering if he could leave his thoughts in the hallway if he ran fast enough.

Thanks for helping me with Mr. Coleman.  I’m glad you’re my friend. -T.J., your partner in crime

P.S. Meet me at the park after school.  Can’t forget about our hangout today, right?

It was the end of the day before Buffy, Andi, Jonah, and Cyrus were even all together.  Buffy and Marty skipped out on lunch to practice for a track meet later that night and (begrudgingly) took the pre-made trail mix and dried fruit Cyrus offered them so they could keep their energy up.  What could he say? He was prepared for everything! Even the apocalypse!

It was after seventh period, and instead of waiting out the crowd, Cyrus walked side-by-side with his best friends, Jonah trailing along.  Honestly, even with Cyrus’s planned ambush, he should’ve known it would be doomed to the start with his luck…

“I can’t believe you sprained your ankle before your track meet!” Andi exclaimed with a concerned shake of her head.  Apparently, at her and Marty's extra lunch practice, she had tripped over a stray duffel bag ("A duffel bag of all things!" she had exclaimed.  "I mean, I'm not Cyrus!") in the locker room. 

Buffy hobbled gruffly, arms crossed and unwilling to receive help from anyone (even Marty, who had wrapped an arm around her shoulders despite her protesting).  Jonah cast Cyrus a anxious look that was all worry lines and raised eyebrows, panic crossing his face, and Cyrus simply bit his lip and shook his head. There was no buttering up Buffy now.  It was impossible to get her out of a funk like this, especially since it was one of the first track meets of the year and she was already sporting an injury.

“I’m still running,” she insisted.  To prove this, she shrugged Marty off of her, immediately wincing and losing her balance.  Jonah and Marty rushed to her side, bringing her back up in a straight position.

Marty shook his head adamantly.  “No, you’re not, Buffy,” he said, rolling his eyes with amusement.  It almost felt like he was chastising a stubborn child, in their weird, competitive banter kind of way that Cyrus had never completely understood.  “You can sit out one meet.”

“You just don’t want me to beat your record time tonight,” Buffy grumbled, huffing out of her nose.  Andi and Jonah exchanged a worried glance, and Cyrus pretended not to feel the tiny twist in his stomach at their shared gaze.  He wasn’t sure if it was because of Jonah himself or just the fact that they both had someone, had each other. He wondered when he’d have that, then wondered if he’d ever get the chance.  

“Trust me, you won’t be beating any records now, especially not mine,” Marty said with a competitive grin, squeezing her shoulder.  Then, on a more serious note, he added, “Come on, seriously. If we lose, at least you can say it’s because we didn’t have our best female runner,” he reminded her.  

The compliment sparked something in Buffy’s eyes, the ghost of a smile hovering over her mouth.  “You mean best overall runner,” she corrected him.  Marty laughed. “Fine, but you’re telling Coach Rez I can't run.”

“I will,” Marty said, nudging into her playfully.  They stared at each other, seemingly stuck in a world that the rest of them weren’t a part of, and Cyrus felt that green envy growing around him like grape vines, suffocating and choking out any shred of happiness he had for his friends.  Guilt lit in him like a flame, and Cyrus wanted more than anything to get rid of the ugly green monster thriving in him. “And I’ll keep you company on the bench when I’m not running,” Marty offered.

“So will I!” Andi added, Jonah consequently chiming in with a supportive, “Me, too!”

Cyrus felt that guilt fill him up again like billowing smoke as the rest of them gave him an expectant glance.  “Actually, I’m busy tonight,” he admitted, shame flickering on his face. “I’m sorry, but we can go to The Spoon tomorrow—”

“Cyrus, it’s fine,” Buffy insisted, an encouraging smile on her face.  “We all know you’re hanging out with your ‘detention buddy’ tonight,” she paraphrased teasingly, crooking her fingers to represent air quotes.  Cyrus frowned.

“How did you know that?”

“You’ve been gushing about it since Monday,” Andi said with an amused smile, nudging him playfully with her sweater-covered elbow.  Cyrus blinked.  Had he really talked about it that much?

“Still, I’m sorry,” he apologized, a breath of relief finding its way into his lungs.  He gulped. “I promise, though, I’ll come to your next track meet and bring you all the baby taters you want—”

“Relax,” Buffy said, beaming.  They finally paused by her locker, Buffy leaning against it in a way that clearly indicated she needed the metal frame of the row of lockers to keep her upright.  “We’re happy for you.” The way she said it nagged at Cyrus in a way he couldn’t explain, so he just shoved it aside before his brain could dwell on it for too long.

“Thanks.”  He hugged her tightly, forgetting she was injured for a second, and pulled away abruptly when she winced.  “Sorry!”

“I’m fine,” she said again.  “Now, go! Don’t want to keep your friend waiting,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.  Cyrus let out a guilty smile, then backed away to find T.J. at the park.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he said with a final wave, nearly racing (well, his version of racing, anyway) to his locker.  Sliding his binder and notebooks into his bag, a part of him silently hoped that maybe his friends would be more accepting of his friendship with T.J. than he originally thought.

T.J. bounced the ball against the ragged blacktop once, then twice, the ground wearing against the soles of his shoes.  He hadn’t been playing basketball nearly enough since basketball season had ended a month or so ago, and he felt his old maneuvers and strategies coming back to him as he dribbled along the court.  He leapt up, the ball soaring from his hands, and held his breath in anticipation.  One...two…

The ball sailed through the net, and T.J. smiled, proud of his (impressive, he dared say) shot.  Basketball had always been something so easy to him, involuntary, like breathing. Sometimes T.J. wished he were better at things other at basketball, but, as he had learned the hard way, life wasn’t always fair, right?

He jumped up again, grinning with a satisfied grin when the ball hit the backboard and toppled into the net, falling back onto the blacktop in syncopated thuds.  

“Wow,” T.J. heard a voice gasp in awe.  He turned his head toward the source of noise, then felt a basketball bouncing in his own stomach as he saw Cyrus step out from the sun and into his vision.  “I wish I could do that without giving myself a concussion,” the boy teased, clearly impressed.  T.J. met his expression with a wide smile, all teeth, and silently remarked how Cyrus looked with the sun spilling over him, casting a glow on his face.  

“Have you ever shot a basketball?” T.J. asked, lifting the sphere with his right hand in question.  

Cyrus shook his head.  “Not successfully,” he admitted with a shrug.  

T.J.’s eyebrows raised, an idea winding in his head.  “I can show you if you want.”

Cyrus’s eyes lit up, his eyes glittering with excitement, and T.J. was suddenly glad he offered.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug, matching Cyrus’s expression.  “Sure. It’ll be fun.”

“Okay,” Cyrus nodded, still beaming.  He waltzed over to T.J., standing in front of him, and T.J. pushed the ball into his hands.  “Where do we start?”  We.  It was something so stupid for T.J. to care about, so unimportant, but it made his chest rattle anyway.  

“Okay, so first off: stance,” T.J. started, brushing behind Cyrus.  He told himself that it wasn’t intentional, but he wasn’t so sure if he believed himself or not.  “Make sure your feet are the correct width apart,” he said gently.

Cyrus adjusted the width of his feet by an inch or so.  “Like this?”

T.J. nudged his foot with his shoe.  “Like this,” he corrected. Cyrus nodded, and T.J. pushed down the sudden wave of butterflies in his stomach as he knew what was coming next.  

“Now what do I do?” Cyrus asked, turning his head to T.J. in question.  His feet stayed glued to the ground while he twisted awkwardly to face him, and T.J. suppressed a smile at the boy.

“Bend your knees a little,” T.J. instructed, suddenly feeling a lump form in his throat.  He grazed the back of Cyrus, his shoulders skimming against Cyrus’s shoulder blades. He held his breath.  “Put your hands up like this.” T.J. brought his arms around Cyrus, placing hands on top of hands, skin on top of skin, and suddenly that funny feeling rushed back into him with full force, nearly knocking the breath out of his lungs.  T.J. pushed it away, wishing he could stop feeling, wishing his relationship with Cyrus was conventional, ordinary, normal.

Had his relationship with Cyrus ever been normal?  T.J. wasn’t sure, didn’t, couldn’t remember when these weird feelings began plaguing him.  Maybe they’d always been with him.  Maybe it had been easier to ignore them when he didn’t know Cyrus, but now that he did, they were just rising up and taking root of him, controlling a part of himself that he didn’t know existed until recently.

“Is this okay?” Cyrus asked for confirmation, the ball poised a little higher than his head.  T.J. breathed in, pulling his hands away from Cyrus with a jolt.  He wondered when the butterflies in his stomach would flutter away, but, if anything, they seemed to react every time Cyrus would take in a breath, his back shifting against him.  T.J. tried to force down the lump in his throat.

“That’s great,” he told Cyrus, his heart stuttering in his chest.  He settled his hands on Cyrus’s waist, pointedly ignoring the flip that whirled in his stomach at the contact.  “Okay, when I tell you to, leap up, then aim for the goal.”

“I don’t know how to aim—” Cyrus protested.

“—you’ll do fine,” T.J. insisted.  He felt Cyrus take a deep breath, like he was inhaling courage, and T.J. tried to ignore the way his spine shifted underneath his touch.  “You can do this. You ready?”

“I’m ready,” Cyrus said, nodding once.  He wasn’t sure who Cyrus was trying to convince more: T.J. or himself.

“Okay, in one, two—”

“Wait, am I going on three or on go?” Cyrus asked, still facing forward.  T.J. could see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“You go on ‘three’,” T.J. reminded, chuckling to himself.  His grip around Cyrus tightened. “Okay, one...," he paused, letting his voice trickle into the air.  "Two...three!”

Cyrus pushed off from his feet, leaping up in a less-than-graceful manner (that T.J. found adorable, not that he would say that out loud), and the ball circled the rim for a beat, the two boys watching with bated breath.  Whether it was the wind blowing or just pure luck, the ball tipped into the net, swishing like a fresh gust of air.

“I did it!” Cyrus spoke in disbelief, drawing in a surprised breath.  He tugged on his shirt in surprise, smiling wide. “T.J., I did it!”

“Good job, Underdog,” T.J. said with a beam.  He snatched Cyrus’s elbow, trying to convey some kind of pride for the boy with his touch, his hand burning into Cyrus’s forearm for probably longer than necessary.  Then, before T.J. knew what he was doing, he pulled Cyrus in for a hug, his heart thudding painfully in his chest with a throbbing ache. “See? I knew you could.”

Cyrus was silent for a second, arms thrown around T.J.’s back, head poised over his shoulder.  Then, after what felt like a moment of contemplation, he said, quieter than T.J. had anticipated, “Thank you.  For everything, I mean.” T.J., much like last week at the Red Rooster, wasn’t sure what Cyrus was thanking him for exactly.  But it was enough for him to squeeze him a little tighter, to hug him longer than he probably should’ve. In T.J.’s opinion, he would’ve stayed locked in that embrace for a while, maybe even forever, but he abruptly pulled away when a string of voices broke through the piercing whistling of the wind, breaking their bubble of silence.  

“Who’s that?” Cyrus wondered aloud.  T.J. shrugged, his face suddenly feeling hot, and his eyes wove through the trees, his heart suddenly stopping in his chest when he recognized a startling wave of blonde hair.  Please no.

Reed.

“I’ve gotta go,” T.J. said suddenly.  He wasn’t sure what was surging through him more: anger at his old friend or panic, panic from the possibility of Cyrus finding out, panic from Cyrus potentially seeing who he really was.  All T.J. knew was that he needed to go.  

Cyrus’s eyebrows scrunched together.  “What?” T.J. slung his bag over his shoulder, not waiting for a response, his stomach clenching tight together in nerves.  “T.J., wait!”

Guilt found a way to him, but T.J. shoved it away, pushed through the trees and the strewn picnic tables and the gravel until he found himself at the swings, both hands clutching the chains.  He hadn’t been there since that one day, where he and Cyrus had skipped detention. He remembered what Cyrus had said, about how it made him feel better, and then T.J. remembered how it had made him feel better about his argument with Mr. Coleman. He hoped it worked again.  

T.J. dug his feet into the mulch and pushed off from the ground, swinging until the trees around him grew bleary, until the sky was so blue that his eyes hurt from staring at it.  The gust of wind roaring at his back tuned out everything else, but the swinging didn’t make the heaviness in his chest fly away, didn’t make him feel any lighter. How had swinging worked for him the last time?  Now it only seemed to make things worse.

Maybe because you had Cyrus with you last time, a nagging voice in his head reminded him.  T.J. sighed, then plowed his feet into the ground, effectively slowing him down.  He tried to shove it away, hated that the voice was right.  Cyrus always made him feel better about all the anger living in him, made it vanish into thin air.  

God, he so needed Cyrus right now.  

As if his wish had been granted by a fairy godmother (or God Himself, even), Cyrus came panting into his peripheral view, causing T.J. to jerk his head toward him in question.  The boy caught his breath, hands leaning on his knees as he attempted to speak.  “What…,” wheeze, “was that about?” Cyrus choked out, forcing the words out between breaths.

Suddenly at a loss for words, T.J. shrugged, toeing the mulch with his tennis shoe.  They were slightly mud stained and covered in grass from running through the park instead of on the trails, and he made a mental note to clean them later.

“T.J.,” Cyrus said seriously, taking a seat next to him.  T.J. glanced up, more out of habit than anything, but also at the way Cyrus said his name, like it had the weight of the world on it.  His stomach churned, and he tried to focus on Cyrus's slowing breathing rate instead. “What made you run away like that?”

T.J. looked back down at the ground at the words ‘run away’.  He wasn’t the type to run from his problems (unless they were his feelings; T.J. was more than skilled in getting away from those), and he felt angry with himself for letting Reed control him like this.  If anything, Reed should be scared of him after what happened all those weeks ago.  Maybe it was the power Reed held over him, the fact that Reed could spill absolutely everything and ruin what he and Cyrus had.  A real friendship. Someone that didn’t make him worse, but better instead.

“You guys aren’t friends anymore, right?” Cyrus asked.  

T.J. nearly jolted out of his swing seat.  “What?”

“You and Reed,” Cyrus clarified with a sad smile.  “You’re not friends with him anymore, are you?”

T.J. shook his head, unable to process any thought except how does he know?  “How do you know we used to be friends?” T.J. asked bluntly.  

“You guys used to steal chocolate chocolate-chip muffins in the cafeteria together,” Cyrus explained with a half-smile.  Of course that was how Cyrus remembered Reed. A muffin bandit.

In T.J.’s opinion, he was a lot worse than that, but Cyrus didn’t need to know the details of why.  “Yeah, we did,” T.J. said instead, humoring Cyrus with a huff out his nose.

“Do you not like him anymore?”

“Not really,” T.J. replied curtly.  Don’t ask why, don’t ask why, don’t ask—

“How come?” Cyrus asked curiously.  

T.J. sighed, then kicked a pile of mulch near his foot.  It went flying in the air, spiraling onto the ground. “People grow apart, I guess.”  Lame. T.J. knew it was lame. But Cyrus seemed to accept it instead of pushing further, which T.J. was more than grateful for.

“I don’t like him either, if that makes you feel any better,” Cyrus offered.  

T.J. glanced up, his eyebrow raised in question.  “How come you don’t like him?” Not that he blamed him.  

Cyrus’s nose wrinkled, and suddenly all of T.J.’s worries washed away, if just for a second.  “He says mean things to me sometimes," Cyrus admitted with a shrug, like it didn't matter.  T.J. frowned.  "Like on Monday! He cornered me in the locker room and said something had happened between you two a few weeks ago and then made a mean joke about me being in dance class."  T.J. stiffened beside him, his back completely rigid. “Weird, right?”

T.J. swallowed down, unable to meet Cyrus’s eye.  “Yeah,” he said, attempting to sound agreeable. “Weird.”  A beat of silence passed between them before the words that were pushing on the roof of his mouth fell out.  “Hey, Cyrus? Just…try to ignore Reed. He’s an idiot,” T.J. tried.

Cyrus was silent for a second.  “I will. But you should, too.  I’m sure whatever happened between you two wasn’t that bad,” he said.  

T.J. nodded, spitting out the word again reluctantly.  “Right."  T.J. wasn’t so sure if he believed himself.  And he didn’t know if Cyrus would believe that if he knew exactly what really happened, either.  

That was the thing about friendship.  Sometimes your friends learned the best and worst parts of you, the sunshine and the barbed wire edges, and chose to stick around anyway.  And, sometimes, they left you broken, leaving you behind as if you were nothing. And, no matter how much T.J. wanted to lay everything on the table with Cyrus, he didn’t know if he’d be able to take that risk with him.  Maybe he’d never be able to take that chance at all.

Chapter Text

Cyrus wasn't sure how he ended up here, sitting on a sticky blue-gray bus seat with T.J. Kippen while his best friend Buffy glared daggers into his back.  Well, both of their backs, really.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen the way it did, had wanted to build up to it, wanted to ease them into the surprise of the news like too-hot bathwater (as much as he loved suspense), but everything had boiled to the surface and it hadn't come out like he'd been hoping.  And now he'd ruined everything.

Cyrus had been wanting, trying, all week to tell Buffy and Andi about T.J., about how he was friends with the same basketball captain that had made Buffy's life so miserable last year.  How this had started with exchanging some notes in detention, and now they had so much more than that. How T.J. was so different now that he couldn’t even believe it.  How, sometimes, when Cyrus was on the brink of exhaustion at night in his bedroom, he could see his feelings flickering out of the corner of his eyes, morphing into something else… 

(Well.  Cyrus tried not to think about the last part so much.  He wasn't sure his heart could handle another hopelessly straight crush like Jonah.)

But, even as good as Jonah was at being charismatic and buttering Andi and Buffy up, the universe would somehow counteract Cyrus's master plan to tell them, always unfoiling it before it even began… 

Like yesterday, for example: they were all hanging out after school, finishing up a school project in the science classroom.  (Jonah had dropped by ‘spontaneously,’ getting them all their usual orders from The Spoon. Cyrus loved planning ambushes, and this had happened to be the perfect opportunity!  How could they be mad at him about being friends with T.J. after this?  Cyrus knew he wouldn't!)

“Hey, look at that!” Cyrus pointed out.  A hand hovered over his chest in feigned surprise.  “Jonah got us baby taters and milkshakes!”

Buffy and Andi shared a surprised glance.

"What's the catch?" Buffy asked cautiously, arching a challenging eyebrow.  

Cyrus shot Jonah a desperate look, silently pleading him with his eyes.  Please don't mess this up!

Jonah glanced wildly between Cyrus and the two girls before plastering on a smile that didn't fit his face quite right.  "Anything to help out my friends for their project!" Cyrus held his breath as he waited impatiently for their reactions.

Buffy seemed to mentally weigh his response, then shrugged as if it wasn't worth her sleuthing, attacking the bag of food while throwing her thanks over her shoulders as she dug in.  Andi joined her, happily surprised, and Cyrus and Jonah surveyed their work proudly at the far end of the classroom. 

“Don’t forget about the burgers, too!” Jonah added cheerily.  He leaned into Cyrus, whispering, “I was a few dollars short.”

Cyrus pulled out a few crisp bills from his wallet, handing them discreetly to Jonah.  Jonah slipped them into his jacket pocket. “Thanks for this, Jonah.”  

“No problem, dude!” he said, clapping Cyrus on the shoulder.  He flashed that dazzly smile that always made static buzz on Cyrus’s skin, and Cyrus smiled back widely, even though it didn't have seem to have the same effect as it usually did on him. 

Huh, weird, Cyrus thought absentmindedly to himself.  He shrugged it off.  

The Frisbee player side-hugged Andi, saying, “I’ll see you guys later,” before waltzing out the room, giving Cyrus a not-so-inconspicuous thumbs up. Cyrus returned it with equal enthusiasm.

“Okay, Cyrus, what was that about?” Buffy said, her eyebrows raised.  Her hip was jutted to the side, a hand resting on her waist.  

Andi sipped her milkshake, her lips pursing in confusion.  “What do you mean?”

Buffy snorted.  “That was obviously a set-up.  What is Jonah up to?”

A sense of panic flew into Cyrus’s chest, something like frantic bird wings beating in his chest, and he all-too-quickly defended the Frisbee player.  “Nothing! I’m sure Jonah was just being nice."  

Buffy eyed him suspiciously, as if she suspected that he was in on Jonah’s ‘scheme,’ too, but Cyrus was quick to recapture her attention.  

“Anyway, I wanted to tell you guys something,” he said, pushing the sentence out of his mouth.  Cyrus forced it out like they hurt, a wince springing up amongst his words, and he pursed his lips at his stiffness, eyebrows drawn together.

“Go on,” Buffy gestured, popping a baby tater into her mouth.  Andi nodded fervently, and Cyrus took it as a sign of encouragement.

“Okay,” he started, scooting up onto the desk behind him with a small hop.  “The truth is—”

“Cyrus, wait—!” A crash sounded behind him, and Cyrus jumped up, flinching instinctively.  Oh, no… 

“Our project!” Andi gasped in horror.  Cyrus slowly turned around, a pit forming in his stomach.

“I’m sorry!” he immediately apologized, sinking down to the floor next to Andi, who was already salvaging pieces.  Embarrassment flamed his cheeks. “I forgot it was on that desk,” he said.

Buffy glared at him.  “Cyrus.”  

Cyrus hung his head.  “I know,” he said shamefully.  “I’ll rebuild it.  You guys eat your food.”  He had been too embarrassed to tell them afterwards, the footing of his confidence lost within the shards of paper and structured poster board scattered on the ground, so he shoved his confession down instead, let it drown in his embarrassment.  

And he'd tried plenty of times after that, but the universe wouldn’t let him get more than three words out without something drastic happening.  Even the next day, standing in the hallway with Jonah planning their next ambush (well, Cyrus was planning, Jonah was listening, for the most part), he had known it was a lost cause.  It didn’t stop him from trying, though. He didn’t want to let T.J. down. Not more than he already had by keeping their friendship a secret.

"What are you going to do?" Jonah asked, curious.  His green eyes were wide, eyebrows raised and face earnest.  Jonah was always so genuine; even when he wasn't the best boyfriend—or friend, for that matter—his good intentions always bled through his dimples.  "We only have about—" Jonah glanced down at his wrist as if he were checking a watch, then remembered he didn't have one and resorted to clicking his phone on instead "—ten minutes until we leave for the field trip.  Won't they see you guys sitting together on the bus?" 

"Yes," Cyrus breathed out.  Anxiety flooded his voice, lungs drowning in his chest.  He half-expected his voice to melt right down his throat just from the tension straining his vocal cords.  "But I have to tell them. I promised," he said. Jonah nodded, hand squeezing Cyrus's shoulder once, then twice, before pulling away.  

“So...what do you want me to do, exactly?” Jonah asked, a hand resting on the single backpack strap slung on his shoulder.  "I'm no good at this stuff."

Cyrus shook his head.  "Of course you are! It's just...a wrench keeps getting thrown into our plans."  Jonah nodded like he sort of understood. Cyrus wondered if he was going to have to spell it out for him.  Sometimes he had to translate things for Jonah; things flew over his head sometimes, but Cyrus didn't mind explaining.  It was one of those adorably frustrating traits of his. Jonah kind of had a lot of those. "Anyway, all I want you to do is bring them over here for me."

“And…?”

Cyrus pursed his lips, worry seeping back into his voice like water with a sponge.  “And...that’s all I got.” 

Jonah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.  “That’s it? No more free food from The Spoon?  No more getting emergency supplies for Andi Shack?  No more carrying Buffy’s textbooks for her between classes?” he asked in disbelief.

Cyrus shook his head, lips tucked together.  Exasperation threatened to spill in him like pooling paint.  “Every time we try to butter them up, I always get interrupted!  I think we should just jump straight into it,” he explained. He tried not to feel discouraged, but it was hard not to; his feelings were always surging in the extremes, either climbing up to the tops of the Shadyside mountains or dwindling down to nothing.  

Jonah nodded slowly.  “Okay…well, I hope it works out, dude,” he patted Cyrus’s shoulder, and Cyrus tried not to feel swayed away by his touch.  “Seriously.  I’m tired of going to the flea market everyday after school looking for wood beads.”

Cyrus drew his eyebrows together.  “I thought you liked going to the flea market with Andi.”

Jonah shrugged.  “Sometimes they have cool stuff.  A lot of the time, Andi’s just looking at feathers and pop tabs, and then she gets mad at me for not being attentive or whatever,” he explained, scrunching his nose in distaste.  Cyrus nodded understandingly, even though he thought it was fun to see Andi so excited about wood beads and pop tabs and used straws, but Jonah simply flashed that blinding smile in response.  “Anyway, I’ll go get them. See you in a sec.” Jonah said, hands stuck in his pockets. He waltzed away to retrieve the two girls, and Cyrus was desperately trying to thaw the block of ice stuck in his throat, trying to grasp onto any shred of hope he could find.

What if they reacted the same way they had when he befriended Amber last year, but worse?  What if they shunned him and kicked him out of the Good Hair Crew for life?  What if Jonah took his place?  Or Marty? Or what if— 

“Hello?” a voice said, waving a hand in front of him.  “Earth to Cyrus!” Cyrus blinked, then shook himself out of his reverie.  Buffy.

“Sorry,” he said, tugging on his shirt nervously.  The girls shared an amused smile, and Cyrus’s mood instantly brightened.  “You guys look like you’re in a good mood,” he noted happily to himself. His eyes cut to Jonah gratefully, but the Frisbee player was turned around, waving at a figure in the distance.  

“Yeah, of course we are,” Buffy said with a shrug.  “We get to rollerblade all day instead of working on a ten page worksheet for math proofs.  Who wouldn’t be excited about that? Right, Jonah?”

Jonah turned back to them, his mind clearly on the other side of the hallway, away from their bubble of conversation.  “Huh?”

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Aren’t you excited for our field trip today?”

A look of realization crossed Jonah’s face a beat later than natural, and he let out a small laugh.  “Oh, yeah.  Right.” The three all exchanged a weird glance at his odd behavior, Andi especially. Cyrus tried not to care so much about it, even though his feelings for Jonah always tore through him like a bullet, always left his heart splintering.  Well, at least they usually did.  He wasn’t so sure anymore.  Sometimes Jonah made him feel like he was on top of the world and others he made him feel like he was sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor.

“Well, I for one am just hoping that I don’t injure myself this time,” Cyrus joked.  Andi laughed and Buffy rolled her eyes playfully; Andi hadn’t been allowed to go to his seventh birthday party because Celia had been afraid to let Andi do anything resembling adventure back then (she had gotten him binoculars for his present, though, which he still used to this day!), but Buffy had been there and they’d told the story so many times that it almost felt like Andi had been a part of the day anyway.  

“Don’t worry, Cyrus, we have a whole week of spring break after today just so you can recover from your injuries,” Andi reminded with a teasing smile.  Cyrus smiled, then saw Jonah staring at that figure in the distance again. He saw Andi frown out of the corner of his eye at her boyfriend.  

Jonah pointed behind him, gesturing to the same person, an outline of someone Cyrus couldn’t quite make out on his own.  “I’m gonna go talk to her. I’ll be right back,” he promised, flashing them a smile. A sour look crossed Andi’s face at the word ‘her,’ and Cyrus silently wondered what drama was going on with Jonah and Andi now.  With the two of them, it was always hard telling.

Once Jonah was out of their sight, Buffy wrinkled her nose.  “Hasn’t Jonah seemed overly nice lately?”

“He’s a nice person,” Andi and Cyrus interjected simultaneously.  Andi cracked a smile at the coincidence, and Cyrus hoped that she didn't catch the sudden pink on his cheeks.  

“Yeah, but he’s been especially nice to me lately,” Buffy explained, shivering in disgust.  “It’s weird! Like yesterday at lunch, when I made fun of him for saying ‘docious magocious’?  He offered to stop saying it! And I never thought anything could make Jonah stop saying docious magocious."  Cyrus wished she weren’t so observant; his plans to tell them about T.J. all week were coming undone like thread in her hands.

“Maybe he’s had a change of heart!” Cyrus suggested, drawing her attention elsewhere.  His words rushed out in a way that made Buffy sweep over his face, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, but Cyrus distracted her with an abrupt change of topic.  “Anyway, who cares what Jonah’s up to when the field trip is today?”

Buffy allowed herself to be swayed by the obvious subject change, even though the suspecting glint in her eye stayed present, lingering in the lines in her face like old, chipped paint.  “I bet I’ll be the best rollerblader out there,” she bragged, an arrogant smirk lighting up her face.  

Andi smiled, humoring her best friend.  “Not everything’s a competition, Buffy,” she gently reminded.  

“It can be,” Buffy retorted.  

“Didn’t you just twist your ankle a few days ago—?” Andi started, but Buffy purposely drowned her out, turning to Cyrus instead.  (Buffy had always had selective hearing problems, Cyrus was convinced. Whenever he pointed that fact out, she pretended not to hear him then, either.)

"Do you want to sit with me?" Buffy asked.  "I can ditch Marty if you want the company."  The offer should've set a wave of relief in him, that Buffy was willing to leave her boyfriend just to fill the ghost space that seemed to follow him wherever he went, but then that same guilt rose up, because Cyrus had to tell her that he couldn't, that he was sitting with someone else, someone that was T.J. Kippen, the guy who wouldn't let her on the basketball team.  The guy who was now Cyrus's friend, maybe one of his good friends.  Or maybe more than that.

He gulped, lips tucked together.  “Actually, about that—” He was cut off from the sound of a cell phone blaring that filled the now thriving hallway, excited chatter for the field trip beginning to bounce off the walls as their departure time drew nearer, and it took Cyrus a confused second to figure out that it was coming from Buffy's backpack.

“Sorry," Buffy said, twisting around to fish it out of her zipper.  "One sec." The words weighed on Cyrus’s tongue, his burst of confidence disappearing like the sun behind the horizon.  Buffy dug out her phone from her pocket, wrinkling her nose in confusion at who would be calling her this early in the morning.  A smile lit up her face as the Caller ID reflected in her eyes, and she tapped the accept button.  

“Hi, Mommy!” she greeted, voice pure light.  Cyrus thought that if there was one weak, vulnerable spot in the tough wall that Buffy built around herself, it was Pat Driscoll.  “Yes, I’ll take plenty of pictures,” she promised. Buffy rolled her eyes to Andi and Cyrus, but it betrayed the smile stuck on her face like a sticker.  He and Andi shared a knowing smile. “And I’ll say hi to Andi and Cyrus and Jonah for you.  And Marty.  Okay. Love you, too.  Bye.” She hung up the phone, jamming it back in her pocket, and Cyrus felt any shred of confidence that had before sink down to his shoes.  

“Sorry about that,” Buffy started.  “She’s been busy with her job lately, and she’s already an hour away, so I haven’t been able to spend much time with her.”  She took in a shaky breath, and Andi and Cyrus shared a worried glance, but Buffy shook out her arms as if to rid herself of the thick tension suddenly swimming in the air.  “Anyway, it’s fine. What were you saying, Cyrus?”

“Oh, uh," he started, suddenly feeling that his confession was out of place, a mishaped puzzle piece trying to slot into the wrong spot.  “Um, I was just saying that I—”

“Dosh!” a voice lit up behind them.  They all turned to see Jonah talking to a cheerful Natalie, his hand on her shoulder.  He seemed to notice their questioning stare, then the judgemental look gleaming in Buffy’s eyes, and his face turned sheepish.  “I mean, uh, cool!”

Cyrus attempted to pull their attention away from the two, trying to sway it back to him.  Please, please, please, just let me get the words out.  "What I was saying was that I'm—"

"Hey, Buffy!" a voice interrupted.  A flash of ruddy brown hair appeared behind Buffy, tennis shoe soles squeaking on freshly mopped tiles, and Cyrus internally grimaced.  He really liked Marty, don't get him wrong, but right now he wished more than anything that the track star was out on the field instead of in the hallway with them.  Once he got Buffy started, it was impossible to stop her.  "Ready to be the second best rollerblader on the rink?"

The competitive fire that constantly lived in Buffy's eyes ignited, Marty's comment fuel to her flame, and she crossed her arms boastfully.  "In your dreams.  Besides, I'm not planning on rollerblading.  I'm going to be gliding the entire time.  You'll see nothing but my back the whole field trip."

"Guys, I'm sitting with—"

"Jonah," Andi waved, trying to gesture subtly with a ring-donned hand.  Jonah flashed Natalie an apologetic smile, then waved goodbye, turning to his girlfriend.  Cyrus swallowed. "I didn't know she went to school here," she remarked, her voice careful.  

"She just transferred here!" Jonah exclaimed happily.  His dimples lit up, deep enough to pour tea into. "Is that a problem?" he questioned, confused.

"Buffy, Andi—"

"I've been rollerblading since I was six," Buffy insisted, continuing.  "You'll be falling on your face within the first 30 minutes."

"What if she moved here because she likes you?" Andi accused.

"She's just a friend!" Jonah interjected.  

"I'm sitting with T.J. Kippen!" Cyrus burst.  His voice came out louder than he meant, and even the hallway seemed to pause, hands lingering on locker doors and conversations halted, half-finished and forgotten.  His cheeks flamed.  

His friends all turned to him, wide-eyed and jaws slack, faces drowning in surprise (even Jonah, who had known for weeks).  Cyrus held his breath for one, then two beats, before— 

"What?" Buffy said, face contorted in disgust.  The competitive flame that had been dancing in her eyes only seconds ago was gone, died out like it had been stomped out by his confession.  "Please tell me you're joking."

"Is he your friend from detention?" Andi asked, stepping away from Jonah.  Her eyebrows were knitted together. "Is that why you didn't want to tell us?  Because it was T.J.?"  She spat out his name like it burnt her tongue, and Cyrus felt a whirl of defensiveness in his belly.

"Part of it," he admitted, eyebrows scrunched together in worry.  He couldn't look Buffy in the eye. He focused on Marty and Jonah instead, both of whom seemed lost.  (Marty because he probably actually was, and Jonah because, well...that was just his face.)

Andi crossed her arms.  "I can't believe—" 

"—your detention buddy is T.J. Kippen!" Buffy finished.  Cyrus swept over her expression, and his heart sunk down to the floor at the betrayal jutting at her face, cold and cutting at him like sharpened steel.   

"I had no idea!" Jonah exclaimed with a tone that conveyed he absolutely did have an idea.  Andi and Buffy whirled around to face him, then shot back to Cyrus.

"You told Jonah first?" Andi exclaimed incredulously, gesturing to the boy.  

"It was an accident!" Cyrus stressed.

Jonah frowned.  "Hey, I'm trustworthy!"

Buffy rolled her eyes.  “Sure you are, Jonah." She yanked Cyrus by the elbow, dragging him to the side and, even with a twisted ankle, was still stronger than Cyrus could ever wish for.  She stared him down, all business. "Listen to me, Cyrus. T.J. is bad news—"

"Because of your history in seventh grade?" Cyrus interrupted, finally gathering enough courage to defend himself.  It was stirring in his veins, inching up his arm like buzzing static. "Trust me, Buffy, he's a completely different person.  He's not the same guy who didn't let you on the basketball team!" He tried to search for any empathy in her eyes, but all that was there was her strong will and cold determination, smooth as glass.  He shivered.  

"It has nothing to do with that," Buffy insisted.  Her grasp on him was nearly strong enough to hurt. (He bruised easily, ask literally anyone.)  "I'll tell you if you just listen to me—" 

"Buses have arrived for the field trip!" Dr. Metcalf announced over the intercom.  The static from the interference fizzled out, crackling and muffled through the decades old speakers, and Cyrus broke away from Buffy and her steel grip, shrugging her words out of his head.  

"I'm sorry," he said, lips pulled into a frown.  He felt like he should say more, get some of the words pressing on his chest out, but Buffy was looking at him like he'd broke her entire world with five words and Cyrus didn't know how to exactly put it back together.  "I'll see you there." He flashed her one last forlorn smile before turning away and heading toward the locker bay, pretending like invisible shrapnel wasn't digging into his skin with each step.  Because, apparently, no other feeling was worse than walking away from your friends after a fight, not that Cyrus would know, because they'd never fought before, not like this.  He had absolutely no clue what to do.  

But at least the truth is out! Cyrus tried to reason with himself.  

If only the truth didn't hurt so much….

He kept walking until he reached locker 153 and found T.J. stuffing his backpack inside it.  He glanced up as Cyrus neared, and he smiled, soft and gentle and amused all at once. Cyrus didn't know smiles could have that many shades to them, but T.J. was always changing his mind about stuff like that, flipping his world upside down.  

T.J. is bad news, Buffy had told him. 

Cyrus swallowed.  T.J. is different now, he reasoned with himself.  He knew he was!  T.J. was a good person, stood up for him and wrote him notes instead of laughing at him for getting detention for pulling the fire alarm and accepted all his weird quirks and annoying habits.  And Cyrus could see a light in him that sometimes he thought no one else could. 

“Hey, you ready?” T.J. asked.  He shut his locker door and moved next to Cyrus, putting a hand on the small of his back as if to guide him forward, and Cyrus remembered what he'd thought earlier, about how he could see his feelings flickering out of the corners of his eyes… 

He pushed the thought away.

“Ready as I’ll ever be!” Cyrus told him.  T.J.’s smile widened, and Cyrus let T.J. push him forward through the front exit and toward the bus, pretending like he wasn’t boarding his ultimate doom.  

And now he was here in his seat, trying not to let himself crumble every time they hit a pothole.  It was like there was this black hole inside him, growing wider and wider whenever they ran over one of them on the road.  Or maybe his guilt was actually trying to eat him alive.  Cyrus was pretty sure there would be nothing left of him by the time they got to the rollerblading rink.  

He turned around to face Buffy, unable to help himself.  She glared at him over the brim of the seat, her eyes flickering to T.J. pointedly.  Cyrus had been friends with her so long that he could practically have a conversation with her on facial expressions alone.

I’m sorry, he mouthed, eyebrows scrunched together in worry.  

Buffy pursed her lips and crossed her arms, eyes skipping over to the window.  Cyrus turned around dejectedly in his seat.  She was never going to forgive him, was she?

He snuck one last glance at her over the top of the seat, catching her frowning at the her reflection in the glass.  Cyrus faced forward and fiddled with his hands in his lap. Nope.  Never.

The bus hit another pothole in the road, tires screeching on the asphalt, and Cyrus’s hand gripped the seat space in between them, clutching onto it like a lifeline.  

“You okay?” T.J. asked, nudging Cyrus’s shoulder next to him.  Something stirred in his stomach at the contact.  

The bus went around a corner, and Cyrus's hands flew out, latching onto T.J.’s arm.  That funny feeling surged through T.J.’s stomach, rolling over like waves in a tide, and ignored the itch in his palm to grab Cyrus’s hand.

Cyrus nodded, lips pulled into a tight line, and T.J. silently wondered if he was afraid to open his mouth in fear of biting his tongue off.  “This bus driver’s a maniac!” he exclaimed. “I’m pretty sure he has a lead foot.”

The bus driver—Larry, the nametag read—glared, eyes catching Cyrus’s wide ones in the reflection of the mirror.  Cyrus slouched down further in his seat, letting go of T.J.’s arm in the process.  

T.J. pretended not to care so much.  He hoped his face got the memo. “Seriously, are you okay?  You’ve been looking nervously behind us ever since we boarded the bus.” 

Cyrus sighed, lips in a pout.  “It’s Buffy. She refuses to talk to me!”

T.J. raised an eyebrow.  “Why?”  

Cyrus averted eye contact, leaning his head up against the seat in front of them.  His hair ruffled against the cheap plastic material. “I told her and Andi. About us, I mean.”

T.J.’s heart stuttered in his chest at the word us.  He swore his organs were certified in gymnastics after being friends with Cyrus for a while now.  They were constantly flipping like they were trying to do a somersault or something. “And…?” he pressed on.  

“And…,” Cyrus continued, sighing, “It didn’t go as well as I hoped it would.”  He peeked at T.J. hesitantly, like he was waiting to see his emotions bleed through, but T.J. just sighed.  He wanted to lash out, wanted to let anger fill him up until he couldn’t see straight, but he remembered that small conscience he had now, how there was this nice person on the inside trying to beat its way out of his chest, and he pushed it all down instead.  

“Yeah.  I figured it wouldn’t go that great,” T.J. grimaced.  

Cyrus straightened up with an apologetic frown, such a genuine look pooling in his eyes that T.J. wondered if he was holding the whole universe in them.  “Don’t worry, T.J., I’m sure they’ll get over it!” he tried, and T.J. let an amused huff out of his nose.

“Cyrus, it’s fine.  I haven’t been the nicest to Buffy.  Or any of them, really.” He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to Buffy, until it hit him like a train, and then all those memories ran through his head, pressed on his brain like a paperweight.  He didn’t want to think about that day.  Not really.

“Well, I’m going to stick by your side anyway,” Cyrus told him.  T.J. smiled through the sudden pain swimming in his chest. “You’re a completely different person!  I just have to convince them.” He looked ahead as if he were in thought, then turned to T.J. “Oh, maybe you can come to Ren Fair with us!”

T.J.’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.  “What now?”

“I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just ask me that,” Cyrus said.  T.J. snorted. “It’s a festival they hold in the park where you dress up like you’re in the Renaissance!  My friends and I go every year,” Cyrus informed proudly.  T.J. loved that.  How Cyrus made everything he did sound like the best thing in the world.  

“Sounds cool,” T.J. told him.

“It is!  And you should come!  If you do, they’ll get a chance to warm up to you,” Cyrus suggested.

T.J. relented.  “When is it?”

“Saturday.”

Saturday?  He hoped it was after his...thing.  

Well, he could miss one Saturday.  Right?

“I’m there.”  He smiled, then caught Buffy’s stare a few seats back, and he turned around and waved at her.  She glared, and he dropped his hand, shrugging. “Yeah, she definitely hates me,” T.J. sighed. 

Cyrus let out a sad smile that made T.J. feel a lot better than he was willing to admit.  “Don’t worry. It’ll all smooth over in a week. Promise!”

I’ll have to take your word for it, T.J. thought to himself.  

The bus ride eventually ended (many more potholes being hit on the way), and Cyrus automatically frowned as soon as they stepped through the door.  He looked even intimidated by the 90’s styled carpet popping against the peeling wallpaper.  

“T.J., are you sure about this?  I can’t—”

“You can."  He slung an arm around his shoulders, and the worry lines between Cyrus’s brow softened the smallest bit as students filed around them.  T.J. took it as a small victory. “I’ll help you.  C’mon, let’s go find your shoe size.”

After gathering their rollerblades at the counter, they sat down in the chairs outside of the rink, skates in hand.  T.J. immediately slid his on and adjusted the laces and velcro strap attached. Cyrus frowned down at his dinosaur socks as he attempted to tug his own pair on.  

“What’s wrong?” T.J. asked, putting the strap of his left skate on.  He glanced up at Cyrus, his eyebrows scrunched together in that familiar way that T.J. liked so much.

“I don’t know how to put these on,” he whined.  

T.J. laughed under his breath, then gestured with his hands.  “Here, I’ll help. Give me your foot.”

Cyrus propped his foot onto T.J.’s knee, sort of seeming used to being helped like this—and he probably was, knowing him—but T.J. was so, so not, and his heart was fluttering in his chest like a butterfly, as cheesy and lame as it sounded.  

He tugged it over Cyrus’s sock, forcing his foot into the skate until it hit the sole, and adjusted the laces, pulling up the tongue and securing it with the strap.  

Cyrus seemed impressed.  “You are good at this,” he remarked.  “You should be a professional rollerblade putter on-er or something.”

T.J. smiled mirthfully.  He dropped Cyrus’s foot to the ground and pulled the other one into his lap.  “Is that even a real job? Or a real word?”

“It is now because you have it!”

T.J. snorted, hands fiddling with the strap.  “I hope its hours are flexible with my basketball schedule.”  He set his foot back onto the ground and smiled. “All set.”

“Thanks!” Cyrus told him with a beam.  He stood up, ankles immediately toppling sideways, not quite used to the string of wheels strapped onto his feet.  T.J. caught him by his arms and pretended the weight of them weren't like sizzling coals pressing into his palms.  

“Wow, you made it look so easy!” Cyrus wheezed out, probably trying to get his heart started again, by the looks of it.  

“You’ll get it down.  Don’t worry.” T.J. stood up beside him and moved his hands to Cyrus’s waist, raising an eyebrow.  “Ready to go into the rink?”

Cyrus’s eyes flickered worriedly between T.J. and the skaters already inside.  “Already? Shouldn’t we give everyone else a head start?”

“I won’t let you fall,” T.J. promised.  “Do you trust me?”

Cyrus took a deep breath, worry shifting into something else, softening at the edges.  He exhaled, letting a small smile curve his mouth. “Yes.  Of course I trust you.”

T.J. smiled, tried not to let his relief seep through his face.  Some probably spilled through anyway; around Cyrus, he found it hard to control anything.  Especially his emotions.  “Good. Let’s go.”

He helped Cyrus onto the rink, hands steadying on his shoulders from behind as Cyrus walked with shaky, unsure steps.  He gripped the rail as soon as he reached it.  

“Are you gonna let go of that or we just going to stand here the entire time?” T.J. asked, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Cyrus pretended to contemplate it for a second before pursing his lips.  “Nope!” he admitted, popping the ‘p’.  “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will never be able to rollerblade.  It’s on my list.”

T.J. raised an eyebrow.  “Your list?”

Cyrus sighed out of his nose, almost like he was embarrassed.  “It’s a list of things that I should be able to do but can’t.”  

T.J. paused for a second at the information Cyrus had just revealed to him.  He wished he could show Cyrus every thought he'd ever had about him, how he thought Cyrus could do absolutely anything he wanted to.  He grabbed Cyrus’s forearms instead and tugged him close.  “Well, I’m gonna help you cross this one off.” Cyrus bit his lip, fear shining in his eyes like sputtering flames.  “You trust me, remember? I said I wouldn’t let you fall.”

“That’s what someone who’s about to let you fall would say,” Cyrus said back with an easy tilt to his voice, his eyebrows raised incredulously.  Nevertheless, he allowed T.J. to guide him away from the rail, his knuckles white, fingers curled tightly around T.J.’s forearms. “Woah! This is scary,” he told him, chuckling nervously.

“It is,” T.J. agreed.  He held him closer than necessary and told himself it was for Cyrus's sake, but T.J. wasn't sure if he believed himself or not.  “Hey, I’m gonna help you. It’ll be okay. Promise.”

Cyrus nodded, that cold fear in his eyes dimming, and he swallowed.  “Okay, if you say so. I have complete faith in you.”  

The words shouldn't have burned T.J. up like it did, but the hairs on his arms were singed and he was drowning in flames.  He gripped Cyrus tighter, hoping the feeling would subside. “Ready?”

Cyrus nodded once firmly, sudden determination flaring up in him like a beacon.  “Ready.”

It wasn’t the greatest at first.  Skates were ramming into skates, ankles were going sideways, and they were barely dodging into classmates that were circling the rink like it was nothing.  

T.J. didn’t think he had smiled so much in his life. 

Cyrus was so, so eager to learn, and T.J. was trying to be a good teacher, as good as he could possibly be.  He didn’t get mad when Cyrus slipped up or ran into him on accident, and he didn’t let him fall, at least, which was a good sign.  

Plus, he got to hold onto Cyrus pretty often.  He’d say it was going pretty well.

It wasn't long until Dr. Metcalf stopped them for lunch, and Cyrus climbed out of the rink with wobbly steps.  T.J. pulled off his blades for him, and he wiggled his toes in his socks like he’d just discovered he could use them for the first time.

“Much better!” Cyrus said.  T.J. laughed and put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the Dr. Metcalf, who was passing out sack lunches with their half-asleep English teacher.  

Their principal handed each of them a paper bag distastefully.  “You two having fun?”

T.J. turned to Cyrus and smiled.  “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Great,” Dr. Metcalf said.  His voice betrayed his words.  “Anyway, don’t burn the place down before we leave or else you’ll both have detention for life.”  He plastered on a sarcastic smile, and T.J. shook his head, rolling his eyes as he walked over to a table with Cyrus.

“He acts like we’re criminals or something,” T.J. snorted.

“Well, we are.  We broke the school code!” 

T.J. scoffed.  “I don’t think accidentally pulling a fire alarm is against the rules, Cyrus.”

Cyrus unrolled his sack lunch, pulling out an apple that had seen better days.  “They’ll probably draft it into the rulebook just for me,” he told T.J. “It’ll die with me.  Besides, skipping math class isn’t super horrible.  I’ve skipped gym before.”

Skipping math class.  T.J. had almost forgotten he’d told him that all those weeks ago.  His stomach turned uneasily, and he forced on a smile that felt too tight for his mouth.  “Of course you have, Underdog.”

A round of laughter erupted from behind them, and Cyrus cast his eyes to the source of the noise.  He frowned down at his bag of carrots. T.J. followed his line of sight, seeing Andi, Jonah, Buffy, and some other guy he didn’t know the name of giggling at each other.  

He nudged Cyrus’s foot under the table.  “Go talk to them.”

Cyrus raised his eyebrows in surprise.  “What?”

“Go,” T.J. said again.  Cyrus looked unsure. “Come on, I know you want to.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Cyrus protested, poking at his juice carton.  T.J. rolled his eyes, amused even though the sentiment still bounced around in his chest anyway.  T.J. didn’t think he’d want to be away from Cyrus ever.  Even when he did go into full therapist mode.  

“I’ll be fine,” T.J. insisted.  “Seriously.”

Cyrus finally cracked under his words.  "Thanks. Be right back." He sent him one last thankful smile as he pushed himself up out of his seat.  T.J. wanted to memorize how he looked right then, anxious and grateful and relieved all at once, dark hair all ruffled and face flushed from rollerblading.  He tried to make it stay in his brain. T.J. had always had a problem with making things stick, especially numbers, but it had never really been problem with Cyrus.  It was like he could do it without trying, like he was always meant to do it in the first place.

It even sounded cheesy in T.J.’s head.  But he couldn't particularly bring himself to care.  Not right now, at least.

He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully, pretending like he didn’t keep glancing behind him to see how Cyrus was doing.

“Hey,” Cyrus greeted cautiously, sitting down in one of the dozens of plastic white chairs scattered across the floor.  Buffy looked up, smile faltering as she met his gaze. 

Andi grabbed Jonah’s hand and stood up, glancing awkwardly between them.  “We’ll give you some privacy." She offered Cyrus a tentative smile. He knew she didn’t feel that great about T.J. either, but he was glad she was trying, at least.  He returned it. 

“Why?” Jonah whispered to her as she tugged him away.  Andi shushed him and led him to the arcade games off to the side, and Buffy rolled her eyes at the Frisbee player.  

The air was stiff between them, and Cyrus pressed on hesitantly.  The silence was so heavy he could feel it on his shoulders. “Where did Marty go?  He was here just a second ago.”

Buffy shrugged, like nothing he said could faze her.  Cyrus was determined to not leave this able until she broke.  “Bathroom. Not that it matters.” It came out disinterested, flat, and it was hard to find anything in Buffy’s face other than the hard stone of her eyes, but Cyrus made out a glimmer of betrayal and hurt under her mask, something that he was sure a stranger wouldn’t have been able to find.  He almost laughed to himself, remembering how intimidated he'd been by her when they were little. It was a kind of intimidation that he’d let be overshadowed by his admiration, adoring how strong and fierce Buffy had been, even when they were seven.

Cyrus tried a different approach.  “Buffy, do you remember that friend application I gave you in second grade?”

He swore her eyes softened, just for a second.  She shifted in her seat, setting down the apple that had been perched in her hand.  “Maybe. Why?”

“Well, before I ‘applied’ for our friendship,” he explained, crooking his fingers, “I was intimidated by you.”

“So?”

“So,” Cyrus continued, “I was scared of you because of how bold you were.  And because you hit me with a shovel in the sandbox,” he added on as a joke.

Buffy cracked a smile and leaned forward slightly, and Cyrus knew he was breaking down the shield glinting in her eyes, shattering it push by push.  

“And everyone was scared to be your friend, too, because even then we all knew who would beat us if we all went Lord of the Flies on each other.  But I also saw all the good qualities in you, and that made me want to be your friend.”

Her smile stopped then, her eyes glinting in realization at what he was saying, and she pulled away from him.  “Cyrus, don’t pull this psychology stuff on me to get me to like T.J. This situation is different than that!”

“How is it different?” Cyrus asked, and it came out a little exasperated because he was tired of having to justify everything he did, just wished his friends would trust him with his decisions.  He knew he was Cyrus, who was scared of everything and messed up and meddled, but he also mended things and found the good when no one else could see it. He knew he did. And he wished Buffy would see that, just this once. 

“It just is!” she retorted.  Cyrus pursed his mouth. “Listen, I swear this isn’t even about the basketball team stuff from seventh grade.  I have to tell you what happened a few weeks ago.” she started.  

Cyrus's eyebrows drew together, pulse thrumming under his skin as worry began to creep in on him.  What happened a few weeks ago that so desperately requires my attention?  He opened his mouth to ask, but a hand pulled Buffy out of her seat, and Cyrus swallowed down the questions on his tongue.

“Come on, we still haven’t raced,” Marty reminded her teasingly.  Her eyes glazed over for a second, the fire of competition that lived in her dancing in them, but she shook herself out of it.

“Wait, Cyrus—” 

He held up a hand to stop her, gave a small smile despite the nerves eating at him.  

“It’s fine,” he told her, suddenly wanting to get away from the table, from this, this conversation.  The room felt small, walls closing in on him, and, boy, was it hot in here?  “Go race.”

Buffy seemed worried, but Marty put an arm around her shoulders and led her back onto the rink, and Cyrus stumbled back over to his table with T.J.  

“Everything okay?” T.J. asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Cyrus breathed out.  He didn’t want to think about what Buffy said.  T.J. couldn’t have done anything wrong, wouldn’t of, not when they were friends, right?  Still, his mind couldn’t help but wonder… “Ready to go skate again?”

“Yeah,” T.J. said, standing up.  He tossed their trash into a garbage can beside them.  "You sure you’re okay?” He squeezed Cyrus's shoulder, and his heart started beating faster than it already was.  Cyrus chose not to dwell on why.

“Teej,” he stressed.  He thought he saw T.J. slightly smile at the nickname, and a swell of pride filled up his chest.  He’d always liked coming up with nicknames for people. “I’m fine. Come on, you still have to show me how to rollerblade!”

T.J. smiled back, and maybe it was just how the disco lights by the rink hit him just then, but his teeth seemed to almost dazzle.  “You’re right, you’re right,” he relented fondly. And, as T.J. helped him put on his skates and coaxed him back into the rink, hand pressing against his back the whole way, Cyrus just let himself pretend that this was his normal.

T.J. stood away from the rail, rolling back and forth on his skates in impatience.  They'd been working on this for hours, and Cyrus almost had it.  He knew it.

"C'mon, Cyrus, you can do it!" T.J. called over, hands cupped around his mouth.  

"Are you sure?"  His eyes were hooded, clouded over with disbelief, like even if T.J. had all the faith in the world in him, it still wouldn't be enough.  "This body was not built for rollerblading."

T.J. raised an eyebrow fondly.  "Was it built for basketball?"

Cyrus shook his head fervently.  "Nope! It was built for watching Internet videos on a foam mattress."

"Well, you shot a basketball the other day," he countered.

Cyrus tilted his head to the side, considering something for a moment.  "Touché." He smiled, and T.J. returned it. 

"You just gotta slowly let go of the rail, okay?  Trust your instincts."

Cyrus slowly leaned forward, one hand slowly inching away.  T.J.gestured forward encouragingly. "I think instincts are only given to the coordinated," Cyrus replied, brows furrowed together.  His hand dropped off completely, the other one clutched to the side knuckles white. The veins surging beneath his wrist were visible under his skin.  

T.J. rolled forward.  He held his arms out cautiously.  "I got you, Cyrus." Cyrus met his gaze, and now T.J. was sure he was looking into the universe.  He wanted to get closer, even though he knew he shouldn't.

Without glancing away from his gaze, Cyrus swallowed.  With a shaky hand, he let go of the rail completely. He stumbled at first, and T.J. flew over, ready to catch him, but Cyrus's arms shot out to steady himself.  He looked down in disbelief, then his eyes shot back up to T.J., surprised and ecstatic all at once. 

"I'm still standing!" he exclaimed.  Cyrus beamed so wide that T.J. thought the lights washing over the rink dimmed in comparison. 

"Niceburg!" T.J. stated back, grin just as big.  He held up a hand, trying to convey how proud he was without doing something stupid like—well, he probably shouldn't finish that thought—and Cyrus went ecsatically to return it.  But, in a blink, he toppled over, tripping over his own skates.  T.J. blindly reached out, catching him without really even seeing him, and suddenly Cyrus was in his arms, breathless and heart pounding against T.J.'s chest, because T.J. could feel it right then, how Cyrus's pulse was ready to leap out of his skin.  And maybe his own was, too, even.

They slipped into a moment softer than before, blurry at the edges, and that all too familiar funny feeling filled up in him like drawing up water from a well.  T.J. didn't want it to go away this time, just wanted to stay right here in this moment with Cyrus forever. He thought that if he moved, it would break like fragile glass underneath his fingertips. 

"See?  I got you," T.J. finally managed to get out.  Anything more seemed like too much, even though his brain wanted to say more, a lot of things that T.J. hadn't even let himself tread in fear that he'd drown, sink in his feelings and confusion and words that just wouldn't stop spinning in his head like the planets orbiting around the sun.  He knew how to put it into words, but didn't, couldn't admit it to himself.  Couldn't admit that his confusion was because of something a lot different than friendship.  Couldn't admit that he was— 

"Look!"  A string of laughter that felt sharp and aimed in their direction erupted from just outside the rink, and T.J. steadied Cyrus before pulling away, a flame of something he was much too accustomed to flickering in him like a lighter catching on an oil rag.  His cheeks were hot, his chest numb in shame.  

The laugh sounded again, like it was bouncing off the walls until hot anger pooled in his mouth like curling smoke.  T.J. whirled around and caught the figure out of the corner of his eye. He knew who it was without looking directly, could detect that streak of anger that roared in his chest all the same.  His fists are clenched, a string of words that he probably shouldn't use building in the back of his throat.

A hand grabbed at his arm, and T.J. jerked toward the figure in question.  His face lost some of its steel, the sharpness pulling at his features, and he softened slightly.  It was just Cyrus. Not… 

Not Reed. 

If Reed had been the one who touched him, T.J. would've…

Well, he wasn't sure what he would've done, not right now at least.  But he knew what he would've done a month ago…  

"T.J.," Cyrus started, and T.J. pushed down the red climbing in his throat, letting his attention be pulled to Cyrus. "Remember what we said at the park?  We said we'd ignore him."

T.J. let the words roll around his head, wanted to let them melt the fists at his sides.  But he couldn't, not when he was right there, staring and pointing and making him feel like…like he was… 

His heart turned hard.  From anger or fear, T.J. wasn't sure.  Maybe both.  

"You told me he wasn't worth it.  Let's keep rollerblading," Cyrus suggested.  He tugged at T.J.'s wrist, and everything felt like it was pushing at T.J. at once, like how he wanted to intertwine their hands and pretend that this was okay.  How he wished he could be as strong as Cyrus was and tune them out, pretend like they didn't exist. How he wanted to do a lot of things with Cyrus in general and didn't want to feel different for it, didn't want it to have to matter.    

Cyrus was still talking, but T.J. didn't hear him; his head was still on the other side of the room, was still hearing that cold laughter that seemed to fill up the entire rink.  He tried to ignore the blood pounding in his ears, and it was just like that day at the swings all those weeks ago, when he'd felt like he was being pulled in every direction, so many thoughts whirring around in his head that he'd thought his skull would crack, split right open.  

His senses were too sharp, too aware, almost, and all he could think to do was to splash cold water on his face and make all his thoughts disappear right down the drain. Make himself disappear, too.  

"I gotta go to the bathroom," he said abruptly, tearing away from Cyrus.  T.J. skated his way to the exit and ripped off his rollerblades, tossing them to the floor below, trying to drown everything around him out.

"T.J.!" Cyrus protested behind him.

T.J. stopped in his tracks, turned his head and looked back at Cyrus, words flying in his head until he couldn't think straight.  He noticed his eyebrows scrunched in that painfully familiar way, lips pursed together in worry, Cyrus saying his name like it mattered.  And something seemed to slot into place in his brain for the first time, something he'd been trying to fight off ever since he'd seen Cyrus that very first day, before they'd even met.

I like Cyrus Goodman.  

He whipped his head around as the words flashed in his head and pushed his way through the bathroom door, his confession dancing tauntingly behind his eyelids as he took wobbly footsteps on cracked tiles.  His hands clutched the sides of the cold porcelain of the sink, and he looked at himself in the mirror above it, frantic eyes and wild hair staring back at him. 

He had a crush on Cyrus.  

The thought had risen up in him like the sunrise over the course of their friendship, had flashed in his head in fleeting glimpses of light every once in a while, made him ask what if?, and now it was just there, blinding and glaring and impossible to ignore.  

But it was the only thing that made sense.  All that smiling, his heart practically doing gymnastics in his freaking chest, that funny feeling that would flood his stomach every time Cyrus so much as looked at him?  Why T.J. had always been watching him, even before they'd met in detention that day?  

Of course he liked Cyrus.  

Hadn't he always?

His stomach turned over, and he clutched the sides of the sink harder, staring down the drain, found it hard to meet his own eyes.   God , what was wrong with him?

Cyrus had said there was nothing wrong with him when they found out about his trouble with numbers.  But Cyrus was wrong.  There were lots of things wrong with him, a lot that Cyrus didn't even know about, and T.J. wasn't good or nice or anything like that.  Anything good that Cyrus had stirred in him always got snuffed out as easily as it came, because good things couldn't live in someone who was like him, messed up and bad and twisted.  

Angry tears pricked at his eyes, and T.J. pressed the heel of his hand to them, choking down the lump stuck in his throat.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.  

The door opened, and T.J. jerked his head up in the mirror, half-expecting it to be Cyrus himself.  

Except it wasn't.  The opposite, really.

"What are you doing here?" T.J. asked, staring at him in the reflection of the glass.  It came out more annoyed, exasperated, broken and T.J. was half-surprised none of his angry tears bled through like watercolor on canvas.  He remembered what Cyrus had said.

Don't let him get to you.

With T.J.'s past, that had never worked before, but he was willing to try.  If not for himself, then for Cyrus, at least.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't T.J. Kippen," Reed said.  It was mocking and annoyingly smug, just subtle enough to make T.J.'s skin itch.  

He whirled around from the mirror and faced Reed, arms crossed in front of his chest to put a barrier between them.  Or maybe to contain himself. Maybe both.  

T.J. clenched his jaw shakily, putting up a front that he knew wasn't exactly convincing.  That lump in his throat still pressed against his vocal chords, ached whenever he swallowed.  "What do you want?" He tried to make it sound like he didn't care, like this was a casual conversation with casual words and casual meanings, but there was always something more with Reed, something hiding underneath the surface.  Fear pressed against his chest, but he let bitter anger fill the spaces instead, let himself hide behind it before Reed would see him—God forbid— cry.  

Reed huffed haughtily, but something humorless was ringing in his eyes, in his very voice.  For once, T.J. didn't recognize who he was looking at in a frightening kind of way. Or maybe he did.  Maybe that was worse. "You see, I just don't understand why you'd throw away our whole friendship for a guy like him."

"What's that supposed to mean?" T.J. asked, but he knew.  And he also knew that Reed knew something, more than he was letting, and that same numb feeling plunged into his stomach, and T.J. wanted nothing more than to be swallowed up by a black hole right then.  

"You know what I mean."

T.J. flexed his jaw.  "Who cares?" he said. He tilted up a shoulder defensively, but he wasn't sure how it was coming across to Reed, Reed who was his best friend for years, could detect T.J.'s weaknesses and habits and deflections as easily as he could his own.  "He's my friend."

Reed snorted, and something jostled in T.J.'s stomach uneasily at how familiar the noise was.  Had it always sounded so contorted, twisted? "And what will everyone else think about that?"  

T.J. swallowed, stayed silent.  He'd been trying the last few weeks to push everyone else out of his head, to not pay attention to their stares and questions and silent judgements.  Most of all, he'd been trying to keep his own questions and judgments out of his head, but Reed was making it more difficult than it had been for a while, made it hard to even breathe.  

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Reed finished.  He turned around on his heels and headed out the door, leaving the air blasting through the vents feeling smug and heavy on T.J.'s shoulders, and T.J. wasn't sure how to move his feet from the floor, how to face everyone out there.  Because what if they knew?   What if Reed told people, told them what T.J. had just admitted to himself, or what he still couldn't confess quite yet?  

The worst part was that all T.J. wanted was for Cyrus to come in and snap him out of this, break him out of this living nightmare and make everything good again like he always did.  But he couldn't tell him.  He just couldn't, not now, not ever.  

T.J. inhaled deeply and forced himself out the door, and the whole world felt like it was sitting on his shoulders just like it used to. 

Cyrus was worried.

Generally, he was constantly worrying.  About school, his friends, his impending college status (who cared if he was only thirteen—well, almost fourteen—anyway?  He wanted to get into an Ivy League, sue him!). But, right then, his brain couldn't help but fire questions at him, asking where T.J. had gone, and why he'd run off, and what he could do to fix it.

Cyrus sighed to himself.  He didn't know how to fix it.  How could he help if it seemed like T.J. was keeping things from him, keeping him and Reed's past friendship hidden behind a thin veil?

He felt like he was missing too many pieces of information.  T.J. was confident, and Cyrus didn't think he'd let Reed's taunting get to him, except he had, and more than once.  What was T.J. not telling him?

Not for the first time since they'd become friends, Cyrus couldn't help but wonder what T.J. meant when he said he ate alone at lunch, or why he never saw him stealing muffins with his friends from the basketball team anymore.  What exactly had happened to make him and Reed rivals, anyway? Cyrus felt like he lived under a rock at times, but he was pretty well involved in Jefferson Middle School gossip—or he had been last year, when Jonah had been dating Amber, at least—but wouldn't he have heard about something big like that happening?  The captain of the basketball team and one of his teammates having a major rift seemed like pretty big news to Cyrus. 

He wandered aimlessly out of the rink (nearly tripping on his way out, of course, with his luck) and plopped down in one of the plastic white chairs from earlier, pulling at the knots and straps T.J. had fixed on there for him.  How had T.J. even put these on? How would he even be able to take them off ?  It was like they were permanently glued to his feet!

A shadow loomed over him, blocking the overhead lights from hitting him, and a sigh sounded above.  Cyrus glanced up, eyebrows drawn together.

Buffy.

A sort of half-smile pulled at his mouth.  Maybe he'd gotten through to her after all!  Maybe she realized that T.J. wasn't so bad anymore and that they could move past this, could all be friends!

Or at least Cyrus hoped so.  Buffy wasn't really the forgiving type.  She held grudges close to her chest like a hand of poker cards.  If there was a competition about who could hold a grudge the longest, Buffy would definitely win.

"Do you need help?" she asked, slightly exasperated.  She sunk down in the chair across from him before Cyrus could even answer, and he let out a grateful sigh of relief.  

"Yes, thank you," he told her.  Cyrus plopped down his foot into her lap carelessly, wheels digging into her thighs, and Buffy winced (more out of annoyance than pain, Cyrus was pretty sure), undoing the straps and laces for him.

"Cyrus…," she started, and Cyrus's stomach dropped, all too familiar with her tone.  She was trying to break something easily to him, but Buffy was as blunt as a hammer and usually dropped him in scalding water whenever she tried to give him bad news.  He shook his head fervently, worry winding in his chest.

"Please, Buffy," he pleaded, a slight pout settling on his face.  "I don't know if I can do this right now. I have to find T.J."

An aggravated scoff drew from her lips, and she tugged off his skate, tossing it onto the floor.  He pulled it from her lap. "Cyrus, did T.J. even tell you why he got detention?"

The question took him by surprise.  What did this have anything to do with what she was going to tell him earlier?  "Yeah," he said slowly, lips pursed. "He kept skipping math class.  Why?"

She sighed exasperatedly.  "That's what I was trying to tell you, Cyrus!  He's been lying to you."

The world turned bleary.  Cyrus swallowed, then tried to blink the blurriness out of his eyes.  No, T.J. wouldn't…would he?   "I don't understand—"

"He and Reed got in a fight in the gym!" she interrupted.  

And then the world stopped completely. 

"They were talking and then T.J. started punching him out of nowhere.  Coach Bag had to break them apart, but he almost had to get the school resource officer as backup," Buffy continued, rushed it out all in one breath.

"How do you know that?"  Cyrus pretended to study the laces on his other rollerblade, ran his eyes over it while trying to blink the sudden pooling in his eyes.  T.J. couldn't, wouldn't have lied to him.  They were friends, they trusted each other— 

Well.  Maybe the trust had been one-sided after all.  Cyrus swallowed against the lump in his throat, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to inhale a deep breath.  The tightness in his chest didn't want to go away, stuck to him like stubborn duct tape.  

"I'm in that gym class, Cyrus.  I saw it happen.  Trust me!"

Cyrus stared down at his hands, refusing to let the tears filling in his eyes to escape.  He remembered that day T.J. grabbed his hand, both of them running through the hallway like they were on clouds, and he closed his palms, willing the memory to go away before he really did cry in front of everyone.  "I do," he admitted quietly.  He glanced up at her, and the fire dancing in her eyes dimmed, compassion filling them instead.  "I do trust you."  

He remembered how he'd said the same thing to T.J. a little over seven hours ago, and Cyrus bit his lip, forcing the lump in his throat down.  

Do you trust me?

Yes.  Of course I trust you. 

But now?  Cyrus wasn't so sure anymore.  

Before Cyrus could tuck away the expression on his face, could hide it away until he was in bed later that night to unravel and smooth out his thoughts like tangled yarn, a bullhorn sounded, and Cyrus shrunk down in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose to subside the aching behind his eyes.

"Time to go!" a deep voice said, Dr. Metcalf maybe.  There were too many students and too many sounds and too many of the patterns on the walls were crumpling inward.  A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, his lungs tight in his chest. He shot Buffy a desperate look.  

"You can sit with me," Buffy assured.  Cyrus nodded, exhaled even though he felt like he couldn't.

When they finally boarded the bus, Cyrus caught a glimpse of T.J. in their seat from that morning, looking out the window like he was in his own world.  Cyrus forced himself to glance away, and once the bus driver started up the engine, he grabbed onto Buffy's hand, knuckles white as he squeezed tightly, trying to keep the betrayal from swimming in his chest and sweeping him away.  She had to keep him together before he could erode away into a gaping, hollow chasm.  Before he became just like one of those potholes in the road.

Chapter Text

Three days.  

It'd been three days away from Cyrus.  Three days without his notes, without the sun that always shone in his words.  Three days without Cyrus’s smile lighting up in him like a cluster of stars ripping open the night sky.

T.J. didn’t know what he expected exactly.  That this knot in his chest would just go away?  That all his problems would be solved and Cyrus would still be waiting for him at the end of the rainbow?

Rainbow.  T.J. would’ve snorted if he weren’t such a mess right now.  

It wasn't like they were fighting.  You had to be talking to be fighting, right?  It was just...silence on both ends. He meant, they hadn't even said anything to each other since Friday, after he'd run off to the bathroom like an idiot, after Reed had confronted him, after he'd realized that…

That he liked Cyrus.  A lot.  

It was still hard to admit it.  Knowing that there were people out there like Reed, people that had known him for years and would never accept that part of him.  That maybe he himself would never accept it, either.  

Clearly T.J. needed to get out of the house.  If only he could make it out of his room… 

A part of him had expected that Cyrus would call him by now, that his voice would wave away the cloud of doubt fogging up his head like a condensed window.  But he hadn’t. Hadn’t even texted him. Not that T.J. had texted him either, or even called. He’d thought about it more than once, had even hovered over the dial button, but something always stopped him right before, caught in his chest like a fishing hook.  So he tossed his phone back into the sea of blankets like his basketball phone case was physically burning him and tried to forget, forget about everything tossing and turning in him until his mind went numb.

Yeah.  So T.J. missed him.  Cyrus was the kind of person you missed even when he was on the other side of the room.  He always brought out that not-so-terrible part of T.J., that nice person on the inside wanting to get out.

Coincidentally, Cyrus also brought out that part of him he didn’t like to dwell on, drew it out of him like water from a bottomless well.  Except now that he couldn’t stop thinking about it, and Cyrus was the only person he could think of to help him.  But T.J. couldn’t ask Cyrus why his heart always stuttered in his chest around him, why sometimes he wanted to kiss (yeah, T.J. was using that word now) Cyrus until the worries in his chest fell away.  And he knew if he ever tried, it would just burst out of him like a spring.  And T.J. didn't think he’d ever be able to stop.  

It was easier, better to just ignore it until it went away.  Even if it did mean forgetting Cyrus.  

God, T.J. couldn’t forget Cyrus even if he tried.  He was so stuck in his head by now that T.J. didn’t think he’d ever be able to get him out.

Anyway…

He missed Cyrus.

God, he missed Cyrus.  

T.J. snapped his book shut (he’d been so desperate to shut his head up that he’d been trying to drown it out with a book.  On spring break) and slipped on his gym shoes, sweeping up a worn basketball with his hands.  

Maybe playing basketball in the park will get my mind off things, T.J. suggested to himself with a shrug.  

If only he’d remembered that his plans never worked out in his favor in the first place… 

Cyrus was miserable.

In previous years, spring break had always meant trips to Adrenaline City, canoe rides on the lake, lazy visits to the park… 

Now every time Cyrus saw a swingset, he forced himself to turn away.

He poked at his baby taters, a tell-tale sign that something was wrong, off-kilter.  He'd only refused to eat them once before, and that was over a year ago, right before he'd told Buffy about his crush on Jonah—about how he was...different.  Then he'd been all fear and frayed nerves, anxiety swimming through his bloodstream like bubbling caffeine. Right now he was tired and crumpled inward like used paper and found it hard to stomach anything, especially Jonah and Andi's constant disagreements (one of which they were starting up again at that exact moment).  

He felt Buffy's sigh before he heard it, her shoulders rising up and her chest falling just as the heat of their argument had risen up just loudly enough to sting their ears, and she gestured to the booth behind them with a jerk of her thumb.

"Let's give them a little privacy," Buffy suggested dryly, mouth pulled into a grimace.  Cyrus thought he detected the buzz of annoyance in her voice at the entire routine of it, of how Jonah and Andi's fighting was becoming a normal thing in their group hangouts, but lately everything had started to soften into a low hum, whirring and monotone.  Cyrus couldn't really tell if he was tuning everyone out, too overwhelmed with the sadness swimming in his chest, or was just losing his hearing from his two friends' bickering. Probably both, he decided silently to himself, then thought that was too mean and changed his mind instead.

Instead of bothering with a reply, Cyrus nodded and wordlessly picked up his belongings (although he left his share of their now cold baby taters in their grease-stained basket, his stomach feeling too queasy to choke down any more of them).  The two situated themselves in the booth, Buffy facing away from Jonah and Andi while Cyrus could still make out the faint outline of their heads over the springs of Buffy's hair if he strained in his seat. He slouched down a little more than preferable so he didn't have to see either of them.

"What's wrong?" Buffy asked in a low, curious voice.  She eyed the lingering waitress clearing the table off beside them, as if she could intimidate her into leaving.  To Buffy's credit, she did seem to wipe the tables down faster.  

He pursed his lips, shrugging in a defeated kind of silence.  (It was probably a bad habit he'd picked up from T.J.; T.J. was constantly shrugging.  Cyrus would say it drove him crazy if the memory didn't puncture his heart the way it did right then.)  This felt all too on par with their conversation about his crush on Jonah a few weeks ago, back when Jonah and Andi were still head-over-heels for each other, back when he wasn't questioning his infatuation for Jonah, back when he'd thought he and T.J. would always remain at a distance, never tangled up in each other's lives the way they were now.  Heck, they were even sitting in the same booth; the air even had the same kind of melancholy filling it, hanging over their heads like a stubborn rain cloud. It was like the universe was taunting him, in a twisted sort of way.

The universe had never really been too kind to him in his thirteen (almost fourteen!) years, really.  Becoming friends with Buffy and Andi had been some weird fluke, and everything else seemed to be thrown randomly at his feet, either filling him up with joy or crumbling him down into dust.  Cyrus couldn't decide which one T.J. was supposed to be right now. He was leaning towards the latter.  

Buffy shot him an incredulous look at his obvious silence, and Cyrus shook his head.  "I'm fine. Really," he insisted.

"Cyrus," she said, arching a brow in disbelief.  "We've been best friends since the second grade. I think I can tell when you're not fine," she pressed, and suddenly Cyrus wished he had that basket of baby taters with him so he wouldn't have to meet the blazing fire that always danced in her eyes.  He always melted into a puddle of truth and nerves under her gaze, so he settled for staring at the split laminate on the table instead.

"I'm okay!" he squeaked.  It came out a decibel higher than what was natural.  Curse his voice for giving him away so easily!  

"Cyrus," she drawled on.  He glanced up more out of habit than willingness.  To distract himself, he took a sip of his milkshake, pretending it wasn't tasteless mush like everything else had been the last three days.  

He gulped it down, her eyes still boring holes into him, and he pushed the sweating glass to the side, his hand coming away wet.  He wiped it with a napkin.

"I'm waiting!" Buffy reminded, eyebrows raised and lips pulled into an expectant line.

"Okay, I'm a mess!" he admitted.  His sudden burst took out some of the dull drag that had been hiding in his voice since Friday.  "I'm a mess and I have no idea what to do."

Buffy leaned forward in her booth seat, slightly taken aback if the startled look in her eyes was any indication.  She lowered her voice. "Is this about Jonah?"

Cyrus blinked, brow scrunching together.  He hadn't even given his—well, whatever they were anymore—for Jonah a second of thought.  Everything else in him was so full, cramped with emotions he didn't know what to do with, that he hadn't been able to dwell on it much.  Then, Cyrus realized, he hadn't been talking about Jonah much at all lately, at least not with Buffy, even though he'd been spending more time with him than he normally did.

Feelings were so confusing.  He was a son of four shrinks and even he couldn't sort out his own emotions lately.

"It's about T.J.," he said.  The basketball player's name felt twisted coming out of his mouth, somehow, like he'd stressed the wrong syllable.  Everything about what he had with T.J. had become contorted, warped. Cyrus had kept their notes in his locker over the break just so they wouldn't taunt him for the week.

He'd thought that they were friends.  That T.J. wanted to be his friend, wanted to trust him with his stuff.  Apparently he'd been wrong. So, so horribly wrong.  It just didn't make sense!  Why would T.J. tell him about his math stuff but not about a fight he'd gotten into?

Cyrus was going to have to book an extra therapy session with his stepmom this afternoon just from all of this.

"T.J. Kippen is the person that's had you in this funk for days?" Buffy said.  An exclamation point practically sprung from her voice. "Even after he lied to you about why he got detention?"  

"That's why I'm upset," Cyrus stressed, putting his head down on the table.  "I thought we were friends and that he trusted me, and now…," he trailed off with a frown, and an irritated sigh was drawn from Buffy's lips.  Buffy liked things to be cut and dry, easy to pick apart and sort, and dealing with feelings had never been her strong suit. Cyrus was sure that if there was a way to organize emotions into storage boxes, Buffy would be the person to figure out how.

"He's a terrible person, Cyrus!  You can't play nursemaid to every mean person you come across.  You can't fix everyone—" 

"It's not like that!" Cyrus protested.  His fingers curled around the napkin, then released, downcast.  "He just needed a friend. He's the one who's changing," Cyrus said, maybe more to himself than to Buffy.  "I'm just there for him."

"Well clearly he wasn't there for you," Buffy pointed out.  That boulder weighing his stomach down nearly doubled in weight, gluing him to his booth seat.  His knees felt weak. "Why are you defending him?"

Any words that were sitting on his tongue disappeared, dissolved like warming snow, and something clicked, a final puzzle piece slotting into place.  It just doesn't make sense! he'd thought to himself only seconds ago. Why would T.J. tell me about his math stuff but not about a fight he'd gotten into? 

Cyrus shook his head a little, realization glinting in his eyes.  "I'm not sure. But...I know that T.J. wouldn't lie to me unless he had a good reason."  He had to have a reason.  Even if Cyrus was on rocky footing with his and T.J.'s friendship right now, he still had that faith in him, that T.J. would choose good in the end, that he'd do the right thing.  

And Cyrus had to let him explain.

"So what are you going to do?" Buffy asked, nose wrinkled.  

Cyrus stood up from his booth, grabbing his jacket, courage stirring in his veins as he stood up with shaky limbs.  "I think I have to ask him."

"Cyrus, don't—" she started, confusion flooding her voice.  "Wait up!"

He was already out the door.

Reed found him again somehow.  At the basketball court.

T.J. wasn't as angry as he was jarred.  He didn't expect to see him of all people, alone in the park without his friends to back him up.  His first thought was that Reed seemed kind of empty, hollow without his gang of friends following him around.  That was how T.J. had felt after the whole incident, unsure of where to turn after he broke away from all of his old friend group.  From their old friend group.  Cyrus had filled that emptiness, that gaping hole in T.J.'s chest, patched him up like a quilt.  Had made him feel a little less lost.

His second thought, however, as Reed grew closer, was that he wasn't lost at all.  He was still wearing that same manic grin, those same eyes glinting with mischief. It all had used to bring comfort to T.J., stirred something familiar in him, but now he was forced to see it in a harsher light, how his eyes were filled with something more dangerous than mischief, how his smile was crooked on one side, tilted up more than the other.  Uneasiness flooded T.J.'s stomach.

Instead of feeding into his taunting grin, T.J. stared straight at the goal with the ball tilted toward the net, trying desperately to ignore the lump of panic and repressed anger swelling in his throat.  

"Don't miss!" Reed's voice called out, mocking.  The ball flew out of T.J.'s hands, hitting the rim and thudding onto the blacktop.  

Just my luck, he thought to himself sarcastically.  

Reed swiped the ball from the ground, basketball shorts swishing against pale knees as he dribbled once, then twice.  He leapt up and the ball flew from his fingertips, striking the backboard. The ball toppled back to the concrete, and T.J. smirked to himself.

He faced his old friend, plastering on a sarcastic smile as hard as plastic.  "Maybe you'll be captain next year," T.J. suggested with false nonchalance. His sarcasm stuck out like a sharp needle.

Reed didn't take the bait, his expression steady. "It wasn't my best shot," he admitted, a carefree shrug tilting one of his shoulders.  T.J. waited a beat for the catch as Reed tossed the ball from hand to hand. "It wasn't yours, either. Figure you've lost your touch after hanging around with Goodman."

Reed flicked the ball to T.J., trying to catch him off guard—but T.J. caught the pass with both hands, adrenaline rushing through him, bright and white-hot.  "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. It was such a weird way of looping Cyrus into this, including him in a conversation that had nothing to do with him, but T.J. understood why, got why Reed was doing this.

He was taunting him.  

T.J. didn't know what had happened, what switch had flipped in his old friend's brain, but he didn't used to be like this.  He was Reed, the kid who chipped his tooth after diving headfirst into Lester's pool, the same boy he used to drive motorbikes with until there was so much dust in the air that they couldn't see.  And this…T.J. didn't know who this was. He wasn't sure he wanted to. 

Reed laughed a little to himself under his breath.  T.J.'s skin was starting to burn, like the sun was trying to melt it right off until there was nothing left of him.  "Why are you doing this?" T.J. questioned, a sort of tired sincerity punching his words.  He was tired of the way Reed was making him question his every step, like a wrong move would blow everything around him into shattered glass, would break his world apart.  Tired of everything. "Seriously. I just want it to stop."

The manic expression dropped from Reed's face altogether, rapidly being replaced by a cold, hard anger, the kind that could send chills right down to your spine.  T.J. purposely ignored the traitor goosebumps that rose on his arms.  

"This is about you walking away from our four years of friendship for him."

T.J. could feel defensiveness rise in him, inching up his throat.  "I didn't walk away from it.  You made that decision for me," he spat.  He clenched down hard on his jaw, trying not to be swept away by his anger.  Because the last time he had, it hadn't exactly ended well… 

The memory rolled back into his head like ocean waves, swept him up and burned his lungs and stung his throat raw.  

He'd been trying to force his locker combination open, yanking at the lock.  Feeling the whole universe pulling at him in every single direction.  

God, I'm gonna be late to class again, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes.  Maybe he really was dumb.  He meant, he couldn't even get his stupid locker open.  

The warning bell rang.  

Well.  He guessed he still had enough time to pick it open… 

T.J. sensed a presence behind him just as he reached for the pin he kept in his pocket.  He turned around, then felt his chest squeeze in relief.

"Need your locker opened again?" Reed asked, punching him in the shoulder.  T.J. huffed, trying to seem more annoyed than he actually was.

"Yeah, it won't open," T.J. scoffed.  "I think it hates me or something."

Reed snorted.  "It's not that hard, man," he said, punching in T.J.'s combination.  A sweep of red rose in T.J.'s chest, at himself more than anything. He knew it wasn't hard.  Wasn't supposed to be, anyway, at least not for most people.  It didn't really ever work out that way for him.

Reed pulled at locker with ease, hinges squeaking as it swung open.  "See? It's easy, dude."

For you, T.J. thought bitterly to himself.  Stupid, stupid, stupid . 

The bell decided to ring just then, almost as if it were taunting him, T.J. was convinced.  He stuffed his books onto different shelves, wondering whether he could get away with leaving his algebra textbook in the trash instead.

"Come on, dude.  We're gonna be late for gym," Reed pointed out, running a hand through his blonde hair.  T.J. nodded along with him, then shut his locker behind him. A flash of dark hair caught his eye, heart stopping.

T.J. stared for a second, then another, a funny feeling pooling in his stomach.  He felt a hand make contact with his shoulder, and he jerked out of his reverie.  

"Dude," Reed scoffed next to him.  T.J. shook his head, a weird knot forming in his throat.  

"What?" T.J. asked, pulling his eyes off of him finally.  Off of Cyrus.

Embarrassment swept through his chest, made the tips of his ears hot.  T.J. hadn't even met Cyrus, and yet there he was, openly staring at him in the middle of the hallway.  Like an idiot.

Reed looked at him weirdly.  T.J. wanted to peel back all the layers to his face, but Reed turned away before he could, beginning to walk forward.  "Nothing, man. Let's go, or Bag won't let us play basketball."

T.J. paused.  He peeked at Cyrus again out of the corner of his eyes, heard his laugh like ringing bells.  He was talking to… 

To Jonah Beck.  His stomach turned for whatever reason.

He looked away, followed Reed to the boys' locker room.  Tried not to think about the thoughts rising in his head like hot air.

T.J. wasn't obsessed with Cyrus or anything weird like that.  He wasn't.  He just…felt this weird pull to him. He knew it sounded weird, especially for someone he'd never officially talked to, at least, so he kept it to himself, knew Reed and Lester wouldn't understand, but sometimes he was afraid that Reed knew more than he was letting on.  Reed could be observant, and sometimes that scared T.J., how much was thrumming under the surface with his best friend; it was hard to guess what he was thinking. T.J. had known him for four years, and even he wasn't sure most of the time.

Yeah.  So T.J. didn't tell anyone else about it.  It was probably for the best, anyway.  T.J. didn't entirely understand it himself either.

He hurriedly threw his gym T-shirt on, exchanged his jeans for basketball shorts, kept his tennis shoes on.  He pushed his way out the door. Reed was already out in the gym with a basketball tucked under his arm with Lester by his side.  And…Driscoll?

Confused, he approached Reed.  His tennis shoes squeaked under the gym floors, the newly placed wax from the summer already scuffed and wearing thin.  

"What's going on?" he asked.  He tried to ignore her, Buffy, but the same kind of anger that was filling in his chest in the hallway was sweeping over him now, too, like when he was so frustrated he could feel it pooling in his mouth. 

Something about her just rubbed him the wrong way.  He'd noticed it back at tryouts in seventh grade, how unnervingly confident she was, how she moved the ball like she was the only one on the court.  

T.J. talked to the coach right after.  Told him that they couldn't have her on the team, threatened to quit if she was accepted.  It'd worked. He meant, he was the captain. Of course it did.

He snatched the ball under Reed's arm to distract himself from the weird feeling consuming him from the inside.  He dribbled it, the noise monotone by his feet.

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

"Bag said we have to let her play on our team because we were late," Reed scoffed.  He didn't even bother hiding his disdain; his annoyance splayed across his face like a painting.  

T.J.'s stomach fell, twisted together.  Like it was trying to collapse itself. Or maybe collapse him from the inside.  

He scoffed.  He wasn't exactly sure who it was targeted at; it scared him that it seemed mostly directed at himself.  "Fine, whatever. Me and Driscoll versus you and Lester." He handed her the basketball, an olive branch of sorts, maybe, T.J. wasn't sure.  He just knew he didn't want to drown in old feelings, that stale anger and something else (guilt, his brain screamed at him) that he reserved for her; he had enough new emotions to deal with as it was.

"No," she finally spoke.  Her voice was more sarcastic than T.J. remembered, feigned sweetness.  All his old annoyance came rushing back to the surface. "Me and Lester against you guys."

"Fine."  T.J. matched her false smile, eyes steel.  He plucked the ball out of her hands, and her smile dimmed for a second, fire igniting in her eyes.  It was almost too easy to rile her up. T.J. sort of missed it, just the smallest bit. "Us first."

Buffy put on that sugary-sweet smile again.  T.J.'s throat burned. "Sure thing, T.J."

She checked the ball with him, and the second it was back in his fingertips, T.J. was dribbling, inching closer to the net.  Reed was wrestling away from Lester, who was blocking him, and T.J. held his breath, tossing the ball into the net without even blinking.  It fell through the net, and relief went through his chest. He couldn't lose to Buffy, couldn't let her of all people be right. 

She was already better than him at everything, anyway.  He didn't need this taken away from him, too. If it was, T.J. didn't know what he would do… 

"That game was totally rigged, bro."  Reed poured water into his mouth from his water bottle, wiped his mouth messily to get rid of the excess.  A drop landed on T.J.'s boiling skin, and he rolled his eyes.

Slayer, Slayer, Slayer!   He could still hear the chanting ringing in his ears after she'd beaten them, that last toss swishing through the net, T.J.'s fingertips barely brushing the ball as he tried to stop it.  Tried to stop her.

Defeat immediately flooded through his chest, that awful feeling of trying his hardest but still not being good enough.  Just like when he spent hours studying for a math test and Mr. Coleman still failed him anyway.

Slayer, Slayer, Slayer!

T.J. flexed his jaw, muscles shifting.  Maybe if he squeezed his eyes shut tightly enough, he'd disappear. 

"We should get back at her."  

T.J. blinked, taken aback.  His eyebrows drew together. "What do you mean?"

Reed shrugged, eyes smug.  "Get a little revenge, you know.  Show her not to mess with us."

He remembered the gloating in her eyes that filled immediately after she won, that sarcastic smile directed straight at T.J.  How, somehow, that stupidly fake smirk felt like being called not good enough, useless, stupid.  

T.J. huffed slightly, mouth curving.  "Yeah. Let's do it."

When Buffy turned her back, Reed immediately drifted over to the pink duffel bag that Buffy had abandoned on the gymnasium bleachers.  He dug through it while T.J. took look out; they hadn't really discussed it, hadn't even formulated a plan, really, but it was one of those unspoken rules best friends had.  T.J. went along with Reed's stupid schemes, Reed didn't bring up his weird thing with Cyrus. Stuff like that.

"Aha!" Reed declared behind him.  T.J. turned to him, eyes flickering down to the object in Reed's hands.

"What'd you find?"

Reed flipped over the item—a phone, T.J. realized—eyes glinting with mischief the way they always did.  Something was pressing against T.J.'s chest, a hand weighing on his heart, somehow, but he pushed it down, gave his attention to Reed instead.  Even if he did have a conscience, T.J. didn't even know that he'd ever listen to it. Or if he'd even be able to.

"Dude, I wonder what she's keeping on here," Reed huffed, clearly amused.  

T.J. shrugged.  "What’re you gonna do with it?"

Reed seemed to silently weigh the options as he searched for the power button, head tilting to the side as he did so.  "Dunno. What do you think the passcode is?" The phone flickered to life, the background of her and an older woman in a military uniform, probably her mom, T.J. guessed.  Something—guilt, maybe, T.J. wasn't sure—rose up in the back of his throat.  

"Dude, let's just put it back," T.J. tried, trying to sound casual.  He cast a glance over his shoulder. No one was paying them any attention, luckily.  He hoped it stayed that way. "C'mon, we can get her back another way."   

Reed's eyes lit up.  Not in the lightbulb kind of way, but in the dangerous fire kind of way, like just being near him would burn you up from the inside out.  T.J.'s stomach twisted uneasily.  

"Bro, no way…look at this text she got!"  Laughter swept up in his throat, hand grasping at his shirt, and any anger T.J. was holding against Buffy suddenly sank down to his shoes, rapidly being replaced with fear as the screen blinked back at him.

Buffy, help me!  I think Jonah might be catching onto my crush on him...unless I'm being paranoid?  Please tell me I'm being paranoid. -Cyrus, Good Hair Crew Member #3.

Another round of laughter escaped from Reed's mouth, sharp and piercing and echoing off the gym's concrete walls, and the edges of T.J.'s vision grew blurry.  His throat went tight.

"Dude, that's hilarious.  We gotta tell someone," he said, nudging T.J. in the bicep.

"Wait, what?"  T.J. asked, confused.  "What would we do with it?"

Reed snorted.  "Who knows? Say it on the intercom.  At the next pep rally, maybe. That'll show Buffy not to act like she's better than us."

"What do you mean?"  His voice was growing defensive, bleeding through the casual veil he'd placed, but he couldn't help it; when it came to Cyrus, T.J. never could, even if he didn't entirely understand it.

He scoffed, voice gnarled, somehow, like the knots in T.J.'s stomach.  "If we embarrass Gayman, then we hurt Driscoll. What's the problem here?"

Surprise caught T.J. by the throat.  He didn't…he meant, he didn't think… 

The words rang back in his head.  If we embarrass Gayman, then we hurt Driscoll.  What's the problem here?

There were a lot of problems.  Like that Reed was going to embarrass Cyrus, go too far over a line that T.J. didn't want to cross.  Hurt Buffy, too, maybe. And maybe the biggest problem of all was that T.J. wasn't stopping him.

He swallowed down his doubt, courage inching up his veins.  "You can't do that."  

Reed laughed, like T.J. was joking.  "Why not, dude? It'll be funny. You ever see the way her face gets when she's mad?  Priceless."

That same guilty feeling clawed at his throat.  Red flooded behind his eyelids. "I'm serious. This isn't funny."  

He snatched the phone out of Reed's hands and tossed it back into Buffy's duffel bag.  All the amusement on Reed's face melted off like draining the blue right from the sky. His mouth was stone, eyes cold.  Challenging. "Who's gonna stop me?"

T.J. pushed him forward, fists clenched, let the anger living in him take over.  Then the whole world turned black, like the sun had disappeared for good. And, maybe in that moment, it had.

He didn't really remember what happened next, exactly.  Well, he remembered the thud that followed when Reed fell to the floor, the way it rattled his chest.  He remembered the skin around Reed's eye bursting into shades of blue and purple under his fist. And his classmates chanting over and over, how it was so loud that it filled T.J.'s ears until everything shuttered into white noise.  Then a hand yanking at his shoulder, trying to rip him away from Reed, trying to make him stop.  But he couldn't.  

And most of all T.J. remembered the fire alarm piercing through it all for a reason he didn't understand at the time, making the hair on his arms stand straight… 

It was a miracle he hadn't been expelled.  That was Dr. Metcalf's doing, he guessed. Offered that he go to detention after school, community service at a children's gymnasium, Jackson's Gym, on the weekends… 

And then he met Cyrus.  And he chose to lie instead of telling him the truth, because how could he tell Cyrus the truth when the reason he'd beat up Reed in the first place was because he was defending him, a boy that he'd never even talked to, not once?  He'd just seem like a freak. And he couldn't take away his only chance with Cyrus.

The basketball in T.J.'s hands was suddenly snatched from his grip, his reality unfolding around him like a propped open book.  He blinked, seeing Reed rolling his eyes, a scoff building in the back of his throat. It clawed at T.J.'s stomach in a way he couldn't explain.  

"Come on, all I did was call him one little name—"

"You were gonna embarrass him," T.J. argued, shaking his head defensively.  "Tell the whole school."

Reed huffed, and T.J.'s stomach burned, scorched him up like stale smoke.  "So what? It's not my fault that he was talking to Driscoll on her phone."

"You shouldn't have stolen it in the first place."  The same heat from that day crept up his neck, and Cyrus's words from last week flashed in his head.  Don't let him get to you.

He sighed, unclenched the fists that had balled up at his sides.  Tried to drain the anger from his chest.

"Don't act so high and mighty, Kippen."  His voice grew mocking. "You only got mad when I dragged Cyrus into it."  T.J.'s eyes flashed dangerously, and Reed's gaze fell on his hands twitching at his sides.  "Hit me again.  I'll just tell everyone the real reason you beat me up. Because you have a crush on Goodman."

T.J. swallowed and took a step back.  Reed's teeth flashed victoriously, amused in that twisted way of his. The smugness that framed his smile buzzed on T.J.'s skin.  

"I don't know what you're talking about," T.J. huffed, averting his eyes.  Trying to keep his fear from drowning him. He knows.  He knows, he knows, he knows.  And he's gonna tell everyone.  

Reed scoffs.  "Don't act like you don't know.  I see the way you look at him. And writing him those stupid notes?  As if it's not obvious," he shook his head and blew the stray blonde strands falling in his eyes.  "Honestly, I mean, maybe I don't need to tell anyone you like him. Everyone probably knows if they paid any attention."  

"You can't do that," T.J. tried, clenching his jaw.  

"Give me one reason as to why I can't."

T.J. breathed in, mind reeling.  He was grasping for something, anything to keep Reed's stupid mouth shut.  "I'll tell Dr. Metcalf what really happened," T.J. threatened, mouth plastic.  He hoped some fear stuck in Reed, at least long enough so that T.J. could get a grip on this, this thing living inside him, deep and wide and consuming.  He hadn't even had enough time to come fully to terms with it.  He hadn't, and it wasn't fair, not how this was supposed to happen.  He was supposed to get more time than this.

Reed's seemingly permanent smirk lost some of its steel, and the wicked, vengeful glint in his eyes dimmed a little.  T.J. sighed a little in relief, but he was still holding most of his breath, waiting for Reed to pull the rug from underneath his feet.  He wanted to exhale, so badly that his chest ached, but he knew he couldn't. So he didn't. Just held it in until he couldn't anymore.

Reed held his hands up in a mock surrender.  "I see we've reached a stalemate." He snorted, haughty in that way he always did, and began to shuffle away.  "See you around, Cap.

As he watched him move out of his line of sight, disappearing in the trees, T.J. rolled over their conversation in his head, couldn't tell if he meant it.  That they'd reached a stalemate. He couldn't tell a lot of things anymore. It was like the world had shifted off its axis, and, to be fair, maybe it had. Reed wasn't the same friend he used to be, funny and laid back and whose main concern was only about getting a homerun in baseball, racing T.J. across an imaginary finish line in the middle of the desert.  Then again, T.J. wasn't the same guy either, the one who'd kicked a girl off the basketball team, beat up his best friend… 

Well, at least he hoped not.  He was trying, anyway.  He hoped that that was enough.

T.J. messed with the lock, pin shifting in the keyhole.  The number at the top flashed under the dim overhead lights.  120.

He remembered a month ago, when he didn't know how to approach him.  Cyrus, whose eyes were brighter than the whole hallway.  How T.J. wanted some of that brightness, too.  He wondered if that was what drew him in, that light that lived in Cyrus.  T.J. had anger living in him instead; Cyrus made it better, though. He made everything better.  Golden.  

The pin fumbled in his hand as a round of cheers sounded from the nearby gym, and T.J. nearly cursed under his breath.  He'd known there was a volleyball game today; it was how he knew the doors to the school would be unlocked in the first place, but the least they could do was be a little more quiet when he was trying to break open Cyrus's locker.  Was there no consideration in this school?

He pressed his ear against the door, and a click sounded behind the metal.  He yanked at the handle victoriously, the door willingly swinging open. Cyrus's locker was much more cooperative than his own.

T.J. reached up, hand feeling around blindly, and he pulled out a stack of papers from the top shelf, the notes Cyrus kept up there next to his artbox.  He didn't know why…he meant, he wasn't sure what drew him here of all places, right when his world seemed to be falling apart.

But T.J. wanted answers, answers about him, answers about what all he felt for Cyrus.  And maybe these notes had some.

The one on top caught his eye in particular, from just a few days ago, and a ghost of a smile played at his lips.  He stuffed the rest of the notes in his pocket, shutting the locker door with a soft click and leaning against it as he scanned over the paper.  

I like your green jacket!  Looks good with your eyes. -Cyrus, AKA "The Color Consultant" (it's a work-in title!)

You look at my eyes? 

Of course not!  I mean, not on purpose!  Sorry, that was a weird thing to say.

Nah, it's okay.  You look good in blue, too.  Also...The Color Consultant?

Thanks...also, do you like it?

Yeah, I do.  Suits you.

Is that a compliment?  I can never tell with people.

Yeah, it's a compliment.  I like your nicknames, Underdog.

T.J. huffed fondly to himself, rolling his eyes.  Yeah, he didn't know why he was looking for answers here.  There was nothing he didn't already know in them. They just proved that he had a big stupid crush on Cyrus, something that was so large that it seemed bigger than the whole world sometimes.  

"What are you looking at?"

T.J. jerked his head up at the voice, reflexively slipping the note into his pocket with the rest of them.  He inhaled, trying to steady his chest.

"Nothing," he lied smoothly, shrugging.  He came out casual on the outside, but inside he was explosive fireworks and frayed nerves and being split right down the middle.  

Cyrus smiled, small, but there was something off about it, like if T.J. poked holes into it, it might just break.

"I didn't peg you as a volleyball fan," Cyrus remarked.

T.J. relaxed into his words.  He knew it had been a weird, strained few days since they last talked, but it almost felt like normal between them.  Almost.

"I didn't peg you as one, either," T.J. replied easily.  He took a step forward, hesitant, like the tiles on the school floors would crack if he moved too suddenly.  "Is that why you're here?

"Um, no.  Actually."  A pause. His lips were pursed in that familiar way that sent T.J.'s chest flying over the edge.  "I came to talk to you."

T.J.'s lungs stopped in his chest.  "How'd you know I'd be here?" His eyebrows drew together.  It hadn't been exactly planned; he meant, he'd just been strolling down the sidewalk in town after his confrontation with Reed, and then he'd found himself pushing through the school doors without really even paying attention.  He was going to go break into the detention room originally, just to think, iron out his thoughts, but Cyrus's locker caught his eye before he'd even gotten the chance to.  

Cyrus pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping on the screen a few times.  Snaptalk GPS gleamed back at him, and T.J. fought off a smile. Of course. Cyrus loved sleuthing.

"Oh, okay," T.J. said.  The air had an edge to it, an underlying static.  His heart stuttered in his chest. "What's up?"

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Cyrus pressed hesitantly.  He took a step forward again, and T.J.'s heart decided to stop altogether. "About why you got detention."

Then the whole world did.  

The same stream of thoughts he'd had in the park poured in, different meaning to them this time.  He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

"Who told you?" T.J. managed to get out.  He knew this day would roll around eventually, the day where Cyrus found out about him and all the secrets he’d been keeping locked away, and now it'd caught up with him when he'd been trying to run away from it.  Was that why Cyrus hadn't bothered texting him since Friday, why things seemed a few degrees off center between them?

God, Cyrus probably hated him.  Thought they shouldn't be friends anymore.  And he was here to tell him in person.  Of course.  It was all making sense now.

"Buffy," Cyrus admitted, lips tucked together, eyebrows scrunched together. T.J. nodded, focusing on the dial of the lock next to him.  He couldn't meet Cyrus's eyes; he was afraid of what he'd see if he did.

Another step forward.  "Teej," he started.  

T.J. looked at him finally, green on brown, and he just kept on looking forward, drowning in Cyrus's eyes, Cyrus's smile, maybe just Cyrus in general.  It was hard not to.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

T.J. sighed, ran a hand through his hair.  He wished Cyrus's voice wasn't so calm; he wanted to lash out and let everything welled in him pour out, spill over.  "I dunno." He was growing defensive, invisible walls building between them. T.J. tried again. "I didn't want you to look at me like I'm this…this scary basketball guy.  The way everyone looks at me." He scoffed at how vulnerable, how lame he sounded.  Cyrus didn't deserve to have to put up with this, with him.  With none of it.

"I don't see that when I look at you,"  Cyrus protested, eyes wide, brow furrowed together the way it usually was.  He placed a hand on T.J.'s bicep comfortingly, and T.J. wondered when Cyrus’s touch started to feel like sparks of fire flying across his skin.  Then he wondered if Cyrus had ever made him feel normal at all. Around Cyrus, T.J. wasn’t even exactly sure what normal was.  

"Then what," T.J. stated bluntly.  "What do you see?"  He wanted to look away, but he couldn't, not when Cyrus was right there, boring into him like he knew all the secrets of the universe.  For a second, he was afraid he was stuck on Cyrus's face, maybe for all eternity, even.  

He decided maybe that wasn't such a horrible punishment.  

Cyrus's hand slipped down his arm, hovered on his wrist.  T.J. prayed to whatever god existed that he couldn't feel his pulse right then, pounding and explosive and about to leap right out of his skin.  "You're better than you think, T.J. You're…," Cyrus trailed off, and T.J.'s fingers twitched at his side, itched to intertwine their hands. Hoped Cyrus didn't notice.  Or maybe hoped that he did. Maybe a little of both. "You're one of my favorite people in the whole world," he finished, voice low, so low that T.J. had to strain to catch it. 

Cyrus's hand inched down even further, fingers brushing against T.J.'s.  T.J. swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.  

"You're the only person I can talk to like this," T.J. admitted with the little breath he had left.  He said it like it was a confession, maybe because it was, he guessed. T.J. had a lot of things he needed to admit, but he wasn't ready to say most of it out loud yet.  Not to the air, at least, not when people could eavesdrop, not when T.J. could hear it echo back into his ears and let it torture him over and over and over again.  

Applause sounded from the gym, and Cyrus jumped back, the fingers ghosting on T.J.'s hand disappearing.  T.J. decided he sort of hated volleyball right then.  

"I just…," Cyrus started, then stopped.  He sighed, trying again. "I just want to know why.  What happened that made you hurt him?"

T.J. sighed through his mouth, hadn't wanted the moment to end so soon.  Had wanted to avoid this question for as long as he could, really, but Cyrus was always looking for answers to the million questions that lived in his head, and T.J. wanted to give them to him.

At least partially.  T.J. didn't think he was ready to tell Cyrus the exact truth, the finer details of what had happened.  He didn't think he was ready to tell anyone. "Me and Reed were late to gym that day and…we had to play basketball with Buffy because of it."  He scoffed to himself. "I think Coach Bag thought he was punishing us or something."

"But wasn't he?" Cyrus asked.  "I mean, you used to really hate her."

He huffed.  Cyrus wasn't wrong; it was what got him into this mess in the first place.  "I don't anymore, but…yeah. I did. And she ended up beating me and Reed in the game, and, I don't know, I guess that really got to me."

"And?" Cyrus pressed on, eyebrows raised.  

"And," T.J. continued, tilting his head to the side, "we decided to, you know.  Get revenge, or something. It sounds so stupid now. But I went along with it. And then I started to feel guilty, I don't know. And I put a stop to it. He wouldn't listen, so…" 

"You punched him," Cyrus finished for him.  T.J. was glad; he couldn't get the words past the roof of his mouth.  "And then you got detention with me."

T.J. nodded, lips pursed.  Cyrus stepped forward and finally took his hand, squeezed it like he was trying to keep T.J. and all the little pieces he was broken into together.  He let go after a single beat, and T.J.'s heart fell.  More than he wanted to admit. "Well, I still think of you as T.J., the guy with all the confidence in the world.  Not some scary basketball guy."

T.J. snorted, pretended like his stomach wasn't doing somersaults.  "Even though I gave someone a black eye?"

Cyrus smiled slightly.  "Well, even though I don't condone it, yeah, I do.  You're still you." They shared a smile, bright enough that T.J.'s eyes ached.  "Although, to be fair, violence isn't necessarily the best answer—"

"Thank you, Cyrus," T.J. interrupted, smile fond.  He had to stop him before he got him going (even though watching Cyrus go on one of his spiels was kind of cute.  Well, more than kind of, but whatever, that was besides the point).  "Seriously. I wish I told you back then, but I was—"

"—scared?" Cyrus guessed.  He nodded. "I didn't think you could be scared of anything."

T.J. wanted to say, I always am.  You scare me, Cyrus.  The way you make me feel scares me more than anything.  Instead, he asked, "Wanna go catch the rest of that volleyball game with me?"

Cyrus's eyes lit up and the corners of his mouth turned, an expression T.J. had missed so much that it made his chest ache.  

"Yeah," Cyrus said, trying to sound nonchalant.  T.J. could see right through it, how his excitement bled through his words.  "I would."

They began their journey down the hallway, hands bumping against each other as they walked, and everything in T.J.'s chest spilled over.  He tried to swallow down everything sweeping through him like a sandstorm. This crush on Cyrus was never going to go away, was it?

T.J. didn’t even know why he bothered asking himself that.  He already knew the answer.

No, he answered for himself.  He wasn’t even sure how he’d fallen for Cyrus Goodman before even knowing him, but now that they were friends, he wasn’t sure he’d ever find his way out.

Chapter Text

Cyrus opened his eyes.  Pale sun spilled over his face, a calm breeze pulling at his clothes.  A rock skipped across the water and then immediately sank below, settling into silt.  Paddles skated on top of clear waves and trees bristled in the wind. Life continued to spin on, one breath at a time.  

Cyrus exhaled.  He let the thin sunlight streaming through the heavy clouds above warm his hands.  The air plunged into a comforting silence, and the whole Earth halted, suspended right on its axis. 

Did you ever have those moments where time seemed to stop?  Like, just for one infinitesimal second, everything was still, like the entire world was pausing to take a break of air.  Cyrus loved those seconds. He loved unraveling in them, loved how they seemed to take a part of him and disintegrate it whenever they came along.  There was always so much spinning in Cyrus’s head, brimming at the edges like water sloshing in a too full glass, and those moments took some of that away, subdued a little of the static that was turned all the way up in his brain.  

It was nice.  Just to let go.  Cyrus was always planning ahead, steering his life on the strict set of train tracks he'd laid out, but…maybe some things weren't meant to be planned for.  A lot of good things came from planning, like getting into the college you wanted, or being hired for the job you lined your entire life toward, but those big things, those things that kept you up at night, left you tossing and turning because you didn't know how to account for them…those were the things that left you reeling, that gave you the energy to wake up in the morning and greet the world with the same amount of grace that you'd been shown.  And maybe it didn't matter that Cyrus hadn't planned on some things happening. Maybe those things he hadn't planned for were supposed to get him to the place he needed to be all along.  

"I just don't get it!"  The air around him shuddered back into noise as Andi's voice poured in, breaking through the stillness stretched around them.  The Earth rotated forward, time remembering them, pushed them back on the clock. Cyrus wished it would forget that he was even there to begin with.  "Why did Jonah tell us he couldn't make it? Do you think he's with Natalie?"

She threw her hands up in the air as she talked, pacing in front of them in a frenzied kind of worry, frantic and bubbling like a shaken up soda can, the kind that Buffy and Jonah gave each other sometimes as a prank.  Cyrus and Buffy exchanged one of their glances, those ones where they could have an entire conversation based on a single look. Here we go again, Buffy’s eyes said. 

Agreed, Cyrus thought in reply.  Guilt needled at him, like being poked with thousands of knives from the inside, sharp metal scraping on bone.  He looked away and burrowed his gaze into the glinting lake behind Andi instead.

It'd been like this all week.  After the whole field trip on Friday, Jonah and Natalie had started hanging out again like they used to before the whole Grease sing-along thing that had happened last year (long story), and everytime Jonah wouldn't reply to Andi's texts right away or would miss her calls or cancel on group hangouts, the Good Hair Crew had what Cyrus liked to call a Beck-change, which was basically a group meeting where Andi ranted about her boyfriend and Cyrus and Buffy offered up any information they had about The Jonah And Natalie Situation, capital letters and all.  They were taking this seriously.  Like, undercover secret mission seriously. (Even though there was nothing too secret about it, and it wasn't like they were accomplishing anything much anyway, if he was being honest). Cyrus figured it was good for Andi to let all her feelings about it out.  He only wished…well, he wished he could talk about how jealous it made him, too.  Well, whatever it was Cyrus was feeling for Jonah lately.  Sometimes he wasn't sure if he felt anything at all.   

Or maybe he still did.  Everything sort of ran together, like that time when Mr. Meyer made them do paintings in art class.  Cyrus remembered Andi's painting vividly because she skipped their daily visits to The Spoon that entire week to work on it in Andi Shack.  (Cyrus's assignment was obviously bad; it was a miracle that art class was all participation points, or else he would've been doomed.)  When she was finished, Mr. Meyer framed it on the wall outside his classroom, pointing it out to students in the hallway proudly with both hands on his hips, like he was the one who'd submitted the best painting in the class instead of the other way around.  

When Cyrus was standing far away from her painting, he could see the big picture, understood why Mr. Meyer was so proud.  (Cyrus was insanely proud of her, too, obviously. He asked Andi if he could buy it from her, but she just laughed at him.)  It was a giant sunflower, the kind with lavish leaves and a long green stem and sun dried yellow petals that took up the entire canvas.  But up close it was muddled, everything dissociating into hundreds of little marks and lines and details that only Andi’s paintbrush seemed to know.  

Cyrus's feelings for Jonah were kind of like that.  If he didn't focus on them, didn’t look at them directly, he could make out the general picture, all those infinite strokes blending into something that made sense.  But everytime he looked at them too closely…nothing. Just a bunch of little colors and shapes he couldn't distinguish pulling him into a million different directions.   

The thing was, Cyrus didn't think he could tell Buffy about it.  About…well, about any of it. Ever since she found out about him and T.J. being friends, she was keeping herself at arms length around him.  Some moments he could feel the tension dissipate, could feel her melt back into the best friend he'd known since second grade, but just as soon as those moments came, she was slipping away, smile falling and eyes guarded.  

He didn't know how to bring it up, or how to fix it, or how to make that hard glint that flashed in her eyes every time she looked at him go away.  Buffy was his rock, the person that grounded him when all the darkness he tried to keep at bay dragged him under. And without Buffy to fight it off, Cyrus was certain that he couldn't get back up and persist, to keep going on.  Because eventually, when darkness flooded you and blackened your lungs and filled your head with tar, you succumbed to it, watched it bleed all the light out of you. Because if you were Cyrus, it was the only way you knew how.  

He wasn't a fighter.  He never had been. He should've known that having Buffy fight for him would eventually wear out its warranty. 

Cyrus wanted to tell Andi about all of it.  His maybe-there-maybe-not feelings for Jonah, even though she didn't know she had a crush on him in the first place.  Everything new with T.J., or just T.J., period, because she and Buffy both only knew the small details, about how they became friends one day in detention by accident and nothing else.  But who knew how she'd react? He didn't…he didn't want to be shunned like Natalie was right now, cast aside like a cold baby tater. Not like he already was with Buffy.

His phone buzzed, and Cyrus's stomach plunged in relief.  His head was going to dark places.  Even darker than usual.  

He fumbled for the phone in his pocket, Buffy and Andi's conversation fading.  The world shrunk down to just the words on his screen.  

What's up? -T.J.

Cyrus smiled.  Ever since a few days ago in the gym, he and T.J. had been texting a lot more.  It wasn't like their notes, exactly, but it was still nice.  Cyrus liked being able to talk to T.J. at the touch of his fingertips, even if half the time it was him trying to send T.J. transcripts of his infamous Tater Theatre and T.J. praising him for his take on The Great Tater.  

He typed back, thumbs blurring together.  A pair of eyes fell on him, calculating, felt like weights on his chest.  Nothing much!  Just hanging out with Andi and Buffy at the lake. :) -Cyrus

"Cyrus!" 

His head shot up.  Andi's arms were crossed, eyebrow cocked.  Buffy pursed her lips. He pocketed his phone sheepishly, cheeks going hot.  "Sorry. Keep going. Did Jonah say anything else?"

"That's the problem.  He won't answer his phone!"  She flopped down on the rock beside him, nestling herself into the small crevice between him and Buffy.  Buffy squeezed her arm. Andi laid her head on her shoulder.  

"Andi, maybe he really is just busy," Buffy suggested.  

Andi sighed, slumped over.  Buffy's logic seemed to ground her for a second.  Cyrus let some of the air he'd been holding in escape.

A beat of stilled silence.  "But what if—"

"Woah, woah, woah," Buffy interrupted, "let's not get too ahead of ourselves."

Cyrus's phone buzzed again, burning a hole in his pocket.  His hand twitched at his side.

Andi breathed out slowly, nodding.  She seemed to unravel a little, deflate like a balloon.  "You're right, Buffy! I should stop thinking about it." Another buzz.  Andi's head jerked to him. "Cyrus, who's texting you?"

Cyrus swallowed, a nervous roil turning in his stomach.  Andi shot him a pointed look, and his reservations immediately crumbled.  It was hard to keep something like this to himself, even unimportant details like texting T.J. or putting notes in his locker, the mundane day-to-day things that only ever mattered to Cyrus.  It was even harder now that they knew, would pin him under their judgment like a thumbtack. "It's T.J."

Buffy rolled her eyes.  Confusion flooded Andi's face, then surprise.  Then a knowing smile. Cyrus didn't know if he liked the range of emotions flickering across her face.  It was like going through a flip book. "You guys talk a lot," she pointed out.  

You guys talk a lot.  Her words split his heart right down the middle.  How did she know?  He hated that Andi could see so far inside his chest, could find those little parts of doubt and hope and everything else that came with maybe-sort-of liking someone that Cyrus himself didn't completely understand.

He shifted on the rock.  Shrugged indifferently. "Yeah, he's actually pretty cool."

Buffy groaned, leaning so far back that the points of her spine were flat across the boulder.  The springs of her hair brushed the blades of grass sprouting from the soft, loose dirt. Cyrus wondered if she was trying to lose herself in it.  If she wanted to sink below the ground until their voices sounded far away and tinny, like they weren't even there at all. "Don't.  I'm gonna barf."

Cyrus pursed his lips.  "Buffy—"

"It's just…too weird!"  She sat up straight suddenly, her hair wild and falling in her eyes.  "You and T.J. Kippen.  I never thought you'd be friends with someone like him." 

"I'm a little surprised, too," Andi admitted.  Her fingernails tapped on her washi-taped phone case. 

"He's a completely different person!  I already told you guys about him and Reed," Cyrus reminded.  He'd already filled them in on what T.J. had told him a few days ago, about why he'd really gotten detention.  He was hoping it would clear up some of Buffy's anger toward him, but it only seemed to make things worse. And Cyrus had thought that he couldn't make her more mad at him.  Turned out he had been wrong again.  Figures.  

"T.J. feeling guilty?  I don't buy it!" Buffy huffed.  "Anyway, he was still planning on getting 'revenge' on me, right?"

Cyrus frowned.  "That is what he said.  But he changed his mind and defended you!"

Buffy snorted.  "You really believe him?  I saw the fight, Cyrus.  It seemed more personal than being over me.  Besides, he's hated me since the seventh grade.  It just doesn't add up!"

Cyrus shook his head.  He was there when T.J. told the truth.  He was genuine and regretful and...and like he was letting his guard down.  Letting Cyrus see what he was always trying to keep so hidden from the world.  

T.J. wasn't lying. Cyrus knew that much, could feel the fact of it in his bones.  But he didn't know how to convince Buffy. Unless… 

The edges of an idea were forming in his head.  Unless T.J. told her his side of things instead…  

He shoved those thoughts away.  Later. He'd have to talk to T.J. about it first.  "How come you didn't even tell us about the fight in the first place?"

Buffy crossed her arms.  "I don't remember! It's been, like, a month since it happened.  I'm sure I had more important things to be doing than telling you guys about Toxic T.J. Kippen."

Cyrus's brushed past that comment.  "I'm sure T.J. would be more than willing to apologize.  For everything."

Buffy stood up.  Gave him a thin smile.  "Not interested." She brushed off her jeans, fire blazing in her eyes like a supernova, bright and catastrophic and eternal.  Impossible to eclipse. "I gotta go."

Cyrus's heart sank in his chest.  "Buffy…"

"See you guys later."  She walked away without another word, and the sky rumbled menacingly as if to make the waves in Cyrus's stomach roll over more.  Cyrus slumped and put his chin on palm, elbow propped on his knee. His eyes followed the ripples in the water from the canoe paddles.  Faintly, in the back of his mind, he wondered how many more blows he could take before he broke completely. Until he drowned in the darkness.  Or maybe drown wasn't the right word. Maybe just...let himself fall into it. Stopped struggling.

Andi scooted closer to him.  "I'm sorry, Cyrus. I'm sure she'll come around."  Cyrus nodded, solemn. Any hope that Buffy would forgive him had slipped out of his fingers, had landed somewhere in the blades of grass collapsing underneath his feet.  "Well, what else has been going on with you lately? I feel like we hardly talk anymore. Well, except about—"

"—Jonah," they both chorused in unison.  Then they shared a tentative laugh, soft and careful, like if they talked any louder, the air would break too suddenly.  (Now Cyrus missed the noise; those moments when you enjoyed being alone with your thoughts were only good when you wanted them.  When you didn't, they just ended up being tense and constricting, tight like a noose in your chest.)

"I haven't been doing anything, really," he admitted.  "Unless you count helping my stepdad with his Civil War reenactments."

She cracked a smile.  "I don't."

"Well, then I've been doing nothing."  All the amusement you could normally find in his voice was gone.  Like a lightbulb fizzling out and then leaving you in the shadows.

"You haven’t been hanging out with T.J.?"  

Cyrus shook his head.  "I mean...we went to a volleyball game a few days ago."  A memory flashed in his mind. Green eyes. Their fingers brushing in the hallway.  For one charged, atomic second, he was squeezing T.J.'s hand because he was feeling brave, like maybe the world would stay intact if he did despite his worst fears.  Their hands bumping together as they walked together to the gym, cheers of excited fans swarming around them. The whole world turning into white noise. Turned him into white noise, too.

"That's sweet," she said innocently.  Her eyes gave her away.  

"It's not like that," Cyrus protested.  It didn't stick like he hoped it would.  Didn't have enough weight behind it. 

Andi smiled.  "I didn't say anything," she claimed gently.

Cyrus sighed.  "I don't think it's like that, anyway.  I'm just...confused. It's so frustrating.  Why can't feelings be easy?"

Andi laughed softly.  "I'm always asking myself the same thing."  They shared a smile that rang sad around the edges, and for once it really hit Cyrus how much being Jonah's girlfriend made Andi question herself.  He took her hand, squeezed it tight. Hoped she knew how special she was.

Andi shook off the silence, forcing a small laugh to push through it.  "Anyway…are you excited for your birthday? Only nine more days!"

Cyrus nodded eagerly.  He welcomed the obvious subject change.  "Yeah. I mean, I know it won't be as spectacular as my bar mitzvah, but my parents always go all out.  The Goodmans love to throw a good party."

Andi's eyes lit up.  "Trust me, Cyrus. It's going to be amazing."

Cyrus raised an eyebrow.  Curiosity burned bright in him, a lit bonfire building to a crescendo in his hollowed out chest.  "How do you know?"

Andi bit her lip like she knew something he didn't.  "I just have a feeling," she said breezily. Cyrus wanted to push further, tug apart the weird look hiding in her smile, but Andi pointed at his pocket.  "What did T.J. text you, anyway?"

"Hm.  Not sure."  He pulled his phone from his jeans, tapping on the screen.  

Wanna hang out? -T.J.

Whenever you're free I mean lol -T.J.

Andi peered over his shoulder, reading the messages.  "You should go!"

Cyrus's eyebrows jumped.  "I should? I thought you and Buffy hated him."

"I don't know!  He does seem like he's really changed.  Besides, you did the same thing with Amber, and she's not so bad now.  Maybe it's the same thing with T.J."

A flicker of hope settled low in his belly.  He wanted to snuff it out before it tumbled out of control, started a brush fire in his lungs, but he couldn't bring himself to.  He needed something to hold onto, that told him everything would be okay.  

He held onto it in a vise grip.

"Maybe," he said.  A burst of courage fired in him, hot and white and rushing to his fingertips.  "Andi? Can I tell you something?"

He should tell her about Jonah.  

Now or never.  

"Yeah?"  She looked at him, eyes bright and smile earnest.  He caught himself and his stomach faltered, folding in on itself.  He changed his mind.

"Do you think I should invite T.J. to Ren Fair with us on Saturday?"  He hated himself for chickening out. The thing was, he either wanted things so badly they bruised or he didn't want them at all.  And when he did want those things, he wanted them so much that the only thing stopping him from going through with them was himself.  The fear he hid behind.

Andi paused.  "Yeah. Maybe we can all open up to him!"  He didn't miss the hesitant edge in her painted-on brightness.  "Just...be careful."  

"Duly noted."  

She stood up and waved goodbye, and he watched Andi leave with a tight smile, her colorful backpack and dark hair and tape-covered shoes disappearing in the trees.  He looked away and typed on his phone.

I'm down for some hanging. -Cyrus

Or up for some hanging. -Cyrus

Direction doesn't matter, I can hang! -Cyrus

Cyrus tapped his foot on the grass, trying not to let his own impatience wear away at him.  A few seconds passed. A buzz:

Cool.  See you in 10. -T.J.

A lanyard swung from T.J.'s fingertips as he cut through the dirt path, dodging stray twigs and tree roots springing up from the ground.  He squinted through branches and pale sunlight quickly diminishing behind dark clouds and made out a faint shape in front of the lake. Dark hair, pale skin, a familiar blue-collared shirt.  It was the same one from that day in the cafeteria, the first day he'd seen Cyrus. A warm feeling loosened in his chest, like the way you untied your shoelaces. 

"Cyrus!"

It took a second for his voice to carry.  

"Hey, Teej!"  Cyrus's figure grew steadily, and then suddenly he was standing right in front of him, soft and rounded and real.  Brown met green.  Everything slid into focus.

In movies and stuff, they were always talking about how the whole world stopped when you locked eyes with 'The One' (T.J. internally rolled his eyes; how stupid was that?), but that was how he felt right then, like everything around them was holding its breath.  Waiting to see if the universe exploded when they touched.

God, T.J. really needed to stop watching Hallmark movies with his mom on the weekends.  (With basketball season over, he had way too much free time.  Who knew what he'd be doing—or watching, really—if Cyrus hadn't been free to hang?)

T.J. grabbed his hand, pulling him in for a quick hug, thumping him on the back once, then twice, before letting go.  He ignored the pins-and-needles feeling coursing through his hand.  

He took Cyrus in.  How close he was.

He looked…he looked...  

Words were failing him.  Not that he was particularly good at drawing them up, anyway.  And a lot of feelings and stuff with Cyrus, those were indescribable.  They were the cosmos and the atoms of the universe, infinitely big and small at the same time.  

"Ready to go?" 

Cyrus nodded, eyes smiling, then pulled his lips into a purse.  "And where are we going, exactly?"

T.J. lifted a shoulder.  "My house. That cool?"

"Definitely."

T.J. beamed.  Pretended like his chest wasn't spilling over.  "Cool."

He took the lanyard dangling from his fingertips and hung it around Cyrus's neck.  His fingers hesitated, lingering on his collarbone. Oxygen vanished right from the air.  "Here, hold onto this for me so I don't lose my house key."

Cyrus bounced on the backs of his heels, clearly pleased with being given a task.  "Will do, Teej!"

T.J. pulled away.  He silenced the echo in the back of his brain telling him that he'd never lost his keys before, that he only wanted an excuse to touch Cyrus.  Instead, he threw an arm around Cyrus's shoulders. His heart jumped up to his throat. "You ready to go?"

Cyrus smiled.  "I was born ready.  Let's go!"

The sky rumbled eerily above, dark clouds swarming around them like a globe, and Cyrus cast a worried, scrunched-up expression to the looming storm.  T.J. steered him onto the path, footsteps quickening. "Don't worry, I won't let the rain get us."

The ends of Cyrus's mouth quirked up.  "Promise?"

"Yeah," T.J. said, eyes stuck on Cyrus's mouth.  He forced himself to look ahead. He'd look straight into the sun if it were out just to control himself at this point.  "Promise."

"Nice house."

T.J. mentally swept through the room, trying to see it from Cyrus's eyes.  Dark brown painted walls. Hardwood floors, a shaggy rug underneath their feet.  That stupid fake fruit basket his mom insisted on having in the middle of the dining table.  

Cyrus was probably the best thing in the whole house if he was being honest.  

T.J. heard a crash in the room over and his eyes cut to where Cyrus was.  Or was supposed to be.  

Oh, God.  Where'd he go?

He scrambled over to the source of the noise, blood rising in his ears.  "Cyrus?"

His hands hugged the sides of the open entrance leading into the music room.  Cyrus was splayed sheepishly on the rug, leg bent awkwardly next to the piano bench.  T.J.'s heart caught in his chest in relief. "You okay?"

"I'm fine.  Just snooping," Cyrus admitted sheepishly.

T.J. cracked a smile, amused at the edges.  He went over to Cyrus, kneeling down to his eye level.  "Trust me, there's nothing that interesting.” A beat. He pushed on, wanting to leave the emptiness in the air behind. “You're probably the most interesting thing here, anyway."

His cheeks went hot.  God, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

"I doubt that," Cyrus simply said, a shy smile on his face.  T.J.'s stomach was doing flips the way diving boards wobbled when you jumped off them.  Hammered after you leapt into the water and then stopped altogether.

He stood up and held out a hand for Cyrus.  He took it, and T.J. wondered if he could feel his heartbeat in his wrist, pounding and explosive in his fingertips.

"Thanks," Cyrus said.  They stood there for a second, just like that.  Hands locked, faces frozen.

Cyrus pulled away first, his eyes skipping to the floor.  T.J.'s heart fell in a way that he didn't know it could.

T.J. cleared his throat.  "Do you play?" he asked, gesturing to the piano.  He wanted to get away from this weird tension they always seemed to sink into, something that stole the easiness between them.  

"Not really."  Cyrus's eyebrows drew together, then jumped up in realization or surprise, T.J. wasn't sure which.  "Wait, do you?"

T.J. shrugged.  He didn't like to tell a lot of people, really—Reed had caught him playing once and never let him live it down after that, twisted it into something T.J. felt like he should be ashamed of—but with Cyrus, it didn't seem to matter as much.  Cyrus made all those little things that T.J. liked to torture himself over seem not so big, made them feel less consuming than they were.

"I can play some," he admitted.  Cyrus's eyes lit up the way they always did when he was excited.  Like T.J. had gone all the way to outer space just to hand him the moon or something.  

"Can you tickle the ivory for me then?"  T.J. cracked an incredulous smile, nudging him.  Cyrus defended himself, adding, "Those are the only pianist words I know!"

T.J. huffed out a laugh.  "I'll do it, but just never say ‘tickle the ivory’ again, okay?"  

"You drive a tough bargain.  Deal."

He slid onto the bench, and Cyrus sat down beside him, eager and alert.  T.J. plunked his hands down on the keys and started playing some nameless melody.

He didn’t really remember what the song was, exactly, something slow with nice chords, the kind that rattled your chest when you played them just right, but Cyrus seemed to recognize it, his smile so wide that it seemed to touch the grey clouds hovering like anvils in the sky outside the windows.  T.J. played for a few beats, then pulled his hands away from the piano altogether.  

"Was that 'Born This Way'?" Cyrus asked, eyebrows scrunched together.  The tips of T.J.'s ears went red, and he sort of hated himself for letting himself go loose like that.  He meant, really, of all songs his stupid brain had to come up with. He was basically asking for Cyrus to find out that he was...well.  You know. 

Anyway.

"Maybe it is.  So what?" Cyrus started to laugh at that.  Like, really laugh.  T.J.'s eyebrows drew together.  "What's so funny?"

"You."  His face sobered up a bit, smile lines shifting into something more serious, soft spoken and loud at the same time. T.J. was sure he could go on like this forever, could stretch into infinity if Cyrus kept looking at him like that.  

"What about me?" The words were accompanied with tilting shoulders, a small huff out of his nose, a smile playing on the edge of his lips. 

"You're just…," Cyrus stopped himself, started again.   T.J. would kill to know how that sentence was supposed to end, all the words that could've unfolded inside that pause.  "I'm just glad to be here. With you."

"I'm glad, too."  Cyrus's mouth rippled into a subtle smile.  T.J. was drowning. He could fall into it if he wanted to, he knew he could.  If he just moved forward… 

Rain pattered on the windows like pebbles, and something roared outside, made the glass shake.  T.J. jumped back.  

The tension flooded back all at once, covering them like a blanket, suffocating and smothering him.  T.J. stood up, a sudden lump in his throat that was hard to swallow around. The piano legs scraped across the hardwood floor and he held in his wince.  "Wanna see my room?"

Cyrus blinked, then stood up beside him.  Their shoulders bumped together, and T.J. held his breath.  "Sure." His voice was so quiet. Another strike of thunder could've drowned him out easily.

T.J. turned himself to the stairwell. God, he needed to stop looking at Cyrus so much.  It’d only been twenty minutes since he'd gotten him from the park and he'd already broken so many of his rules… 

"Yeah, it's upstairs.  Follow me, I'll show you."

T.J. had never considered himself too much of an artist.  He meant, really, when you stripped away all the layers, bared him down to his most inner core, there really wasn't much to look at.  Maybe all you'd see was a decent basketball player, or some of the residual anger he never seemed to be able to let go of. Or maybe even someone who was so scared of his own feelings that he pushed them down until they broke through, slipped through the cracks. 

Either way, the last thing you'd see was someone who could draw, someone who could wrestle an idea onto a page and make it deep and meaningful and take shape on paper.  Much less someone who was good at it.

However, seeing Cyrus sit on his bed and study the pictures on his walls, T.J. wished he could manage some form of art higher than his doodling, because all he wanted to do was sketch him, trace down every angle of his cheekbones, capture every line.

"What's that?"

T.J. jerked his head from Cyrus to what he was pointing at on his desk.  His cheeks dusted pink, and he shrugged, hoping that he came off as nonchalant and casual and the opposite of how he really felt, which was like every atom in him was standing on end.  "That's just a thing I doodled. I was just messing around."

It was a rough, rough sketch, all hard lines and tangled pencil strokes.  He'd drawn two hands joined, fingers intertwined, wrists pressed together.  Their arms disappeared at the top of the page, attached to unseen, faceless bodies.  He resisted the urge to ball it up and throw it out the window for the wet grass to ruin.

"That's really good!"  Cyrus jumped up from T.J.'s bed, springs squeaking.  He picked it up in his hands, and T.J. pinched the seam of his basketball shorts.  "Who are the two people?"

"No one, really," T.J. said evenly.  He stamped his voice flat, bled all the emotion from it.  "It's nothing." The silence filled again, solid and heavy.  He couldn't tell if it was comfortable or not, the kind of quiet that was soft and subtle like the breeze after a spring rain or the kind that clung to your skin like molasses, made everything slow and sluggish and hard to breathe.  T.J. decided to break it. "Wanna watch a movie?"

Cyrus glanced at him, eyes sweeping over his face, some unknown expression hiding behind his eyes.  He set the paper down gently. "Yeah, sure. What movies do you have?"

T.J. led him to his movie collection, DVD boxes lined up along the shelves and CDs stacked in odd places.  A row of vinyls still in their cases were crammed into the bottom shelf. Cyrus skimmed through titles, fingers thumbing appreciatively through some movies and brushing past others.  T.J. watched Cyrus's expressions shift like the shadows under lamp posts when he thought Cyrus wasn't looking.

Their hands knocked together.  That funny feeling shot down the length T.J.'s spine, like the shock of being dumped in ice water.  He swallowed it down.  

"Ooh, Jurassic Park!" Cyrus said, clearly unaffected.  

"You wanna watch it?"  T.J. pulled the DVD case from the stack.

"Only if you're up for it."

"Yeah, I'm up for it."  As he popped it into the DVD player, he asked, "So, you like dinosaurs, huh?"  He knew Cyrus did, and he wasn't really sure why he was asking. Maybe he just wanted to see his face light up again.  

T.J. skipped through the previews and pressed play before plopping down next to Cyrus on the bed.  Their shoulders bumped together, and something stirred in his stomach.  

"I love them," Cyrus informed.  His enthusiasm made his eyes sparkle, and T.J. was suddenly glad he asked.  "I've been to the museum, like, twenty-two times just to see the fossils."

"They are cool," T.J. agreed.  He wanted to say that everything Cyrus liked was cool, but he didn't, just let the words hover on his tongue instead.  

"It's not lame?"

T.J. smiled.  "Of course not.  Nothing you like is lame, Cyrus."

And for a while it was just like that, words exchanged lazily between scenes and dialogue, shoes kicked off and legs sprawled out in front of them on the bed like it was always like this, just the two of them and the sky teetering outside.  And yeah, maybe T.J. wasn't entirely paying attention to Jurassic Park like he should've been, and sure, maybe he was sort of contemplating on whether he should pull that stupid fake-yawn-and-put-your-arm-around-their-shoulders move, but who cared, right?  No big deal.

Except it was sort of a big deal.  Like, a huge freakin' one.  T.J.'s head spun just trying to keep it all straight.  

'Keep it all straight.'   Ha. Good one, he thought dryly, rolling his eyes to himself.  Hilarious, T.J.

A hand grabbed at his when another loud roll of thunder came through, rattling the window panes, and T.J. squeezed back, instinctive and without thought, the way you held out your arms in front of you when a basketball came flying toward your face or how you yanked your hand away from a hot stovetop.  It took T.J. a second to realize that it was Cyrus's, and another to realize that he should probably let go.

A strike of lightning crackled outside before T.J. could decide, so loud that he thought the ground might've split open like a walnut, right down the middle, and the TV went blank like its cord had been yanked.  The lights dimmed, stalled, then went dark all together, and the hand wound in his tightened. T.J. couldn't even see, but he knew Cyrus's knuckles were bone white, could feel it in his grip. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

"You okay?"

"Just scared of storms.  Nothing I can't handle." Another strike of lightning.  The walls shook around them, so forceful they could've been closing in on them and T.J. wouldn't have even known the difference.  Cyrus jumped back, yanking T.J. down with him, hard.  Funny how Cyrus suddenly became Superman when there was a storm brewing outside.  And he said he was allergic to sports. Ha. "Or maybe not."  Cyrus pried his hand away.  Looked like T.J. didn't have to decide after all.  

"The power's just out.  It'll be fine." He slid down from the comforter and onto the floor.  He groped under his bed in hopes of a flashlight, blindly sifting through crumpled papers and dirty clothes long forgotten.  

His hand came away with dust.  Nothing.

T.J. stood up, brushing his hands on his jeans.  He glanced around, trying to ignore the loose rattling inside his jaw from Cyrus being in his house, from Cyrus's hand in his just seconds ago, from Cyrus in general.  "I think there are some lanterns out in the garage," he said, digging through his dresser drawer. He pulled out his Jefferson Basketball hoodie, pulled it over his head and down onto his shoulders.  The material stretched around him comfortably.

Cyrus flinched at another round of thunder.  Like he thought the bed would split in two under him.  "Is that even safe? It's pouring out there.  What if we get electrocuted?"

T.J. shrugged as he pulled his tennis shoes on.  Thunderstorms had never really bothered him too much.  It wasn't that they weren't scary or jarring or anything like that.  It was just that he'd never really believed that they'd hurt him. Somehow, T.J.'d always figured that the lightning would miss and he'd be left intact, every single time.

That was where he was wrong, though.  Because lightning always had a chance of striking, of ripping apart whatever was in its path.  Maybe you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or maybe it was just a stroke of bad luck, but...you could get hit, so, so easily.  And that was a chance you had to take. With anything in life, there was always a risk that came along with any of the good. And the hardest thing about that, T.J. thought, was that you had to give up a small piece of the control you held in you and hope that the universe would twist itself in your favor in return.

And it was easy to believe that.  That the world would always bow down to you without pause and you'd be left unscathed, but that wasn't true either.  Because there were some bullets you couldn't dodge, and, no matter how hard you tried to avoid them, there would always be some lines you were forced to cross.  

T.J. swallowed.  He had a few lines he was trying not to step over.  Because he knew that if he did, he couldn't uncross them.  Couldn't turn back and pretend he hadn't. Because some lines...some lines were permanent.  Some lines meant forever. And that, T.J. thought, was the biggest risk of all.

"It's fine," he finally answered.  Maybe it was. And maybe it wasn't.  Who was to say? "You wanna come with me?"

For a second, the words echoed back at him, hollow and vulnerable, stripped from all the hard layers the same way wax was scrubbed from floors, only the raw, untrodden foundation left underneath.  T.J. wondered if the words had even come from him. If his voice had been replaced by someone a lot softer than he was, less barbed around the edges. Someone who had all the pieces to who they were meant to be instead of salvaging through the broken remains of a person they no longer were.  T.J. was still trying to figure that part out. Who he was supposed to be, he meant. For now, all he could do was try to assemble himself together and hope something fit.  

Cyrus nodded slowly.  He stood up from the bed, and even though T.J. wasn't sure he was supposed to see, he noticed how Cyrus's knees wobbled slightly, swayed like they were unsure if they could steady themselves.  "Do you have a jacket I can borrow? I don't want to catch a cold."

T.J. stopped for a second, let the words roll over and register somewhere deep inside him.  His brain processed them in snippets: jacket, borrow, cold.  He nodded so hard his spine felt like it'd been yanked from his body.  "Uh, yeah, sure. Whatever you need."

There was an olive green jacket cramped under a stack of jeans and plain T-shirts he only ever wore to bed or basketball practice, and T.J. handed it to Cyrus.  The fabric was soft and smelled like a preserved cap of laundry detergent, potent and seeping into the air.

"Ready?" T.J. asked as Cyrus notched the zipper.

He heard a tug in the dark, a metallic zipping noise cutting through the rain preserved air.  A wavering voice rang out. "Yeah. Ready."

They descended down the steps and slipped through the front door, grimy rainwater pooling in the cracks of gravel and wet dirt softening into mud.  T.J. jerked the garage door open (the handle always stuck) with his knee, loosening the grip of the knob. They slipped into the musty darkness.

T.J. sort of hated the garage.  There were rusting paint cans and random, long forgotten objects cluttering the shelves, doing nothing but gathering dust, and stacks of old, battered vinyls that T.J. always planned on going through but never could muster up the motivation to start.  Crumbling concrete shifted underneath their mud-ridden shoes, the sharp smell of oil and rust sticking like tar in their lungs. Cyrus coughed somewhere behind him.

The only good thing about the garage was that hardly anyone went in there.  And T.J. liked being alone, away from his parents. It was probably its only redeeming factor.  (Well, except right now, it had Cyrus in it, too, so there was another thing. But that hardly counted for any other time except for now, so T.J. tried not to put too much weight into it.)

Cyrus found a tattered pool table nestled in the middle, a tarp strewn over the torn green velvet and the dented pool balls.  He lifted himself up on the lip of it as T.J. scavenged through the shelves. He kicked aside a wilting potted plant that he was sure had no business being in there in the first place, and dead sprigs landed on the dirty floor at the motion.

Seconds passed by, an easy silence stretching between them as he searched. 

As T.J. kneeled down to inspect the gleam of a handle that looked particularly promising (it wasn't—it ended up being an old watering can his mom used for gardening), Cyrus shifted on the backs of his hands and spoke.

"Do you think you could talk to Buffy?"

T.J. stood up so suddenly that his head crashed against a shelf.  "What?" he asked, wincing. He rubbed his head, fingers tangled in his hair.

Cyrus instantly retreated back into himself.  T.J. wished he hadn't acted so startled, wished it wasn't too late to take it back.  Idiot. "I just…she's still mad at me and I was hoping she'd be more understanding if she heard your side of things."

T.J.'s throat closed up.  His side of things wasn't the entire truth.  It wasn't, and Buffy would see right through it.  "I don't know. I don't think she wants to hear from me."  He aimed for casual, but it came out more worried than he meant for it to.

"But you never know!  Will you at least try?  Come to Ren Fair this Saturday.  Please?"

T.J. huffed quietly to himself.  Hoped his chest could sustain the inevitable blows sure to come.  "Fine. But I'm not promising that it'll work."

Cyrus tossed him a smile so bright that the sun could've come out from behind the clouds for all T.J. knew.  "Thanks, T.J."

The words covered him like a blanket in the dark abyss of the dim garage.  "Of course," he said. T.J. hoped that Cyrus didn't put too much weight in him.  Because no matter what he did, T.J. always left people in the wake of his mistakes, always left them more disappointed than when they came.  He just hoped that Cyrus realized that, sooner or later. For both of their sakes.

Cyrus wanted to tell him.  About Jonah. About everything.

He knew he probably shouldn't—literally so many things could go wrong and he'd already calculated the probability of T.J. being cool about it and hadn't been particularly fond of the results—but he was so tired of holding everything in.  There was so much welled up inside, it was all threatening to spill out, and his conversation with Andi earlier seemed to knock something loose. Maybe the hope that everything would be okay.  

Or maybe his sanity.

Oh, well.  Beggars couldn't be choosers, as they always said.

"T.J.?"  Wait, he was having second thoughts.  Cyrus hoped his voice was lost in layers and layers of dust, so dirty and saturated that T.J. couldn't pluck it from the air.  

"Yeah?" Okay, maybe not.

Cyrus took in a deep breath.  Breathe, Cyrus, breathe.  You can do this. You can do this, okay?  For once, instead of hearing Buffy's voice in his head, he heard his own.  For some reason, that gave him the push to get the words out. "I—I'm gay." 

The words hung in the air and, for a second, Cyrus was convinced that time had actually stopped.  They were frozen in a way that seemed to go on forever, that made Cyrus question the clouds in the sky and the rain falling down.  His heart was beating so hard that he could feel it pulsing against the side of his neck.

"I know," T.J. said after a second.  The words echoed back at him, sounded like the first snowfall of winter, looked perfect and welcoming but was hiding something else underneath.  Cyrus clamped down on his palm so hard that his fingernails left prints.

How was he supposed to respond?  Did that mean T.J. was okay with it or...or was he always just pretending that Cyrus didn't like boys?  Is that why he never addressed the fact that he did know?  And what if T.J. secretly hated him?  What if this was all some elaborate prank?

"Oh.  Okay. Yeah."  Oxygen wasn't reaching his lungs like it was supposed to.  He stared down at his shoes so hard that the edges turned black.  

"No, God, I mean…," T.J. trailed off, his voice flustered in a way that Cyrus wasn't used to hearing from him, and a small seed of hope blossomed open in his chest.  He didn't know that T.J. could get embarrassed like that.  Or maybe not that he couldn't; that he'd let himself be in front of anyone else. "Reed told me.  A while ago, before we even met. And I still saw you in detention that day and wanted to talk to you, so don't worry."

Something was spiraling down in Cyrus, unfolding and loosening itself inside, taking root in him and digging something else up.  He didn't speak until his voice steadied. "Why did you?"

"Why did I what?"  Confusion.

"Talk to me that day."  The words were soft, like the feathers inside of pillows, could lull you right to sleep.  "I mean, you didn't even know me. I don't know why you'd risk getting caught by Dr. Metcalf just to give me a note."

T.J. shuffled closer to Cyrus, stepping out of the shadows and into the grey-green light cast from the windows.  His footsteps echoed so loud against the concrete that Cyrus felt them in his chest, thudding against his ribs. "I dunno.  I just…I wanted to, okay?" He stood there with all the easiness and heaviness of the world. Another step forward. The tips of his fingers brushed against Cyrus's knees dangling off the pool table. 

I wanted to.  Were things allowed to be that simple?  Cyrus was used to complicated, was used to splitting apart every single expression and glace and love song sang and written, always wondering if there was any room left inside for him.  Cyrus didn't know what to do with this, with T.J. making talking to him sound like it wasn't even a choice to make, that it held all the weight of the universe in it and none at all.  

"Oh."  What did you say to that?  How were words supposed to exist after that sentence?  "I...thanks."

T.J. huffed out of his nose, amused in his familiar way.  It tethered Cyrus back to reality instead of where he was currently spiraling, which was another plane of existence entirely.  "No problem, Underdog. Anything else you want to share?" He was teasing, Cyrus knew that, but...he pushed on. Kept persisting so the darkness couldn't catch up and pierce through the piece of light they'd carved out for themselves. 

"Do you remember that day I ran off at the Red Rooster?"  T.J. nodded, his face twisting. Cyrus's heart skipped a beat.  His words tumbled over each other, racing to get out of his mouth before he lost his grip on them entirely.  "Well, it's because Jonah sang this love song, just to see if it was any good, and it kind of...killed me. Because it was about Andi and not…," he trailed off.  Let the air fill the blanks instead.

"And not you," T.J. supplied.  Cyrus nodded, swallowing against the knot embedded in his throat.  "That's...gotta be rough. Because he's dating Andi, right?"

"Yeah," Cyrus immediately said.  "I mean, no. I mean...I don't know!  I'm so confused right now."  He sighed out of his mouth, exasperated and red, both things Cyrus wasn't used to.  He didn't like the way they tasted, like that bitter paper his science teacher made his class try last year.  "You know what the weird thing is? I don't think either of them know that I like him. Or whatever it is I feel for him, anyway.  I mean, a lot of time I think they suspect—well, I think the grass suspects—but, when I really think about it, I don't think they do."

"Are you gonna tell them?"

Cyrus shook his head, messing with the lines of his hands.  Even in the darkness like this, it was still hard to meet T.J.'s eyes.  He was always thinking he'd vanish into the folds of the air if he stared too long.  "I want to tell Andi, sometimes, but...who knows? I don't want to make things weird."

"I get that."  Silence wrapped around them, churned their words to dust.  Cyrus wondered if that was how it got so musty in here. That all those things left unsaid between them, every word they'd thought disappeared and sank through the cracks in the floor, had become the grime on the shelves and the dust hiding in the air, waiting to be brushed away.  "Well...I'm here whenever you need me, Cyrus." 

Cyrus lifted his head, looked behind the sweetness of his smile and the shade of his eyes until he saw the earnesty T.J. held deep inside, even if T.J. himself didn't know it.  The edges of his mouth tilted up. "Same here, Teej." Cyrus wished he could bathe in the light from T.J.'s smile right then. "So, since I opened up, you have to, too. It's our thing, right?"

T.J. took a step back finally.  The shadows stole him away again.  "I'm an open book."

"Okay, as one of your close friends, I know that's not true."  He slipped from the pool table, stood in front of T.J.  Poured some of his courage into him. The thing was, Cyrus thought that T.J. was the bravest person in the world.  But even the most courageous of people needed an extra push sometimes.  Because if they didn’t, then there would be no one left to fight wars and slay dragons and battle math tests, no one to scare off the frightening voices living inside their heads.  

"Closest," T.J. corrected.  Cyrus was sure that if he took his own heart out from his chest, it would come out smiling.  "What do you wanna know?"

Cyrus shifted under T.J.’s. gaze, bright and swallowing him whole.  The edges of a question formed in his head. “Okay. What does T.J. stand for?”

T.J. shook his head so fervently that Cyrus wondered if the discs in his neck would crack.  "Except that."

Cyrus wanted to push forward, but something in T.J.'s eyes, wild and panicked, told him not to.  He let it lie, filed it away for later. "Okay, fine, just…tell me anything. I won't judge. Promise." 

T.J. drew in a deep breath.  His chest expanded, moved under the sky blue fabric of his sweatshirt.  "Okay, fine." T.J. stopped for a second. "I—I don't think I'm good at anything.  You know. Besides basketball."

Cyrus blinked.  What?  "How is that even possible?  You're, like, the coolest person I know."  T.J. shrugged. Cyrus took a step forward. T.J. didn't move away.  "Hey, you're good at lots of things." 

"Like what?" His voice didn't come out hard like Cyrus expected, just...tired.  Collapsed. The dull pain that came when you pressed on a healing bruise.

"At being a friend!" Cyrus defended.  T.J. scoffed. "I'm being serious, T.J..  Before you, I'd never broken the rules or faced any of my fears, and you help me overcome those things.  Even if I think I have no chance." Cyrus's gaze flickered to T.J., his face unreadable and eyes glued somewhere between the sleeve of his jacket and the floor, and he kept talking, didn’t know where he’d stop or land, just hoped it was somewhere that gave T.J. the ability to look at him in the eyes.  "I don't know. I've always had this ball of fear in my chest and you make me forget it's even there."

T.J. glanced up.  He tugged at his lip with his teeth, unsure if Cyrus's words would hold up or break through.  "Really?"

"Yes."  A second.  Two. He counted them off in his head, then: "Plus, you're really good at doodles!"

T.J. snorted.  (Finally.)  The sickly green light filtering in through the windows danced across T.J.'s face, colors and shapes trying to come into focus.  A roll of thunder sounded, split the earth in two, but all Cyrus could see were hands and eyes and lips that didn't belong to him, that he wanted to look into and feel and feel.  His breath hitched.

"T.J.?"

Two lights reflected in the pupils of T.J.'s eyes.  Cyrus couldn't look away. T.J.'s breath was a whisper on Cyrus's mouth.  He wanted to put T.J.'s hand on the side of his neck so he could know what being afraid of the very air around you felt like.  "Yeah?"

Gravel crunched under what sounded like tires, and T.J. pulled away, too, too suddenly, landing back into himself.  Cyrus's eyes skipped over to the window, heart pounding.  

"Well, that's perfect," T.J. said dryly.  His voice shattered the air, shattered the sky.  Cyrus didn't know what to think.  

Things like that didn't happen to him.  They just didn't.  

T.J. forced the garage door open and grabbed Cyrus's hand, drug him through the rain and the grass and the gravel until they were standing together under the awning over the back door, staring and staring and staring until T.J. yanked the handle and let go of Cyrus's hand entirely, already in and through the door.  Their orbit rotated forward, leaving Cyrus behind and alone in the storm.

Cyrus took a deep breath in.  He shook the rain from his clothes, then ducked through the entrance, slipping into the dark. 

That was the thing about the universe stopping for those small seconds, those moments you wanted to hold onto and never let go of.  Because, without warning and just as fast, the world started up again and left you reeling in the mess left behind. Especially when you wished it would do anything but. 

What was wrong with him.

It wasn't even a question.  Just...what. Was. Wrong. With.  Him.

T.J. didn't know the answer.  Quite frankly, T.J. figured that even God didn't know the answer.

He'd almost done it.  Like, for real this time.  He could've ruined everything.  Or he could've not ruined something, could've bettered something, actually, depending on what light you wanted to look at it in.  But T.J. was anything but a hopeful person, and he was pretty sure he wasn't the kind of guy that happy endings were made for.

He should probably be more grateful that his parents ruined it (they ruined lots of things, by T.J.'s standards, but parents were meant to spoil things like that, T.J. was pretty sure), but he couldn't meet Cyrus's gaze and his heart was pounding in his brain, so he sort of wished he'd gone through with it.  Anything had to be better than this.  

They trudged through the hallway and to the kitchen, wet footsteps pooling on the floor.  His hands flew up to shield his eyes from the sudden light burning through his skull.

"T.J., you scared me!"  He found his mom with a hand clutched over the buttons of blouse.  T.J. peeked through the gaps of his fingers, and the flashlight lowered, revealing his dad behind it.  He swallowed.

"Sorry," he said, although he didn't really sound too apologetic.  Whoops. He tried again. "We were looking for lanterns out back…," he trailed off, then realized the flashlight his dad was aiming at them was really just the one built into his phone.  Huh. Guess they’d never thought of that. 

A steady hum filled the air.  The coffee machine beeped, then fluttered to life.  The lights shuttered back on, all at once.  

"Oh.  Hello," his mom said, her gaze landing on Cyrus.  Her voice sounded foreign, smoothed over and sweet, stripped of all familiarity.  "Who is this? I thought you were having Reed over."

He felt Cyrus's eyes on him, questioning and burning into him.  A pit formed into his stomach, swallowing anything surrounding it whole.  "No, this is my friend, Cyrus."

Cyrus finally stepped forward.  "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kippen."  He held a hand out, ever charismatic and polite, the sun hiding in his chest bleeding through any of the darkness outside.  T.J. would probably bet that Cyrus's eternal optimism is what turned the power back on. T.J. would probably bet a lot of things about Cyrus, like that his existence is what made the Earth turn and what forced the sun to come up in the morning.  (If only they taught that at school. That was a lot easier to remember than all that solar system stuff.)

"Nice to meet you, too," she said, voice unsure and hesitant.  She pumped Cyrus's hand once, then twice, looking at T.J. the entire time, and T.J. could tell she was pleasantly surprised by how well-behaved Cyrus was.  She was used to loud boys dribbling basketballs, playing video games til three in the morning, but not Cyrus.  Cyrus with his collared shirts and khakis and sensible shoes, Cyrus with his shaking hands and insisting on addressing them by Mr. and Mrs.  He was basically the perfect boyfriend for someone to take home and show off proudly to their parents.  

T.J. halted his train of thought, ripped the tracks off the rails.  Someone.  Someone that wasn't him.  Obviously.

His dad simply gave a curt nod, the way he'd recognize a B- on a history test or a close game that Jefferson nearly won but missed by a few points.  Like, okay, I acknowledge this, but I'm not really impressed.  T.J. was pretty sure that was how his dad felt about his existence, too.  And he'd gotten accustomed to it, sure, but...him ignoring Cyrus made him more mad than he expected.  He wanted to shake him by the shoulders, make him care about this one thing.  Because T.J. cared.  Cyrus made T.J. care a lot.

"Okay, well this has been fun, but I'm taking Cyrus back up to my room now," T.J. announced sourly.  His dad didn’t bother looking up. His mom offered him a tentative smile, which T.J. did not return, because he was trying to hold onto any anger that he possibly could.  Maybe it would make the weird pit in his stomach go away.

When they were back in his room, T.J. flopped onto his bed.  Cyrus stayed standing in front of him.  

He didn't know what he was supposed to do now.  He'd spent his entire day pushing through silences and gaps in conversation, but now he didn't know if he could force the words to flow.  Sometimes, when something was stuck, it stayed that way.  

"So," Cyrus started. Okay, so Cyrus was going to fix this one.  Great.  At least then T.J. couldn't mess it up even more. "Your mom seems nice."  The absence of his father in that sentence seemed pointed, even though T.J. knew Cyrus didn't mean it that way.

"Just ignore him.  He's like that," T.J. tried.  He stopped, then started again. “You know, he wasn’t always like that. He used to be, like, a pretty decent musician, believe it or not.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” T.J. continued. He wanted to give Cyrus this little piece of him. He wanted Cyrus to see all the ugly hardened knobs of his soul, which scared him a lot more than wanting to kiss him or anything else, T.J. thought.  “He’s a big fan of Mick Jagger.”

“Really?” Cyrus asked, stifling a smile. T.J. nodded, matching his amusement.  “Like, how much? Does he have a Mick Jagger shrine or something hidden in your house?”

He sat down next to T.J., the bed dipping underneath him, and everything that happened in the garage flashed behind T.J.'s eyes, played on his head in a loop.  His hand twitched forward. He wanted Cyrus to notice. Or maybe he didn't. He hadn't decided yet. He wished Cyrus would decide for him, make the whole agonizing part of it a lot less painful.  At least T.J. would know where they stood, what parts of their relationship could be saved and which ones were scorched beyond repair.

“Uh, no, surprisingly.  Actually, he—“

A buzz sounded from beside him.  Cyrus pursed his lips together, and the words fell from T.J.’s mouth, confidence gone. "Oh, that's my stepmom.  Until next time?" He was standing up, the moment starting and ending too soon. This entire day had flown by before T.J. had even registered that it was coming to a close.  Disappointment and relief sank into his chest.  

"Yeah," he said.  "Til next time."

He walked Cyrus down the stairs, watched him go down the steps and into his stepmom's car.  There was a bye tossed over Cyrus's shoulder and it landed somewhere by T.J.'s feet, and he echoed it back, hoped his voice carried through the rain and the wind hissing between the trees.  He watched Cyrus drive away until his stepmom's van was only a black dot in the distance.

A strike of lightning hit the base of the tree by T.J.'s porch, missing him by only a few yards, so close he could feel the electricity crackling, the sparks of it catching in the air.  He didn't flinch. He closed the door.  

T.J. had thought that, when you crossed those lines, you couldn't turn back.  But that wasn't true, exactly, because he could. He could pretend he hadn't almost kissed Cyrus, and he could act like he didn't stay up late at night thinking about what this all meant, how to carry on even though he didn't know how.  But he always chose not to, time and time again, because Cyrus always won out over any of his fears. And maybe that was how you kept yourself together. Maybe, even when the lightning struck, you would always be left intact when you stopped trying to avoid the inevitable.  Because when you accepted it—then you had nothing left to dodge.

Chapter Text

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.  

That was how it always started.  The dream.

Cyrus was a big believer in dreams.  Of all the unpredictable things in the world, he found that, surprisingly, dreams weren't one of them.  They were a solid, tethering thing. Because Cyrus knew that, every night, when he closed his eyes and sunk into the darkness around him, his mind would drift off into another plane of existence entirely where nothing could hurt him.  That no matter what dragons he fought or monsters he conquered in his sleep, he would wake up unscathed.  

In a weird way, he kind of preferred them to real life, sometimes.  Because in dreams, at least you could say whatever you wanted, and even if it didn't completely make sense, you knew what it was supposed to mean.  Dreams were a language of their own that he was already fluent in without even trying.  In real life, Cyrus was always second-guessing, constantly aware of his every move. When he was asleep, he just…didn't feel the need to.  Like all the anxiety that lived in him simply evaporated off his skin and left him feeling as light as air.  

Even weirder was that Cyrus thought of dreams as more than random plots and flashes of imitated life, those impossible things you tried to grasp at but couldn't quite hold.  A lot of people didn't really believe that dreams were much of anything. But, coming from a long line of therapists, Cyrus knew differently. He knew that whatever convoluted scenario his subconscious was manifesting itself as, there was a secret meaning to be taken away lying underneath.  

And, really, as cool as that was, it could also be a curse in and of itself, too.  Because with dreams came nightmares, and with peace came chaos. Because, sometimes, things you didn't want to face found a way of coming out, regardless of the consequence.  Because, sometimes, confronting your fears was the only way to get rid of them.

Except, the thing was, Cyrus had been having the same exact dream for over a week.  And no matter how many times he faced his fears, he just couldn't seem to shake them. 

There was a ticking coming from somewhere in the classroom.  So loud that he could feel the rumble of it reverberating in the walls, the same way a bass drum echoed deep inside your chest.  Prolonged, constant. Unceasing.

He had the pages of a test strewn out on the desk in front of him.  Every time he tried to focus in on the words, the letters would dissociate into something that didn't make sense.  Like a foreign language, or something assembled from the scattered thoughts of Dream Cyrus.  Usually, Cyrus understood things in dreams without a second thought, accepted the unusual without feeling the need to prod forward.  But here, in this eternal loop, he questioned everything .  Any ounce of self-assurance he previously had was a receding cloud in his mind, diminishing quickly like granules of sand slipping through his fingers.  Panic inched up his throat and squeezed tight.  

Someone tapped his right shoulder.  Even though he was used to the motion by now, night after night, Cyrus couldn't help but flinch in retaliation.  "Can I borrow a pencil?" He whirled around at the familiar voice.  Buffy.  She frowned at him.  "Oh, it's you. Never mind."

He hurriedly faced forward in his seat, rummaging through the pencil pouch in his binder.  "Wait, Buffy, let me find a pencil for you!" His voice was growing anxious, vowels and consonants blurring together.  He could feel his pulse thrumming in his chest.   

He found a red mechanical pencil, Buffy's favorite color, buried under multi-colored stacks of Post-It notes, and he turned back around to give it to her.  She was gone. Everyone in the classroom had disappeared without a trace.  

"Where is everyone?" he asked out loud.  His voice echoed back at him, landing harshly in his chest.  He wanted to hide underneath the words until they swallowed him whole, until he was nothing but words, too.  

"Cyrus Goodman, puh-please report to the puh-puh-principal's office," a wobbly voice announced over the crackly intercom.  He stood up with trembling legs. "Cyrus Goodman, please report t-to the principal's office!"

Something inside took over, like when moms pushed cars off of their babies, or how some internal part of you that you didn't know existed could unexpectedly switch on, and suddenly you weren't in control of your own body anymore.  He just started sprinting as hard as he could, ducking through the door and into the hallway. Everyone that had disappeared from the classrooms was now congregated in the hallway. Cyrus dodged people, bumping into shoulders and too sharp elbows.  The air felt thin, too far out of his reach.  

He was running in an aimless direction, legs pumping hard, everyone pressing in on him from all sides.  Bodies and bodies and bodies. Lockers slamming and heels clicking on too slippery tiles and voices sucking everything else up, consuming anything with a touch of life in it.  Cyrus was dwindling down to the soles of his feet. He was dwindling down to nothing.  

He raised his hand to knock on Dr. Metcalf's office door, lungs scrubbed raw and aching like tender bruises in his chest.  He knocked again, leaning against the hardwood, trying to catch his breath. The door opened on him before Cyrus could catch himself.  His hands skidded painfully against the sheen of his office tiles. He winced into the scratchy fabric of his shirt.

"Cyrus," Dr. Metcalf said coolly.  Cyrus glanced up, frantically scanning his office as he stood up with wobbly legs.  They were alone. His eyebrows scrunched together. Alone .  He could finally hear himself think.

"Please, have a seat," Dr. Metcalf said.  It was so unlike the usual barbs of his voice, more so relaxed and easy going and soothing, all of which were traits that Cyrus had never associated his principal with.  

Cyrus nodded and moved forward.  Every step felt like tremors underneath his feet, uneasy and unfamiliar and like worlds unknown.  He sat down in one of the chairs across from Dr. Metcalf's desk, and one of the stubby metal legs wobbled beneath him.  His nerves felt like paint chipped away.

"Am I in trouble, Dr. Metcalf?" Cyrus asked, wringing his hands together.  He was trying to count down from ten in his head, trying to ease himself away from the panic he had worked himself into, but nothing his stepmom had taught him was working.  He wanted to claw at his throat until it opened back up. He wanted to wake up.

"No, no, no, of course not," his principal said, chuckling slightly, and, for some reason, that made Cyrus more unnerved than not, even though he knew it was supposed to have the opposite effect.

Cyrus blinked, and a notepad and a camera appeared on Dr. Metcalf's desk.  His eyebrows scrunched together. "What's going on?" He narrowed his eyes at the two objects.  It looked like a filmmaker's camera and a...a therapist pad? 

"Choose."  His voice sounded hollow now.  In a frightening kind of way that made Cyrus's stomach turn.

Cyrus tried to stand up, but he couldn't move.  His legs were glued to the ground. "What—what are you talking about?  Choose what?"

"Choose," another voice chimed in.  It was a cold, callous kind of thing. Goosebumps raised on the back of Cyrus's neck as he realized who it was.  Buffy.

He turned around in his seat to face his best friend.  "What do you mean? I don't understand," he protested.  Buffy moved to stand next to Dr. Metcalf's desk.  Their principal rose from his chair, wheels screeching.

"Choose," Andi said, coming out of a door that hadn't been there a second ago.  Cyrus couldn't breathe.

"I don't know what you want from me!" he cried out.  He wanted to pat his pockets for his inhaler, but his hands were frozen on the arms of the chair.  "Choose what?"

"Choose," Buffy said.

"Choose," Andi echoed.

"Cyrus.  I know you.  Choose," Jonah said.  He was sitting in the chair beside him all of a sudden, smiling in the easy, sparkling way that only the sun and Jonah Beck seemed to possess.  

"Jonah, I—"

"Underdog.  Come on. Just choose," T.J. said from his right.  He grabbed Cyrus's hand, and, suddenly, Cyrus was able to squeeze back.  His green eyes seized him and didn't let go.

"Choose."

"Choose."

"Choose, Cyrus."

"Cyrus, choose."

"Stop!"  Cyrus screamed.  His eyes flitted between his four friends.  Buffy. Andi. Jonah. T.J.

T.J.

Jonah.

T.J…

He chose…he chose… 

"Cyrus! " A voice shouted.  It felt above him, somehow.  Like if he reached up, he could just touch it… 

"Ow!" Cyrus's eyes flew open at the noise.  He recoiled when his vision focused in on the figure leering over him, slinking back into his pillows in startlement.  "Oh, he-hey, Buff-ay!" He cringed at his voice and sat up, hoping he could shake the weird, exposed feeling clinging to his skin. 

She squinted at him suspiciously, and she put an unused bowl of water (warm, Cyrus was assuming, because, c'mon, it was Buffy) on his nightstand.  "Why are you acting weird?"

Because I just had the same recurring dream that made me choose between two different boys I may or may not like.  And I'm afraid of picking sides and what that might mean. And I'm afraid what will happen if you make me choose between you and T.J., or worse—that you'll leave me before I can even decide.  

"I'm not!" Cyrus protested.  He threw the bed sheets off his legs, his feet hitting the too cold floors of his bedroom.  "Why are you here this early, anyway?" he asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. (It was hard to sleep when you were afraid of what you'd see behind closed eyelids.  It was even harder to face the people you didn't want to disappoint in the first place.)

Buffy looked at him like he had forgotten something important, or had asked what color the sky was, or something equally obvious.  "We have Ren Fair today, Cyrus!" she told him exasperatedly.

"Ren Fair!" he repeated in realization.  His eyes turned wide. That meant… 

Oh, no.  T.J. was coming to Ren Fair…and Cyrus forgot to warn Buffy...

She liked surprises, right?  (He knew she didn't.  But delusion had always been Cyrus's best friend.  It was a filter to him, a pair of lenses he chose to view the world through.)

He sighed.  He had to tell her.  Even if she did kill him.  Or T.J.  Or both of them.  (Probably both of them.)  

"Buffy...," Cyrus started worriedly.  

Her eyebrows shot up.  "What did you do?" she asked.  The exasperation in her voice only grew more pointed, needled at Cyrus in the worst places.  

He sat back down on his bed.  She followed, seeming a mix of being annoyed and concerned.  Classic Buffy.  

"Cyrus…," she said warningly.  

He told her about his dream.  About how he felt conflicted about everything.  About whether he should follow in his parents' footsteps of psychology or pursue his passion in filmmaking.  About how he wasn't sure how he felt about Jonah anymore, and what these new feelings for T.J. might mean. How he didn't want to have to decide between T.J. and Jonah, or even T.J. and her.  How he wished he could take things at face value without having to dig under the surface, how he wanted to walk again without a land mine going off underneath him with even the smallest misstep. 

"I think I really like him, Buffy," he admitted, mustering the courage to look her in the eyes.  

There was a beat of stilled silence.  He couldn't read her expression right then.  Cyrus had to keep talking, to keep her from exploding—

"Please, don't be mad—" he begged.

"I'm not—" she started, then stopped, seeming to realize how harsh she was coming across.  "Cyrus.  I could never be mad at you for who you like."  She sighed, in the kind of way that people did when they were trying to wrap their head around something that moments before seemed impossible.  Cyrus wasn't sure if she meant it. That she wasn't mad at him. Or, if she did, just not enough to convince either of them. "I just don't want you to get hurt, okay?"

"I invited him to Ren Fair," Cyrus said suddenly, and he tried to make his voice sound stronger than it actually was, which was frail and splintering apart.  The words ate away at his taste buds.

Buffy looked at him.  Her face was inscrutable.  Her mouth was prodding but her eyes were fire.  

"Buffy, I swear, he wants to apologize."  He was borderline pleading her at this point.  (He was not above getting on his knees and begging.)

Buffy sighed, then stretched on a thin smile that fit like a Halloween mask, was exaggerated in all the wrong areas.  "It better be one heck of an apology," she told him, but Cyrus could tell that her heart wasn't in it.  

"I'm sorry," he said finally, because what else was there to say?  He wasn't exactly sure what he was sorry for. He meant, he knew he was guilty for lying to her for a month, but he wouldn't exactly change things, at least not how he felt about T.J.  He just wanted the ground to feel stable again. He wanted to feel like Buffy and him were the dynamic duo they'd always been. Maybe most of all he was sorry that he'd gone and mucked things up in their lives for the thousandth time.  They all had their flaws, but Cyrus's were the most glaring of them all. They burned to touch. 

"Cyrus," she started to say, but she stopped herself.  Stood up instead, shook her arms out in front of her. "Let's get ready, shall we?"

Cyrus plastered on a smile.  He remembered the stars he found in his telescope.  Tried to mimic their same brightness. (Wondered when he would stop feeling like this.  Wondered when the world would start turning in time with him again.)

"We shall," he replied, injecting some false cheer into his voice.  

His phone buzzed on his nightstand beside him, and Cyrus saw a message from T.J. light up the screen.  His stomach swooped. He thought about Thursday. His mind flashed a brief memory from T.J.'s garage. Cyrus's cheeks felt hot.  He should tell Buffy what— 

No.  He should wait.  Until she got over this.  Until T.J. apologized.  

He stared down at his phone.  He heard Buffy calling to him from the bathroom.  "Cyrus, help me pin my hair in the back!"

Choose.  What if he didn't want to choose?

He grabbed his phone off his charger and headed to the bathroom.  Decided that, if he wanted it bad enough, he could choose both Buffy and T.J.  That it didn't have to be a decision if he didn't make it one.

Cyrus answered T.J's text and slipped into the bright lighting of his bathroom, smiling slightly to himself.  Yeah. He could do this.  Today could bring it on!

T.J. had no idea what he was doing. 

Seriously, meeting Cyrus's friends?  Hanging out with Jonah and Andi and Buffy and that other guy that was always following them around?

It felt like… 

Well.  T.J. wouldn't say what it felt like.  (A date.)

Cyrus was his friend.

Cyrus liked Jonah Beck.  

Which he knew already.  He meant, he did see those texts from The Day...the day where he hurt Reed, the day where he got detention, the day where he talked to Cyrus for the first time.  But...for some reason, hearing Cyrus say it out loud hurt a lot more than he was expecting.  

A part of him was hoping that the fact Cyrus liked Jonah would finally snap him out of this.  Well, whatever this was, anyway.  But it hadn't and T.J. was still drowning.  He was buried deep in feelings that he couldn't contain without bursting at the seams.

He meant, it was Cyrus.  Cyrus, the boy who looked him in the eye and told him he was a good friend with all the sincerity in the world.  Who could keep the whole universe intact with just his smile.  

God, T.J. had been increasingly more and more sentimental these past few weeks.  It was making him sick to his stomach thinking about how annoying of a boyfriend he would be.  

Somehow, T.J. had always thought that he wasn't the boyfriend type.  Not that he didn't want to date anyone ever, just that he was never interested in anyone until now.  And he never thought that person would be a guy. For some reason, he had just. Never considered that as an option.  It wasn't something that T.J. thought was open to him.  

Anyway. 

He ran his hands through his hair.  He groped around for his phone lying facedown on his nightstand.  

So, like, what do I wear to this thing?  Do I need to rob a Party City before I go? -T.J.

He expected to see three dots blinking back at him immediately, like the clingy idiot he was, but they didn't come.  He let his phone fall onto his bed. His hair was falling in his eyes, and he blew strands out of his face. His fingers tapped on the mattress impatiently.

God, he was pathetic.  He couldn't even handle waiting on a text— 

Oh, wait.  Never mind.  Cyrus texted him back already.  (See? He was so lame.)

They have costumes there! -Cyrus

Unless you don't want to dress up. -Cyrus

Jonah doesn't so…you don't have to if you don't want to. -Cyrus

T.J.'s stomach churned uneasily and his grip on his phone tightened at the corners.  He was going to wear a costume, even if it killed him.  (Well, now he was just being dramatic.  But love drove people to do stupid things, T.J. guessed.)

Love.  That wasn't—that wasn't what this was. It was just a crush.

Yeah.  Right.  Yeah.

He tried to shake the thought away.  But it was sticking like honey; even when you wiped it away, you could still feel it clinging to your skin.

Count me in.  I can be, like, a knight or whatever, right? -T.J.

As in shining armor? :) -Cyrus

T.J. laughed.  Yeah, of course.  Who wants to be a knight in dull armor? -T.J.

Certainly not me! -Cyrus

Although, just warning you, chainmail chafes. -Cyrus

Learned that the hard way! -Cyrus

Looking forward to it.  I'll see you soon. -T.J.

See you! :) -Cyrus

A warm, unnerving feeling was blossoming in T.J.'s chest.  These conversations with Cyrus were so weird—they calmed him and put him on edge at the same time.  T.J. guessed it was like playing the championship basketball game. It was practiced and easy and he knew it like the back of his hand, could do in his sleep.  But he also knew that, at any moment, the other team could gain the upperhand and turn the entire game on its head.

Talking to Cyrus made the ground feel stable and like the world was about to flip upside down at the same time.  It was a familiar, unpredictable thing.

He finally managed to sit up in bed.  The sun was poking in through his blinds, bright and hopeful.  Somehow, despite knowing that he had to face Buffy later, the day didn't feel impossible.  As long as T.J. worked at it enough, he could fit the whole world in his palm. 

He was so nervous that he showed up ten minutes earlier than he and Cyrus agreed on.  Cyrus would probably say something like 'showing up early is never a bad thing!', or something equally Cyrus, and T.J. couldn't help but smile to himself.  A part of him hated who he was becoming, this…sappy, lovesick puppy, or something, he didn't know.  T.J. had always hated being overly sentimental, revealing too much. Happy feelings fit like an ill-fitting basketball form, chafed like new tennis shoes never worn.  They felt like things he wasn't meant to possess, things he should shove into the back of his closet until he felt it was appropriate to break them in.

Which was why it was so hard to express them now.  Because when you shoved feelings away for most of your life, it was hard to let them back in.  And once you did, they were like a running faucet that you couldn't turn off. They poured out of you, one way or another.  (It was incredibly annoying, sometimes. But, also, T.J. was kind of glad. He was able to reintroduce himself to…well, himself.)

When Cyrus eventually showed up, he had what the rest of what T.J. thought was 'The Good Hair Crew' (or at least that was what Cyrus referred to them as) in tow, with Jonah and some boy T.J. couldn't quite place the name of laughing about something in the background.  T.J's stomach felt like it was turning inside out. These feelings were new, too. Not the fact that he was jealous. T.J. had felt that before (didn't like to admit it, so much, but he had.  With Buffy. The Day rolled behind his eyelids, painfully vivid, and T.J. forcefully blinked it away).  Now it felt sharper. Tasted like copper on his tongue. 

"Hey," Cyrus said.  He sounded breathless.  Like he was hurrying to catch up to him, like T.J. would dissipate into the air where he couldn't be seen if he wasn’t fast enough, the way the sun did on rainy days.  Disappeared behind a veil before it could even hit your skin, before you could even witness its light for yourself.

"Hey," T.J. repeated, and it felt tethering, like he could fall and Cyrus would catch him, every time.

"You came," Cyrus said in this sort of...awed disbelief.  Like he was unsure if the words would stay or would escape through the cracks of this wall they'd built around them.

"Of course I came," T.J. responded, because he couldn't imagine not coming.  The scary thing about being this close to Cyrus was that Cyrus could make him do absolutely anything and T.J. would comply, every single time.  (However, it actually wasn't a scary thing at all. Because T.J. knew that Cyrus would never do that. Good intentions shone in Cyrus's smile. It was probably a good thing that Cyrus wore his heart on his sleeve, because T.J. could see that it was made of gold.)

T.J. could hear someone clearing their throat behind them, and Cyrus turned around.  T.J. looked straight at Buffy, who had an eyebrow raised and her hip cocked at them expectantly.

"Well, um…I guesseth we shouldst begin!" Cyrus said.  T.J. looked at Andi in question. (He didn't know who else to turn to; he didn't know the boy with the ruddy brown hair, and Buffy clearly still hated him.  And Jonah. Well.)

"Cyrus always talks like this at the Renaissance Fair," Andi explained.  "He really gets into the whole 'medieval' thing."

"Of courseth I do!  'Tis a day of gambles and mirth!"

Buffy sighed.  "And to think we only get this day once a year," she said dryly.  T.J. snorted. She shot him a glance that T.J. couldn't possibly begin to unravel.

"Let's get this over with," she muttered as she passed by.  T.J. wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear or not, but decided it didn't really matter, because he knew she hated him and he didn't really blame her.  He just wanted to prove himself.  That he could be someone that wasn't what everyone had come to expect.  That he could just be himself. Well, whoever that was. He was still trying to find that out, exactly.  (Maybe yourself wasn't something you went looking for. Maybe it was something you just were.  When he was with Cyrus, he didn't feel the need to search for whoever he was meant to be; he just felt the need to exist.  To breathe the air alongside him, knowing that that alone was enough.)

Buffy grabbed that one guy's hand (T.J. should really ask Cyrus who that was at some point, this was getting confusing) and dragged him along.  Jonah and Andi walked aimlessly in the opposite direction, eventually disappearing inside a tent, hands linked in the painfully obvious way that meant they were a couple.  T.J. stared down at Cyrus's hand.  

"T.J.?" Cyrus asked, bumping his shoulder.  T.J. jerked his head up, meeting his eyes in what felt like a breathtakingly complete moment.  It was like knowing everything in the universe. It was like the world was finally slotting into place.  

"Sorry," T.J. started, trying to contain the sudden wave of emotion rising in him.  He cleared his throat. "So, what do you wanna do first?"

Cyrus grinned.  The scene in front of him fell away, but that completeness stuck with him, carved out a place in T.J.'s chest.  "Do thee careth for a costume change?"

T.J. huffed to himself, amused.  "Are you going to talk like that the whole time?"

"Aye!" Cyrus said happily.  T.J. wanted nothing more than to kiss him in this moment.  He smothered the thought down, stripped away its oxygen so it couldn't breathe.

"Let's get our renaissance on," T.J. said.  Cyrus smiled, walking toward a bright green tent in particular, and T.J. just let him guide him wherever he wanted, knowing that he would be happy, just as long as he was with Cyrus.  

He threw an arm around Cyrus's shoulders, figured it was better than not touching at all.  He took what he could get. It was like soaking up sunshine, hoping that whatever you managed to possibly grasp would ward off any of the surrounding darkness.  Because sunshine didn't last forever; it was there for a while, and then disappeared just as fast. And even though you counted on it coming back the next day, maybe that wasn't always the case.  Maybe one day, when you peeled back your curtains and went to greet it in the morning, it was simply just...gone. Because when you thought about it, the sun didn't owe you any of its light. It simply gave you what it could bear to part with in the moment.  

And you couldn't take that for granted.  Every day that it was there, you had to reflect on how much you not only needed it, but craved it, too.  

Cyrus reached around and unraveled T.J.'s arm from around his shoulders.  "Come on, we have to hurry before all the good costumes are taken!" Cyrus grabbed his hand and clumsily slotted their fingers together as he started to sprint, T.J. in tow.

T.J. smiled.  Let himself be pulled along for the ride.

Because, just maybe, the sun needed you a little bit, too.

"You look great," Cyrus said as soon as T.J. stepped out from behind the partition.  

T.J. snorted.  "Yeah, I know. I should've remembered that breastplates are in right now."

Cyrus cracked a smile.  T.J. really did look good.  (T.J. looked good in everything, Cyrus was convinced.  He probably woke up looking like that. And even if he didn't, Cyrus was pretty sure T.J. was even more good looking in the morning.  Not that he'd know, necessarily.  But still!)

"Ready to go, my good companion?" Cyrus said in his incredibly posh voice.  (He loved Ren Fair so much. It was like meeting with an old friend. An old friend Cyrus only got to see once a year, much to his own chagrin.)  

He couldn't stop looking at T.J.  He wanted to, but he was desperately failing and his cheeks felt impossibly red.

"Yeah," T.J. said.  Cyrus began walking out of the tent, hoping he could blame the sun for his suddenly flaming face.  "And Cyrus?"

Cyrus stopped, sweeping over him again. (He couldn’t help himself.)  “Yeah?”

"You look great, too."

Cyrus couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or being sincere or a little of both, but he hoped he didn't find out so he could salvage the remaining pieces of his heart that didn't already belong to the boy in shining armor. 

"I thank thee," he replied cheerily, barely able to contain a smile.  (His excitement had been like that for as long as he could remember.  Constantly running through him, leaking out of his pores.  His dad always told him he could flood the house with it, as long as it let it run long enough.)

A flash greeted their eyes as soon as they stepped out of the tent.  Cyrus flinched, blindly stepping back, and he could feel T.J.'s hand steadying him, resting on the small of his back like it was always meant to be there, like it was always meant to be the two of them like this.

Cyrus blinked away the colors dancing in his eyes and scrunched his eyebrows at the photographer in question.  "What was that for?"

Buffy waved her phone camera at his face smugly.  "My mom wants me to take pictures of Ren Fair. She's sad she couldn't see us in our costumes in person," she explained, then snapped another picture.  

Cyrus nodded in understanding.  Buffy had been taking all sorts of pictures lately for her mom.  It was cruel, in a way, because even though Buffy had her mom back, she didn't get to see her.  Not enough to satisfy the ache Buffy had.  "Take as many pictures as you want! Just be careful, though, I'm pretty sure phones are banned." He turned to T.J., who was looking at him in question.  "It ruins the whole 'medieval' vibe." T.J. hummed in response.

Buffy gave him an incredulous glance.  "Oh, come on, Cyrus, what are they gonna do? Revoke my jousting privileges?"

T.J. drew his eyebrows together in confusion.  "They have jousting here?"

"Not really," Cyrus said at the same time as Buffy said, "Yes."

"Basically you ride a broom and try to make the other person fall over with a plastic sword.  It gets really nasty," Cyrus explained to him.

"You're only saying that because you lost to me three years ago," Buffy smirked.

Cyrus held a hand over his heart.  "And it was a painful loss! I still can't sweep to this day without feeling a twinge of pain below my knee," he defended.  He turned to T.J. "She pushed me onto a rock."

T.J. snorted beside him.  "Not on purpose ," Buffy claimed, but not vehemently enough to be believable in Cyrus's opinion.  (He knew it was on purpose!)

"Well, it sounds fun," T.J. said offhandedly.  Cyrus watched Buffy's reaction carefully.  There was a wicked glint in her eye that he didn't trust all that much...

"Doth thee careth to look around?" Cyrus asked, trying to pull the conversation in another direction.  He didn't know what Buffy was up to, but he wanted to stop it before she had the chance to jump on him, could ruin whatever this timid civilness they had tethered between them was.

"Sure, Underdog," T.J. said.  Buffy shot a pointed glance to him at the nickname, and Cyrus grabbed T.J.'s hand impulsively.  He hated feeling like this.  Vulnerable and raw, like an exposed wire waiting to catch something aflame.

"Me and T.J. are going to uh," he said, repeated the first thing his eyes latched onto, "the uh, the fortune teller!  So…bye!"

Cyrus dragged T.J. along, trying not to catch Buffy's burning stare boring into his back.  He let go of his hand when they were far enough away, and T.J. nudged him playfully with his elbow.

"What was that about?"

Cyrus shook his head fervently.  "I just really like fortune tellers!" he lied.  If T.J. caught on, he didn't show it.

Cyrus drew back the curtains, and there was an unsettling feeling sinking down in him.  Something felt off, almost wrong.  He gulped nervously.

They sat down at a heavily ornamented table, with a thick purple tablecloth and fairy lights strewn across the 'ceiling,' if you could even call it that.  Something about it was eerily familiar, pulling at the edges of Cyrus's brain.  

As soon as he met eyes with the fortune teller, he gasped and jumped back in his seat.  It was her.  

"You're that fortune teller!” Cyrus said, stumbling blindly for the right words. “From my bar mitzvah!” His heart felt too fast.  Last time he saw her, Buffy moved away. An ugly feeling twisted in his gut. 

She looked right at him.  Like she was rummaging through his soul.  "You are mistaken," she said flippantly, reaching for a pack of red cards.

T.J. looked at Cyrus questioningly.  Cyrus pressed on desperately. He knew it was her!  No matter what she said. “But I remember you—"

"Write down a 'yes' or 'no' question!" she lectured, and Cyrus had to force himself to refrain from pouting.   

He looked down at the achingly familiar red notecard, thinking for a second, harder than he did last year. He always had a billion questions burning through him, but the second he was put on the spot, they slipped away through his fingers faster than he could catch them.  He wasn’t even sure how accurate her fortunes were...but she was right about Andi and Buffy’s, at least, even if Cyrus was still in denial about his own. (He had to graduate from graduate school. It was in the name!)

A thought popped into his head, unraveling and making its way out. 

He wanted...he wanted to ask her what Andi did. If he’d ever get a boyfriend. 

He felt nervous asking. Who knew what she’d say?  'Never'?  'Not in your wildest dreams'?

That he was destined to be alone. That he had so much love for other people that no one else would ever be able to return it with the same fervor. 

Cyrus quickly scribbled down his question, something hot rushing through his chest. He had to know. He just had to. 

Will I ever have a boyfriend?  He could feel T.J.’s elbow poking him from his left as he wrote down his own question. 

Cyrus creased the paper, right down the middle.  He bounced his leg up and down underneath the table.  He got the strange, sudden urge to ball up his notecard and ask for another slip of paper, but the fortune teller shot him a warning glance.  Almost as if she had been expecting it. 

So she did remember him!

T.J. finished writing his question and placed his pencil on the table. She surveyed the room closely, like she was making sure no one was listening in on them.  She looked right at T.J. and closed her eyes, bringing two fingers to her temple. She opened them, her eyes glassy and all knowing. 

“Yes,” she said.  Cyrus looked over at T.J. curiously. His eyebrows jumped slightly at her answer, but he didn’t say anything, just nodded. Looked at Cyrus out of the corners of his eyes. “But!  You should tell your friend, and soon!  Before it is too late.”

T.J.’s eyes went even wider. Cyrus was confused, and for some reason, he was more anxious about whatever T.J.’s answer was about than his own. An itchy, cloying thing was taking root in his chest, and, boy, was it suddenly hot in here?

The fortune teller turned to Cyrus next. His heart stopped.  She repeated her previous act from before, closing her eyes before opening them wide.  “Yes,” she said again.  Cyrus breathed out a sigh of relief. He tried not to look at T.J. next to him, how he could feel his body heat radiating from him, warm and inviting and alive. 

“That’s great—“ Cyrus started to say, but she cut him off. 

“But!” Cyrus tried not to groan. Please, could she let him have this one thing?  “The real answer will be hidden until you unveil the truth.”

Cyrus blinked, taken aback. His eyebrows scrunched together. “What does that mean?” He wasn’t expecting her to say that.  He was...well, he wasn’t expecting her to say much of anything, really, just thought it would be bad. 

He wasn’t sure if this was exactly good news, either.  It meant he wasn’t alone, sure, but...it sounded painful. To endure, he meant, whatever it was.  

Either way, Cyrus hated not knowing.  Hated not knowing the big things, not being able to know about huge milestones of his life, of not knowing what the future looked like.  He hated the fact that it was yawning wide open and he had no idea what to expect. 

“I cannot say anymore!” she said, making a shooing motion with her ring donned hands.  Cyrus stood up. T.J.’s hand made a reappearance on his back, as if to say, Let’s leave. 

“But I don’t understand,” Cyrus repeated desperately, but it felt dumb coming out of his mouth and he knew he wasn’t getting anymore information out of her, no matter how much he meddled and poked. The heartbreaking thing was that, sometimes, Cyrus was stuck where he was. There was no way to talk himself out of it, no way to untangle the mess he’d gotten himself into. Sometimes he was just left there, suspended in this grey area. Not moving left or right, just. Drowning in space. 

She stood up. Gave him a strong smile, which felt like the opposite of how Cyrus felt right then. “Only time will tell,” she said finally. 

He felt T.J. pull him out of the tent, and the sun hit his face. Cyrus flinched, shielding his eyes with his hand. 

“Are you okay?” T.J. asked. 

“Yeah,” Cyrus forced out. He stamped his mouth into a smile that fell flat, didn’t quite match the anxiety running through the lines of his face. He hesitated. “T.J….what did your card say?  If you don’t mind me asking.”

T.J. looked away, pocketing his card. In a faraway thought that was hard to wrestle down, Cyrus wondered where he had a pocket in his costume.  T.J. shrugged and started walking in an aimless direction. Cyrus jogged to catch up

“Nothing important.”  Cyrus was about to interject, that it didn’t seem unimportant back in the tent, but T.J. was nudging him and suddenly the world felt entirely possible again. His smile was the shade of all the stars in Cyrus’s telescope, infinitely bright and brilliant. “Want to get an oversized turkey leg?  I saw a vendor over there for them.”

Cyrus let out an unsteady grin. Tried to wipe away what just happened. Decided that fortune tellers were overrated, anyway. (Wasn’t too sure if he believed himself or not.)  “Of course.”

He was an idiot. 

He meant. He shouldn’t have been surprised. 

T.J. knew the answer already. He just wanted confirmation. A second opinion, or something. 

What she said afterwards is what messed with him the most.

Tell your friend . No way was he doing that. 

Unless...she really was psychic?  And, like...thought he had a shot, or something?

God. He could not think about this right now.  He just couldn’t. 

They rejoined the group after wandering around for a while, joking and laughing while eating their turkey legs (which were awesome, by the way), but there was something off kilter in the air that had everything tilted at this sort of canted angle. They could either stay standing off balance or everything would be sent flying with so much as a ripple in the atmosphere. 

T.J. didn’t really get anxious much. But there was an edge cutting into him that he didn’t know if he liked all that much. 

Buffy, Jonah, Andi, and The Other One, as T.J. had resorted to calling him in his head, were all talking. As soon as he and Cyrus appeared, their conversation came to a sudden halt. 

Cyrus sat next to them on one of the many benches strewn throughout the area.   “What art thee discussing?”

Buffy groaned. “Cyrus, speak English. I don’t have time to decipher what you’re saying.”

Andi shook her head, humoring her. “We’re waiting for jousting to start,” she chimed in.

T.J. couldn’t help himself. “You guys are actually watching that?  I thought it was just people riding brooms.”

“It is surprisingly fun to watch,” Cyrus inputted. “I’m not one for competitive sports, but even I find it interesting. Plus I have a first aid kit in the cubby with my clothes in case someone shoves their friend into a rock, perchance.”  He shot a pointed glance at Buffy. She gave him a smug smile in response. 

T.J. smiled a little to himself. As dumb as it sounded, he couldn’t help but be a little...envious of their relationship. Not that he and Cyrus didn’t tease each other like that from time to time, but knowing that someone had your back unconditionally without romantic feelings getting in the way was a comforting feeling. T.J. used to have a semblance of that with Reed and Lester. He wasn’t sure how close it was to the real thing, just knew that there was an ache in his chest from something not completely there. T.J. didn't know how to make friends.  To him, friends were just a thing that happened by accident.  They were what happened when you were in baseball, football, and basketball together, when your mom forced you to invite all the boys from the team over for your birthday party.  It wasn’t...well, it wasn’t something he was well acquainted with. He meant, the idea that you could forge connections with people that would last a lifetime, or whatever. 

He felt a tug pulling at him from deep inside his chest.  The kind he was used to burying far down, until he forgot he even had them in the first place.

He ignored it.  Hoped that, if he didn’t focus on it, it would dissolve into background noise on its own.

“But you like watching the Space Otters’ games, right, Cyrus?” Jonah piped up. T.J.’s stomach twisted. 

“Of course I do, Jonah!” Cyrus hurried to reply. T.J. found a nearby tree very interesting. He felt a pair of eyes watching him carefully, but by the time he turned back to the group, they disappeared. T.J. swallowed thickly. “You know I’m your number one fan.”

“Absolutely no one is disputing that,” Buffy said, laughing slightly.  T.J. wondered what she meant by that. (Was this what having a crush was like?  Questioning their every move and intention? God, this was tiring him out.)

“Guys, the match is starting!”  The Other Kid announced. Buffy looked almost gleeful.  Andi and Jonah were talking amongst themselves, obviously trying to keep their voices low, but whatever it was they were discussing seemed to be getting heated. T.J. nudged Cyrus and used his head to gesture toward them. Cyrus winced in response. 

“They’ve been fighting a lot lately,” he said quietly to T.J.  He nodded. Then, louder, Cyrus said, “Hey, Jonah, you and Buffy should joust this year. You know, settle your score,” he suggested nonchalantly, and T.J. couldn’t help but smile at him. Cyrus was so good. Even though he liked Jonah, he was still trying to help him with his relationship.  Because that was just who Cyrus was. He befriended bullies and believed in them when no one else would.  No wonder T.J. was head over heels for him.  (That even felt lame to say.  Whatever.  He didn't even care at this point.)

Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Jonah’s too easy to beat,” she said, oblivious to the matter at hand. Cyrus face palmed. T.J. grinned at the exchange. 

“Am not!” Jonah protested, but Andi pulled him back into their conversation. 

Buffy turned toward him and Cyrus, a wicked glint in her eye. “I think me and T.J. should joust,” she said confidently. 

T.J. turned away from Cyrus and looked at her, caught off guard. She wanted to joust him ?  He felt sick. (He knew she’d beat him at this, too. Although, really, didn’t he owe her?)

Cyrus’s eyes flickered between them, torn and wide-eyed, and T.J. tried his best not to look shocked. He shrugged in his normal uncaring fashion. “Sure, why not?”

Buffy lit up. T.J. was hoping she didn’t try to kill him (although a part of him was scared what he’d do. He always lost himself in the heat of the moment, especially when he was competing in something, and it was hard to find himself again afterwards, to regain all the steps he’d taken to get there in the first place.)

“I‘ll go sign us up,” she told him, smiling challengingly.  She walked away, and T.J. turned back to Cyrus only to see him observing the contestants. 

“Oh, look!  They upgraded to wooden horsies!” T.J. shot him an amused glance. “What? I’m glad they’re making good investments!”

T.J. huffed through his nose, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “You’re cute.”

It hung in the air for a moment. T.J. couldn’t believe it slipped out of his mouth.  Cyrus’s head jerked toward him.

“What did you just say?”  It wasn’t accusing, it was just surprised and raw and sparking on T.J.’s skin. His heart skipped a beat, and for once, he was afraid more than he was anything else. It was always easy to let anger override everything else, but now he realized that it hadn’t been anger at all. It was panic easily masked and it was every insecurity rising to the surface. It was years of delayed fear finally seeping through. 

“I—“

“T.J., we’re up,” Buffy interrupted, popping out of nowhere. T.J. had never been more grateful for her in his life. 

A woman in a thick layered gown handed him a wooden horse and a flimsy plastic sword .  (He was pretty sure they didn’t even use swords in actual jousting matches, but this was Shadyside, so he guessed the bar wasn’t too high, anyway.)  He looked down at it, confused, then watched Buffy get on hers like it was an actual horse. He sighed. Well, this might as well happen. 

He mounted his ‘steed’ and tried to ignore the dozens of people watching him, albeit completely unsuccessfully.  (He also tried not to feel incredibly stupid, but Buffy seemed like she was pulling her confidence right from the air, so T.J. squared his shoulders and tried to ignore the eyes piercing through the chinks in his armor.)

“How does this even work?” T.J. asked, confused. He didn’t even know where to place his hands.  And how was he supposed to stay on this wooden horse thing and balance a sword at the same time?

Buffy shot him a dangerous kind of smile that made him feel like she might destroy him within the first three seconds. (He knew she could. Didn’t really like to think about it so much.)

“You‘ll see,” she says knowingly. T.J.’s stomach turned uneasily.

He scanned through the crowd around them and caught Cyrus’s eye. Cyrus tossed him an encouraging smile, mouthing, “Good luck!”  He flashed him a thumbs up. 

Courage blossomed in T.J.’s chest. (Cyrus always said that T.J. was the confident one.  But, a lot of the time, it didn’t feel that way. Cyrus could be one hundred unapologetically himself, even when he was afraid to be. T.J. couldn’t even muster up the courage to tell Cyrus his feelings for him. T.J. couldn’t even find it in himself to admit that he was...you know…)

“Three…,” the red-haired lady from before, who T.J. guessed was the referee, started chanting loudly, “two...one…wend!”

Buffy started charging at him, so T.J. assumed that ‘wend’ meant go. (He wished people would talk modern English around here. It was a lot harder to pretend that he knew what he was doing when he couldn’t even understand what anyone was saying.)

He ran (or trotted, he guessed) the opposite direction as Buffy did, sword pointing out.

She swiped at him from across a fence planted between them that T.J. was just now noticing. The tip of the blade grazed his shoulder. 

Okay. They were hitting each other. Suddenly it was making a lot more sense why Buffy wanted to do this with him. 

A part of him really wanted to prove to her that he could win. That he could be good at something. But. It also didn’t feel as important. As it used to, at least. A part of him felt like he could be good at things without constantly having to measure up. Like he could exist without the weight of having to demonstrate his value to the world and why he deserved his place in it sitting on his shoulders.

They were running again, switching to the opposite way as before.  Buffy leapt toward the fence, aiming for a stab at his stomach. T.J. almost jumped. “What was that for?” he called out, confused.  He dodged another swing, then swung at her himself, his sword striking her hip.  

“That was for lying to Cyrus,” she said, slightly panting. She shot him a smile that clung like plastic wrap to his skin. T.J. suddenly did not like where this was heading. 

The next run, T.J. aimed for her arm and smirked when it made contact. She lost her balance for a second, but regained it just as quickly.  Of course. She had always been quick on her feet, even that first day at basketball tryouts. 

His throat went tight at the thought. 

“Nice try,” she told him, swiping at him again. 

“You can do it!” T.J. heard someone cheer, and he swiveled around, only to see Cyrus’s hands cupped around his mouth. He couldn’t tell if it was for him or Buffy, was probably for both of them if he was honest, but it caught him off guard and T.J. couldn’t help but smile. 

The next moment, in a flash, he felt something pointed piercing his chest and then he was falling to the ground, the wind knocked out of his lungs.  It was a sharp, defining moment of reality snapping back into him. Because even the most perfect days found a way to sink their claws into you. Because that was how karma worked, right?  When you did bad things, the worst always found its way back to you. Because when you opened yourself up to those ugly thoughts, they ended up growing into something much larger than those strangled echoes of your anger.  They became jabbing elbows during basketball tryouts and sneers tossed over shoulders and jealous boys that didn't know how to feel. They became actions you couldn't take back, no matter how hard you scrambled to fix them.  

“And that was for kicking me off the boys’ basketball team,” T.J. heard somewhere above him. He coughed, struggling to regain his senses. He felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?”

T.J. winced and sat up. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. He was disoriented, definitely. And he was pretty sure—

Yeah. He fell on a rock. Just his luck. 

He blinked dazedly, and when he opened his eyes, he could see Cyrus staring right at him, concerned. (At him wasn’t the right word. More of, looking into him. Exploring the dark corners of his soul.  He could kiss him really easily, if he wanted to.  If he were brave enough.)

“Here, let’s get you up.”  Cyrus’s hand was at his back, and suddenly T.J. was being lifted up to his feet.  He grabbed onto Cyrus's upper arm and didn't let go.

He was fine and could still walk, obviously, but there was definitely going to be a bruise on the side of his knee. That was a little annoying. If only Buffy could’ve aimed for the patch of grass a foot away. Maybe then he’d be a more gracious loser. (Who was he kidding?  He was and never would be a gracious loser. But it wasn’t too late to try, he guessed. As annoying and inconvenient as it was.)

T.J. watched as Buffy was crowned the ‘victor,’ the gown lady from before putting a medal around her neck.  He could hear Jonah, Andi, and The Other One cheer her on over at the benches. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jonah kneel down, but his attention was quickly pulled back to Cyrus. 

“Is it bad that I was rooting for both of you?” Cyrus asked, biting his lip. 

Ha.  He snorted.  T.J. knew he had been.  He didn’t even mind all that much. Not really. Like, he understood it, at least.  If he had more than one friend, he wouldn't want to choose between them and Cyrus, either.  

“It’s fine,” T.J. said. What he wanted to say was, You’re the reason I lost. Because you constantly pull my attention toward you. Because you are unconsciously the brightest thing in the room and you can’t help but draw everyone in. 

He wanted to say, I like you. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone else. And the scary thing is, I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone as purely good as you are. I could dream up the perfect guy and he wouldn’t even come close to you. 

But of course he couldn’t say that. Because Cyrus liked Jonah. And Jonah was everything that T.J. wasn’t. He was perfect while T.J. was flawed. He was the petals of flowers and T.J. was the thorns. Because people picked flowers for their stupefied magnificence, the way they could make people's breath catch in their throats, and thorns were cut away and sanded down until they no longer pricked at your fingers, until they weren’t even there at all. 

T.J. was probably just going to delude himself into thinking that Cyrus was a cactus person, or something. Cacti were pretty cool, as long as you didn’t get too close. 

Great, another metaphor that didn’t paint T.J. in the best light. Oh, well. He was too tired from jousting with Buffy and battling with the inner demons that had made a nest inside his chest to pretend he had a chance with Cyrus.

Except…the fortune teller seemed to think he did.  She seemed to believe in it more than T.J. ever had. 

“Are you okay?” Cyrus asked, snapping T.J. out of his thoughts. He was biting his lip nervously. T.J. wanted to kiss him. If Cyrus kept looking at him like that, he might. (T.J. had, like, zero self control. It would be embarrassing if it weren’t so freaking painful.)

“I’m fine,” he replied indifferently. (Was he?) “I’m pretty sure it’s just a bruise.”

Cyrus continued to bite his lip. T.J. bit the inside of his cheek. “It might be bleeding, though,” he pointed out. “I have a first aid kit, remember?  I can check. Only if you want, though,” he hurriedly added on. 

T.J. should say no. He shouldn’t humor himself like this. 

“Yeah, sure,” he said instead. (See? No self control whatsoever. He was so lame.)

He took off his left boot that came with his knight costume. He raised his black tights to reveal his injury. 

Cyrus’s eyebrows scrunched together worriedly. There was a thin scratch with a smear of dark blood. “I’ll go get my first aid kit. Hold on.”

T.J. carefully held the fabric away from his cut, watching Cyrus disappear into the tent that contained all their belongings.  He felt a weight shift on the bench beside him. Someone cleared their throat.

Buffy.  Of course.  

She was probably here to rub in her victory, or something.  (He hoped he could take it. Hoped this whole being nicer thing didn’t blow up in his face like he was waiting for it to.)

“Sorry about your knee,” she said instead.  She sounded sincere, in an un-Buffy kind of way.  Not that she couldn’t be sincere. Just that she hadn’t ever been to him.  (Not that he had ever done anything to deserve that from her, anyway, so. Really his fault, he guessed.)

“I deserve it, anyway,” T.J. found himself saying.  Even more surprised that he meant that. (He probably deserved a lot of bad things to happen to him.  Like, the kind of bad things like pianos falling out of the skies, or something. Buffy would probably agree with that.  T.J. would agree even more.) “You’re right. I shouldn’t have lied to Cyrus about why I got detention, and what I did to you was...wrong.  You didn’t deserve that.”

“I know I didn’t,” she chimed in brightly.  T.J. snorted. “Listen, I know that what you told Cyrus isn't the whole truth.”  His eyebrows went up, heart nearly skipping out of his chest. (She was a lot more perceptive than he gave her credit for.)  “I was there, T.J.  I know it wasn’t over me.  Not completely, anyway.  So, whatever it is, I think you should tell Cyrus the truth.”

He thought about denying it.  He thought about playing dumb.  He was good at acting stupid. (Probably because a part of him was really, really stupid for ever thinking he could pull this off.)  

“I can’t,” T.J. said lowly.  His voice was so thin that Buffy probably had to strain to chase it down through the wind blowing around them.  “Not yet, anyway. I want to, but—”

“I get it,” she told him comfortingly.  She shook her head suddenly. “This is weird.”

T.J. shifted on the backs of his hands, confused.  “What is?”

“Us.  You know.  Getting along?”

T.J. shrugged.  “I can be friends if you can.”

Buffy was silent for a second.  “I don’t know.” T.J.’s heart sank in a surprising wave a disappointment.  Who knew he wanted to be friends with Buffy Driscoll?  “I’m not mad at you anymore. Or, at least I don’t think I am.  But I’m not sure if we could ever be friends.”

“Valid point,” was all he could think of to reply with.  (Because what else was there to say?)

“Yeah, because I never did anything to you,” she said, nudging him.  It was playful.  If he was honest, they already did feel like friends.  All the animosity felt dissolved in a kind of weird, unfamiliar way.

“I know,” T.J. said.  “I’m sorry.”  A weighted pause stretched between them.  T.J. kept pushing on, felt like he was walking blindly into something.  “And, if I’m telling the truth, the only reason I did what I did was because I was…,” he sighed reluctantly.  Started over. “Because I was jealous of you.”  

He forced himself to lift his head, met her burning gaze.  He felt too vulnerable, like someone could push him over and he’d bleed into the cracks of cobblestone underneath them.  

Buffy’s eyebrows raised in surprise.  He kept going, stumbling into waters he didn't like to tread in fear of drowning in them. “I thought you were going to replace me as captain, or something.  But it was dumb.”

“Yeah, it was,” Buffy agreed, and she laughed.  “I’m better than everyone.”  T.J. laughed, too, and the sting of annoyance that used to come with Buffy wasn’t there anymore. 

Buffy’s laughter softened, slowing to a gradual stop, and she pursed her lips, growing solemn all of a sudden.  “We could’ve been a great team if you would’ve given me the chance.

“I know that now,” T.J. said finally.  “I think I knew that all along, actually.  But...I can give you that chance now.  Right?”  He really wasn’t too good at this whole apology thing.  It felt like gluing together something beyond repair and hoping it still stood, even if you could see the cracks in the foundation while you were holding together the pieces in your hands and knew it was a long shot despite that.  

“It’s the least you can do,” she told him.  There was a note of amusement in her voice. “Friends?”

A smile split open on his face.  “Friends.”

They fist bumped, and T.J. wished they could’ve been friends all along.  (Because, for the first time, he was realizing that he would be a lot better for it if they had been.)

“And, as your friend , it’s my duty to tell you that we’re throwing a surprise party for Cyrus’s birthday on Saturday,” she said, her voice lilting.  T.J.’s eyebrows jumped up. “You should help us plan it. I know he would want you there,” she added on.

“Cool,” T.J. said.  For some reason, this was the most whole he felt in a long time.  “I’m there.”

Buffy shoved her phone into his hands.  “Here, put your number in. I’ll text you the details of the party and everything.”

He typed it in, thumbs blurring over the keypad.  He swiftly handed it back to her, hearing footsteps coming in from his right.  

“What did I miss?” Cyrus asked, taking a seat next to T.J.  He had a red first aid kit in his hand, undid the plastic buckles.  

Buffy and T.J. shared a glance.  “Me and T.J. made up,” she said offhandedly.  

Cyrus lit up, a smile spilling over his face.  “Oh thank goodness! Being in the middle of this rivalry was really stressful.”

She rolled her eyes playfully at her best friend.  T.J. smiled at him, amused.

Buffy looked at them.  Like she was sorting something together in her head.  The beginning of an uneasy feeling formed in T.J.’s stomach, knotting itself together.  She stood up when she noticed him watching her, her eyes darting elsewhere. T.J.’s face felt hot.  Exposed.  Like his layers had been peeled back.

“Well, I promised Andi I would try on the medieval masks before we leave, so I better go find her.”  

T.J. nodded evenly, eyeing her carefully.  She pursed her lips in thought, surveying them for a second before turning around.  She walked away. T.J. let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Cyrus watched him carefully.  He propped T.J.’s leg across his lap, starting to dab away at the thin trail of red heading down his shin.  T.J. ignored the urge to wince at the sudden stinging sensation nipping at his skin.

“Thank you,” Cyrus said suddenly, rummaging around for a band aid.  His voice was soft like velvet. “I know it probably wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to apologize, but I’m proud of you for doing it.”

“I should’ve done it a long time ago,” T.J. said.  He cleared his throat. There was courage rising from an unknown chasm, humming on his skin.  He remembered what the fortune teller said. He thought about the slip of paper in his pocket.  

He should tell Cyrus.  Now or never.

“Cyrus?”

Cyrus looked up momentarily.  “Yeah?”  Again, T.J. got the feeling that Cyrus was looking into him.  Could see every inch and knew every last secret.

The air stopped.  He couldn't. He couldn’t do this.  Not here, at least, not when there were so many people around.  “Thanks. You know, for fixing me up.”

Cyrus gave him a soft smile that was made out of every star in the universe.  “What else am I good for if not assisting in medical emergencies?” he joked.

T.J. knew it was rhetorical, but he wanted to say, You’re good at everything.  He didn’t.  (Another instance of him being an ultimate coward.  He really sucked.)

Cyrus unwrapped the bandage and placed it carefully on T.J.’s scrape.  He patted his knee and smiled. “There.  Good to go!”

“Thanks.”  He took his leg off Cyrus’s lap, rolling down his pants leg.

“No problem,” Cyrus said, standing up in front of him.  His smile left a sweet taste in T.J.’s mouth.

T.J. didn’t know what to say, how to continue on when it felt like he and Cyrus were blurring together in this thing he couldn’t identify.  They were blue and yellow mixing into green. (Eventually, there would be a point where you couldn’t unmix them. Where they were stuck that way, bleeding into each other until they couldn’t find their edges, until they couldn’t find where each of them started or ended.)

T.J. wanted that.  He knew deep down he did, whether he was willing to admit it aloud or not.

“I think jousting made me really hungry,” T.J. managed to say.  Pushed down the thoughts flying in his head. Wished he knew how to shut up his mind when it got like this, when it was spilling over with things he couldn’t say out loud without the air exploding into shards of glass. 

Cyrus grinned as T.J. pulled his boot back on.  (They had been pinching his feet literally the entire time.  He missed the tennis shoes he came here in.)   “The Spoon?” He held out a hand to T.J.

T.J. smiled.  “For the first time all day, I think we’re finally speaking the same language.”  He took Cyrus’s hand, and Cyrus yanked him to his feet. They came nose to nose.  T.J.'s eyes flickered down, and he could almost—

Cyrus flushed, taking a step instinctively backwards.  T.J.’s heart was trying to remember how to beat again. “We shouldst changeth first and foremost, good knight,” he said, avoiding T.J.’s gaze.  T.J.’s eyes skipped over to the costume tent, trying to look anywhere but at Cyrus.

“Probably a good idea.”

They started to walk back to the tent together, and T.J. saw Cyrus steal a glance of him when he thought T.J. wasn't looking.  T.J. turned to him curiously, raising an eyebrow. Cyrus faced back forward, ears growing red. “Race you to the tent!”

He started running, panting in his normal Cyrus fashion, and T.J. smiled to himself.  He shook his head, racing to catch up to him. Looked like today turned out to be even better than he thought. 

By the time he got home, it was nearly time to go to bed, which shocked his parents more than it shocked T.J.  The only times he had left the house in the past month were to go to school and his weekly community service punishment at Jackson’s Gym on Saturdays (which he had to skip today...and next week...oops.  He would have to get someone else to cover for him again.)

He changed into a pair of sweats and a white T-shirt, flopping down on his bed and scrolling through his phone absentmindedly.  He noticed a text notification from an unknown number on his lock screen.  

Oh, yeah.  Buffy.  She was probably giving him the details for Cyrus’s surprise party on Saturday, or something.  

He opened it.  His stomach dropped. 

It was the picture Buffy took of him and Cyrus at the costume tent.  No caption. No context.

T.J. was smiling right at Cyrus in it.  

A funny feeling unfurled in a way that made T.J. feel unstable, like his edges were grated and sharp.  She had to know.  She had to.

He didn’t know what to think.  Would it…really be a bad thing if she did know?

That he liked Cyrus...that he thought he was… 

T.J. sighed, rubbing his hand over his face tiredly.  Okay, so he guessed it wasn’t, like, the end of the world, or anything.  Buffy was trustworthy, and she was bound to find out sooner or later, knowing how smart she was.  Plus, she was Cyrus’s best friend, and if Cyrus trusted her, then T.J. should probably trust her, too.

He lied back onto his pillows, his fingers knotted together behind his head.  He stared up at the ceiling. Smiled a little to himself.  

Yeah.  It wasn’t so bad.  Her knowing his secret.

He unthreaded his hands from behind him, pulling Buffy’s number back up.  He added it to his contacts before typing back a quick reply.

Thanks. -T.J.

She typed back immediately.  Like she was expecting it. Of course. -Buffy

He looked at the picture again, his thumb hovering over Cyrus’s face...he hesitated before saving the picture.

T.J. opened up Cyrus’s contact, forwarding it to him.  For some reason, he had a feeling Buffy hadn’t shown it to him. 

Aww! -Cyrus

We look great! -Cyrus

One might even say, ‘most wondrous’? -Cyrus

One might not, but I appreciate the effort. -T.J.

I thanketh thee, valorous knight :) -Cyrus

T.J. huffed a little to himself, smiling.

He started to type on his phone.  Cyrus…I like you.

He quickly backspaced, heart racing.  He felt like such an idiot.

T.J. reached into his pocket for his fortune from the psychic, wanting to run his fingers over the edges, but...it wasn’t there.

He sat straight up, frantically patting his pockets.  Did he forget to grab it? Did he leave it in his costume?

His heart was in his throat.  He felt nauseous in a way he didn’t know he could be.

His phone buzzed suddenly, and T.J. eyed it cautiously before snatching it up, almost expecting a blackmailing kind of situation to happen.  (That happened in that one movie, Love, Simon , right?  T.J. should probably watch that considering…well, more recent revelations.)

Night, Teej! -Cyrus

T.J. swallowed down the lump in his throat, typing back uneasily.  

Night, Underdog. -T.J.

He tossed his phone beside him, running a hand through his hair.  He clenched his jaw as hard as he could. He couldn’t believe how stupid he was.  He had risked everything, and for what?  So a fortune teller could lie to him and give him false hope for something?  

How did she even know what to say?  It wasn’t like he showed her his card, or anything.  

Unless… 

Unless, somehow...she was actually real?

No, that couldn’t be it.  Right?  That was insane.  

Yeah.  Yeah.

T.J. shook his head, rubbing his face tiredly.  He was losing his freaking mind. God.  

He thought about Cyrus grabbing his hand, dragging him into the costume tent.  He thought about that day in his garage…

Would it be such a bad thing?  If he told Cyrus?

Yes and no, T.J. guessed.  It was hard to say, because, unlike that fortune teller, T.J. couldn’t predict the future.  He couldn’t guess whether his words would come out right, or what Cyrus would say, whether he would smile at T.J. like he did on sunny days or frown like he did on rainy ones.  There were no tarot cards or palm readings or crystal balls that could give T.J. what he wanted. Because, even though they could guess what the future might look like, could answer those questions that pressed in on you from every angle imaginable, they couldn’t do the hard part for you.  They couldn’t fix your problems, or make things happen that otherwise wouldn’t. Only you could make those big, life changing decisions. Only you could decide whether you’d salvage the pieces of what had the potential to be broken or take that leap and find out for yourself.  

T.J. shoved his blankets off of him, trailing over to his desk.  He took his favorite blue pen and ripped out a few pages from his tutoring notebook, taking a deep, steadying breath.  And, instead of pushing away all those impossible thoughts that lived in his head, he took apart his mental walls. Let all those thoughts ebb and flow inside.  Let himself get swept away in them.

Dear Cyrus,

This is hard for me to say, so…bear with me.  Just...keep reading to the end. I'll explain everything.  Swear.

Chapter Text

I'm not too good at all of this feelings stuff, but I want to get this thing with you right.

The next few days flew by in a blur, melting away with the last remnants of snow sticking to the grass in odd patches.  Slowly, color was refastening itself back into Shadyside, appearing in bursts of bright green buds sprouting along bare branches and in the clumps of sun-dried dandelions bursting between the cracks of the sidewalk.  Spring was just around the corner, and, even sooner (terrifyingly enough, in T.J.’s opinion) was Cyrus’s birthday that Saturday. 

It shouldn’t have been terrifying, right?  It wasn’t like he was confessing to Cyrus how he felt at the party.  (Well, he sort of was, in a way.  But T.J. was choosing not to think about that right now.)

“Earth to T.J.,” a voice said, pulling him away from his thoughts.  T.J. blinked, focusing his gaze on Cyrus standing next to him.  Their arms brushed, in the kind of way that started lightning storms and ignited fireworks, made his hair stand on end.  

“Sorry.  I was on Jupiter,” T.J. drawled sarcastically, turning toward a wall of lockers.  Oh, right.  His locker.  They were here to drop off the books from his fourth period.  He blinked hard, trying to remember the numbers of his combination (hoping they didn’t disappear through the cracks, the way granules of sand slipped between your fingers).

Cyrus smiled, leaning against the locker next to T.J.’s.  “How was it?  Jupiter, I mean.”

(T.J.’s mind was still racing from Saturday night, billions of things pouring into his head.  He couldn’t help but think this thing they had, however he could describe it, was, like….meant to be , or something.  T.J. really needed to be punched senseless right about now.  Preferably not by Reed, though.  Maybe Buffy, she might go easier on him now that they were….well, friends.  That even felt weird to think, let alone say out loud.  A good kind of weird, though.  At least, T.J. thought so, anyway.)

“There were a lot of moons,” T.J. replied easily, punching in his lock.  Please work, please work, please work.  “Kinda boring compared to Saturn.”  He put in 13-39-15 (was that his actual combination or was he remembering wrong?), his eyes straining to see past the numbers swimming in the air.

The locker swung open.  T.J. held in his sigh of relief, the little catch in his chest that came with it.  

“You should take me next time,” Cyrus said.  “I’ve always wanted to visit Jupiter.”

They shared a smile, T.J. rolling his eyes playfully.  He wished things between them could stretch on for miles, could stay perfectly preserved this way forever.  

Too bad T.J. was about to ruin it all this weekend.

I've just noticed you.  I always have, I think.  And I know you think you're invisible, but you're not.  You were wearing a blue shirt and khakis the first time I saw you, waiting in the lunch line to get a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin.

T.J. tried to blink away the words bleeding from behind his eyelids, clenching his jaw.  No, no, no, stop .  Not here.  He could not do this now.  Not with so many people, not when he couldn’t even say how he...that he was— 

“Are you sure you’re feeling well, Teej?” Cyrus asked, raising an eyebrow.  He gently pressed the back of his hand to T.J.’s face, knuckles brushing against his cheekbones, and T.J. pulled away in a knee-jerk reaction, stomach plummeting to the floor in an awful, tortured kind of way.  If he didn’t get away, he was going to do this now and it was going to be absolutely cataclysmic and catastrophic and a billion other words T.J. didn’t know how to spell without Cyrus’s help.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” T.J. shook him off, drawing up a nonchalant smile.  He needed to get away from Cyrus before he did something really stupid.  He slung his books under his arm and shut his locker behind him, facing Cyrus as he walked backwards to his next class.  “Have to, uh...have to head to fifth period.  See you later.”  T.J. turned sharply on his heels, walking briskly to his next class.  He didn’t know whether to feel bad for leaving him so suddenly or relieved.  Felt a little of both, if he was being honest.  

His phone beeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket.  He glanced over his shoulder to see Jonah walking up to Cyrus and giving him a high-five.  His stomach turned uncomfortably and he swallowed down the green vines that were suffocating and lurching up his throat until they were nothing but a distant prickling in his chest.

T.J. turned back to his phone, looking for a distraction because he did not want to think about Cyrus and Jonah together.  Caught up in his thoughts, he barely even noticed when someone knocked into him, his phone clattering to the floor.

Well, this might as well happen. 

T.J. kneeled down and picked it up with his left hand, eyebrows drawing together as he peered down to face the person in question.  “You okay?”

Bewildered eyes hiding behind coke bottle lenses greeted him, darting from T.J. to the crevices in the walls and back, and a pang of familiarity hit T.J. square in the chest.  He remembered a month ago, snarling at this same little 7th grader with a backpack twice his size after he bumped into T.J.  Guilt needled at him. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, holding his hand out to Backpack Boy.  Maybe it was an olive branch, or T.J.’s twisted version of apology.  He didn’t know.  He just...needed to make this right, or something.

Backpack Boy took his hand, hesitating, and T.J. pulled him up to the ground.  “Thanks,” he said timidly.  He cautiously looked T.J. in the eye.  The edges of a shy smile curled at his mouth.

“Don’t mention it.”  T.J. offered a smile back.  Backpack Boy continued walking down the hallway, glancing behind his shoulder at him in disbelief.  T.J. huffed to himself, amused.  How had he managed to change so much within the past month?

You make me want to change.  And you still do.  I'm learning, Cyrus.  I feel like my conscience is finally waking up so it can guide me along the way.  (Maybe it's not my conscience, exactly.  Maybe it's just you.)

Well...T.J. kinda already knew the answer to that.  Wasn’t that the whole point of his letter thing to Cyrus?  To tell him how he’d, like, made T.J. better, in more ways than one?

Or, not that Cyrus made T.J. better.  That he made T.J. want to be better.  Pushed him to the good because he knew that, once T.J. was there, he’d figure it out himself.

His phone buzzed again, and T.J. saw two unopened texts sitting on his lock screen.  He glanced around him; the hallways were almost empty, save for a few stragglers. 

T.J. picked up his pace, almost sprinting, scrolling through the texts and jumping over a ‘wet floor’ sign in the same breath.

Cyrus’s Surprise Party meeting in the library at free period. -Buffy

Are you coming? -Buffy

On my way, T.J. texted back with one hand, using the other to keep the left strap of his backpack from slipping off his shoulder.  He took a sharp left turn into the double library doors, barely dodging a library cart spilling over with returned books that was abandoned by the entrance.  

“I’m here,” T.J. said, dropping his backpack onto the table.  It slammed against the hardwood tabletops, and the new young librarian that T.J. still didn’t know the name of shushed him.  He quirked his lips at her, apologetic, before turning back to the table, four pairs of eyes blinking at him.  Buffy, to his left, the Other Kid (her boyfriend? Still wasn’t too sure on that whole front), Jonah, and then Andi to his right. 

They returned to their previous conversations and T.J. settled in, taking out his notebook.  Buffy tossed him a tentative smile and he returned it.  He felt out of place yet also right where he was supposed to be, in a weird sort of way. It didn’t make much sense, he guessed, but he felt that way a lot. Like there were two parts of him pulling both ends of a rope, trying to see which side would win. 

After a few minutes, Buffy cleared her throat and banged her fist on the table.  "I'm calling our first meeting to order.”  The talking subsided, and everyone turned their chairs toward Buffy besides Jonah, who was still laughing at a video on his phone.  Andi jabbed him in his side, and he glanced up.  

“Huh?” he asked in that oblivious way of his. He must’ve noticed the glance Buffy shot at him because he turned sheepish, muttering an apology. He quickly shoved it into his pocket, face flickering from amused straight to embarrassed, much to Buffy's own satisfaction.  T.J. tried not to snort to himself at how serious she was taking this.  (On the other hand, he didn't even blame her for taking charge; it was Cyrus's birthday party, after all.  This had to be, like, next level.  Buffy told him that Cyrus's bar mitzvah had a caricature artist, a fortune teller, and a photo booth, and that was just in the back entrance .)

"So, first things first.  What should we do for the venue?" she asked. 

"You haven't picked a venue yet?" T.J. piped up, more out of surprise than anything else. Not that he'd ever planned a surprise party before, but it seemed to take more time than just a few meetings during their shared free period (or whatever class Jonah happened to be missing right about now—wasn't he too old to go to Jefferson, anyway?)  "His birthday is five days away."  

Buffy rolled her eyes in his direction without even turning her head, but it was in the playful way that T.J. noticed that she did with her friends.  His mouth melted into a smile, the kind that was sculpted from molasses and made your chest feel all warm.  (T.J. was not used to feeling warm .  Reed and Lester's friendship never felt quite like this.  Like it was supposed to fit into him as perfectly as T.J. fit into it, was seamless in a way where you couldn't find where the new thread was sewn in, could tug and pull at the stitching and have nothing come loose.)

"You would be surprised at how hard it is to secure a place in Shadyside that isn't a bowling alley or a church," she snorted.  "Anyway, I was thinking about the trails by the Alpine Slide?  There's plenty of space, and that pumpkin donut place Cyrus likes....although there are a lot of bees...," she trailed off.  

“ And quicksand,” Andi chimed in. (There seemed to be a story there. T.J. would have to ask Cyrus about that later.)

"What about The Spoon?" Jonah interjected.  

Really, is that all he could come up with?   T.J. glanced away and rolled his eyes to the window on his left instead of to Jonah, because he was trying this thing where he was nice to people other than Cyrus, which was turning out to be harder than he thought.  (Hey, if Jonah didn’t see him do it, it didn’t really count, right?)  The Other Kid shrugged, seeming to not feel very strongly about the idea.  T.J. couldn't really blame him. 

"Jonah, we go to The Spoon everyday," Andi interjected.  Her voice had an underlying edge to it, was tired in a way that rivaled her usual bubbliness.  T.J. felt compelled to look somewhere (or anywhere, really) else. Cyrus did say at Ren Fair that her and Jonah had been fighting a lot lately.  T.J. wondered why they made themselves suffer by forcing themselves to stay together, for a thing neither of them seemed to want enough to stay together for .  It sort of seemed like they had tied themselves to each other, trying to salvage pieces of their relationship that probably wouldn't fit back together.  At least not in the way they wanted it to. 

When they were reading Romeo and Juliet in class a few weeks ago, T.J.'s English teacher said that there was a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone, even though it sounded like a bunch of mushy stuff to him, if he was being honest.  She said that loving someone was something you drowned in, a thing that consumed you entirely without any other thought clouding your mind—something you were meant to try and survive.  But, in turn, she said that being in love with someone was swimming without drowning, was treading those waters without sinking in them, was a thing that survived you . She explained that people let themselves fall into something without knowing if there would be ground to break their fall, buoyed by the false wings of promise from a person who hadn’t earned it, who would drop you once the weight got too heavy for them to carry on.  And, even though T.J. thought that was super lame of his teacher to say about the weirdest play he had yet to read (but that was a whole other story), it was kind of true in a way, he guessed.  Not for him, but for Jonah and Andi, anyway.  But T.J. was the farthest thing from a love expert, or whatever, so maybe it made no sense at all.  (Or maybe it made complete sense, and maybe he wasn't sure which he was in with Cyrus right now.  Whether he was letting himself get lost in those feelings or if he was able to navigate them, if he could let them run through him without them bleeding into everything else.)

"Yeah, there has to be a place that we haven't thought of yet," Buffy said, tapping her red pen against her party-planning notebook.  A lightbulb popped into T.J.'s head right then.  In the dim afterglow of everything, a thought began to take shape.  

"The Shadyside Greenhouse," T.J. blurted out.  Everyone turned to stare at him all at once.  His eyes darted around wildly, not quite sure who to focus on in the moment. He focused on Buffy, who seemed the hardest to convince out of everyone, if he was honest.  "Think about it; it's by the park, which Cyrus likes.  And it has a cool view, and a ton of space-"

"I love it! " Andi exclaimed. Buffy nodded along fervently with a satisfied smile, hurriedly scribbling in her notebook, ideas suddenly pouring out of her like a waterfall.  T.J. blinked, taken aback by their response.  People didn't usually like his ideas outside of the basketball court.  Well, besides Cyrus.  It was a...weird feeling.  Not a bad one.  Not bad at all.  Just.  Different, he guessed.

"Great idea, T.J.," Buffy said in approval, throwing him a sincere smile.  He smiled back, chest feeling full.  (He never knew he could be this happy all at once.  Usually his joy was more spread out, was usually an installment on the way to a much bigger thing that T.J. couldn't see or feel, just trusted that it would be there because that was all he had.  This was better than that, though.  T.J. figured that was true for most things: that the reality was better than the fantasy you let yourself build in your head.  At least this was tangible, had edges he could run his fingers along.  At least, when it was late at night and he was lying still in the darkness of his room, he could reach elbow deep into his chest and come up with something more than emptiness, something that spilled through the cracks of his cupped hands, overflowing in its own completeness.)  "Anyway, moving on.  How about party favors?"  

T.J. started to tune out after that, his mind stalling as he tried to come up with an idea for the next most important part of Cyrus's birthday party: his gift.  He hid his phone under the lip of the library table as doodled, sneaking glimpses of the picture that Buffy sent him a few nights ago.  Drawing always helped him think better, helped words flow where they'd otherwise stay stuck.  Every few seconds he sketched long pencil strokes, trying to wrestle the picture down onto the page.  

T.J. was getting worried about finding him a gift on time, if he was being honest.  Cyrus's birthday was only five days away.  He barely had a clue what to get him besides the letter he already wrote ( which Cyrus probably doesn’t even want , a burning voice in his mind whispered, like hot coils wrapping around his chest, squeezing tight, tighter.)  

He wanted to give Cyrus something more special than a letter, though.  Cyrus was special, and he deserved something that showed that.  Turning over ideas in his head, T.J. kept doodling, hoping something would just...come to him, or something.  He didn't notice Buffy watching him carefully while the party planning meeting fizzled out into an impromptu study session for some class that T.J. wasn't paying attention to, instead letting his eyes stick to the page.

"What are you drawing?" she prodded a few minutes later, voice turned down several notches.  It was so unlike her usual intensity; T.J. had to strain to catch every pale, faded word.  

He bit his lip in thought, then shook his head.  He shifted slightly in his seat, trying to nonchalantly cover the page with his jacket sleeve.  (Hoping, hoping, hoping she didn't see.  Because even though he was pretty okay with her maybe knowing about him, it was an entirely different thing talking about it.)  "It's nothing," he said, scoffing at himself.  He hoped Buffy bought it.  Doubted that, even as the thought popped into his head.

"Yeah, right," she said, clearly not believing him.  T.J. thought he was good at lying until he’d met the Good Hair Crew.  "Is that for Cyrus?"

"Maybe," T.J. said, forcing his voice into something that sounded neutral, smoothing over all the dips and curves that his voice tended to take whenever he talked about Cyrus.  (Why did he always give himself away so easily?  Ugh. Gross.)  She raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.  He sighed, relenting.  “Well, part of it.  I haven’t decided what I’m getting him yet.”

She nodded, biting her lip in thought.  “Do you have the notes still?  The ones you and Cyrus give each other?”

T.J. shrugged.  He felt exposed, like she was peeling back a layer of his soul.  “Yeah.  So?”

“Well, you could always do something with those.  Like a scrapbook, or something.  I know Cyrus would love that.  He liked gooey, sentimental stuff like that.”

T.J.’s eyebrows drew together.  Actually, that idea wasn’t half bad.  

In fact, Buffy had just given him a really great present idea for Cyrus… 

“Can I see what you’re working on?” Buffy asked.  Her question shook him out of his thoughts.  She gave him a knowing smile, gesturing toward the drawing he was covering.  He hesitated before giving her a quick peek.  "That’s... amazing ,” she exclaimed in disbelief.  

"Really?"  T.J. gave her a pointed look, incredulous.  He quickly covered it back up.  "Yeah, right.  It's not even good—"

"You're right—it's great," Buffy interrupted.  T.J. softened in the slightest (and biggest) way.  "And I'm sure Andi would think so, too.  And art is, like, who she is ."  

The corners of his mouth quirked up a little at that, and he huffed out of his nose fondly.  Somehow, Buffy saying that eased his nerves slightly.  He always felt like a fraud, like he didn't belong anywhere else besides the gym court.  Like it was wrong for him to have charcoal in his hands instead of a basketball.  (Realized that, in that moment, he didn't have to choose one or the other.  He could simultaneously belong as both, could belong as many versions of himself as he could think up and throw himself into.  If he wanted to, he could exist in every shade.)

"T.J., do you...," Buffy started suddenly, then trailed off without warning.  Electric shot down his spine.  He felt self-conscious, stripped of all his layers.  She seemed to be fighting with herself internally before shaking her head, leaning back into her chair, and all of a sudden the air snapped back into something lighter and less heavy on his chest.  "Never mind," she said, lips pulled into a taut line.  Her curiosity was bubbling out of her, was seeping from her pores; he could see it pouring out of her and into a puddle around her feet.  T.J.'s stomach twisted.  "Forget about it."

Sometimes, without even asking, you could tell what was on someone’s mind.  T.J. was far from being anything close to a mind reader (unlike Cyrus, who could guess what someone was feeling just by peeling their layers away, looking at what was thrumming underneath), but, sometimes, people’s thoughts were so loud that you could see the sound waves of them winding in the air. They caught like hooks in your head, and then you couldn’t hear anything else. 

Without Buffy even saying anything at all, T.J. knew her question.  

T.J…Do you like Cyrus?

It was hard enough to write about his feelings, let alone...let alone to say them out loud .  T.J. didn't know if he was there yet, if he could say the words without wanting to watch them curl up into ash and smoke immediately afterwards. 

Because even if Cyrus somehow liked T.J. back...he couldn't stomach being so vulnerable for whatever reason.  (He thought about his dad telling him there was no crying in baseball when he was six, seven, and how he was never allowed to be anything but angry instead of sad when they lost a game. How years and years of filing his emotions down to something that didn't prick at his eyes made it difficult to let them expand into anything else.  And he sort of hated himself, then, for being that tiny bit abnormal, for letting invisible boundaries that didn't really exist, that didn't really exist at all, for keeping him from being himself.)

Except that was the thing, he guessed.  Cyrus was helping him figure out the greater expanse of the universe and all the secrets that lied underneath, all the scribbled words and clumsy hands and beautiful, unknown things that could happen under stars, stars, stars.  All those wonderful feelings that T.J. was never allowed to have shooting across the galaxy, bright and shimmering and infinite .

All he had to do was open himself up to it.  Had to open himself up to the millions of possibilities of feeling and feeling and feeling.  

T.J. kept on drawing.  When Buffy’s gaze landed on the page, he moved his arm away and let her look, freely and without moving a muscle.

Cyrus hated fifth period.

It was his only class a day that he didn't share with any of his friends.  Not that he was completely dependent on them—except he totally, completely was—but he just...didn't like being alone.  Like, what if he had to do a presentation (highly improbable because this was algebra, but that didn't stop his brain from worrying) and he started sweating all over himself?  (Yeah, fifth period was the worst.)   And it definitely didn't help that Reed was in this class, either.

He didn't tell T.J that, though, because Reed usually made T.J. quiet in an unnerving sort of way.  Like...like he was seeing the world in full color before witnessing it being drained away.

Even though he had no proof, Cyrus wondered if there was something else T.J. wasn't telling him.  Then again, he always looked into things that weren't there; his eyes were constantly playing tricks on him (the curse of being four shrinks’ son, he guessed.)  Reed didn't usually bother him much anymore, which was more scary than not, in Cyrus's opinion.  But if looks could kill—Cyrus would be dead a million times over. 

It wasn't until the bell rang and Mr. Coleman was cut off in the middle of his reminder about an upcoming test next week that Cyrus thought that maybe he should've mentioned this whole Reed-being-in-his-math-class thing a while ago. 

"Move out of my way, Goodman," Reed scoffed, knocking into his shoulder as he walked through the door. 

Cyrus didn't know why he didn't immediately apologize, like he normally would have, or why he didn't just slink away before he was killed in the middle of the hallway, but for whatever reason, he was compelled to say, "Look, I know you are T.J. aren't friends anymore, but it's okay!  Sometimes it's better to just move on—"

Reed snapped his head toward Cyrus.  His jaw was clenched in a dangerous kind of way that should have sent Cyrus running for the hills.  His feet stayed glued to the floor.  

Just when Cyrus thought he was about to shove him, or punch him, or something much, much worse, Reed scoffed, was resigned in a way Cyrus wasn’t used to seeing.  His pointed edges softened momentarily. "What does Kippen even see in you?  I don't get it."

Cyrus's eyebrows scrunched together.  He couldn't believe they were even talking , let alone having this conversation.  "What do you mean?  I’m his friend."

Reed scoffed.  "I know.  It's totally gross.  I still can't believe he chose you over me ."

Cyrus took a step back.  What?  Chose me over Reed?   "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Why should I tell you anything?" Reed spat.  (The world was turning on its axis far too fast for Cyrus’s liking.)  "You're just some loser." 

"If I'm just some loser, then why do you bother?"  Cyrus asked.  He wasn't used to this, this well of frustration bursting at the seams, coming up his throat before he could choke it back down into a quiet burn in his chest.  (This wasn’t like him, except now he knew what lightning felt like, like complete electric, and didn’t know if he wanted to stop.)  "I've never done anything to you, but you're always picking on me.  Why?"

Reed was clenching his jaw again.  Cyrus braced himself for something scalding.  "Don't you get it?  You took my best friend away from me.  And you ruined him, and made him all—"

"What?" Cyrus interrupted. The electric feeling fizzled out. Fear was left in its place, a sort of cold emptiness that was hard to miss.  “What did I make him?"  

Reed didn't answer, only rolled his eyes, wouldn’t meet Cyrus's gaze.  Cyrus didn't even know what he was going to say, just knew it would hit him square in the chest and would wrap around his ankles, would make it hard to stand without keeling over.  

"You know what?  I don't need this."  He gave that infuriating smirk, the one that made Cyrus feel scared and small all at once, as he stalked off.  "Leave me alone," he snarled over his shoulder.

Cyrus wanted to say he hadn't even sought him out ever, not once, and that Reed was the one who was always trying to start an argument, one Cyrus didn't know how to fight against or take apart until he could spin it into something solvable in his hands.  Giving up on someone, even Reed, felt like, well...defeat.  (Which was a notion Cyrus was pretty accustomed to, but still .)  He didn't like to give up on people, even ones who weren't nice or easy to talk to or seemed to blame Cyrus for all of his problems, even though it didn't make any sort of sense. He tried to sort the pieces together as he walked toward his locker. (Wondered if there were any pieces to put together in the first place.)

He punched in his combination and tugged on the handle.  It swung open, and Cyrus looked at the reminders on his calendar hanging on the inner door.

March 25th - detention :(

March 29th - detention again :(

March 30th - MY BIRTHDAY!!!!!

April 1st - the most evil holiday (also LAST DAY OF DETENTION)

April 6th - Jackson’s Gym - Community Service

Cyrus’s eyebrows shot up.  How did he nearly forget his own birthday was this weekend?  (He had almost forgotten that he had to do that volunteering gig so Dr. Metcalf didn’t put the fire alarm incident on his permanent record, too.  A lot had happened since that first day of detention, hadn’t it?  But in a good way.  As in, the farthest possible thing from a bad way.)

A hand yanked him backwards, and Cyrus shot up, heart racing.  The first thought that came to mind was, Oh no, Reed’s back to finish what he started.

His second thought was, That pop tab bracelet looks awfully familiar....

“Ow, Andi, you’re hurting me,” he whined.

Laughing, Andi loosened her grip.  Buffy stifled her laughter behind her hand while Andi answered him.  “Sorry, I was just trying to catch your attention.  You seemed like you were in another world, or something.” 

“Yeah, like T.J. Land,” Buffy joked, nudging Cyrus.  He rubbed the place where her elbow hit his arm, trying (and failing) not to pout.  

“Ha ha, very funny, guys,” Cyrus said, even though the panic hadn’t quite left his body yet.  Even though his heart was still racing and his thoughts kept running over each other, blurring together, changing to different points of focus before Cyrus had time to steady himself.  

He inhaled.  Tried to keep the world from slipping out of his grip.  “So, how was your fifth period?”  (If only he had the same fifth period as them.  At least he wouldn’t be in this mess right now if he did.)

Buffy and Andi shared one of those glances they exchanged sometimes, the ones he never quite understood.  Cyrus’s chest snagged on something fragile; he knew they didn’t mean to exclude him, but he couldn’t help but feel isolated anyway.  Felt all those cold, numbing thoughts that couldn’t help but flood him when his brain got like this.  Hated, hated, hated it, but learned that it was difficult to reign in, so he didn’t bother, just...sat in it.  Let the waves of his thoughts envelop him until he had to stick his head above the waters to catch a gasp of air.

“It was fine,” Buffy said with an indifferent shrug.  “We were studying for that math test next Thursday that Mr. Coleman assigned us, but we had to be quiet since we were in the library.”

“Quiet like, ‘regular quiet,’ or quiet like, ‘Dr.-Metcalf-is-running-detention-and-he’ll-expel-you-if-you-breathe-too-loud’’ quiet?” Cyrus asked.  (He would say it was a joke, but that would only be half true.)

“Regular quiet,” Buffy snorted.  “The new librarian isn’t as uptight as the principal of death .”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Dr. Metcalf strolled down the hallway in his normal power stride, ‘surveying for shenanigans’ as Andi always said.  Cyrus flinched, and all three of them turned away, pretending to inspect the inside of Cyrus’s locker.  They all let out a collective sigh of relief when he turned the corner.

“Yeah, I’m glad I don’t have detention with that ,” Andi said, giving a shiver.

Buffy smiled.  “Yeah, but I’m sure Cyrus doesn’t mind now that he has T.J.”

“ Oooh ,” both girls chorused, Andi poking his arm playfully.  Cyrus swatted her hand away, shaking his head as a flush creeped up his neck.  His cheeks glowed bright pink, like when his mom pinched them as hard as she could because he was just her special little man .

“I don’t know what you guys are talking about!” Cyrus protested, willing the red on his face to disappear.  Please, please, please, I beg of you.

“Oh, yes you do, Cyrus,” Andi teased.  

“Or should we say, ‘Underdog’?” Buffy chimed in.

Cyrus’s face was flaming now.  Why did he have to tell them about that nickname again?  

“ Guys ,” he drawled, on the verge of whining, “it’s not like that!”

“Sure,” Buffy said, in a tone that indicated the exact opposite .  “ Anyways , speaking of detention, can me and Andi walk you there?”

“To detention?”  Cyrus raised an eyebrow.  “What for?”

“We just need to talk to T.J.,” Buffy said, like it wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t the biggest deal in the entire world .  

“About what?”  His heart stopped.  (He was nervous when Iris met them, sure, but not in the same way he was right now.  Then, it just felt like his normal anxiety, a scratchy sort of hum on his skin that scoured right through him.  This felt like, well.  Felt like the air was getting sucked out of everything.  He didn’t know how to explain it, why he was so anxious, except what if they told T.J. about these new feelings he was having?  He knew they wouldn’t, but still .  And just...ugh!  He hated feelings!  Why did he have to have four shrinks for parents again?)

“Nothing,” Buffy said dismissively, like she didn’t know that Cyrus needed to know, so, so bad that it hurt.  She looked over his face, at how everything was scrunched at the corners, how he was about to start sweating or crying or both.  Buffy pursed her lips carefully.  Like she had to think how to phrase it before Cyrus imploded.  

“It’s nothing bad,” she reassured, adjusting her backpack.  She stared at him, calculated.  A beat.  Then she grabbed his hand in the way she used to when they were little kids and he was scared to go down the fire pole, how she said that as long as his hand was over her heart, then that meant that she was telling the truth, that he’d be safe with her.  (She was right, for the record.  Of course she was.  And, even though they’d outgrown this thing for the most part, the reassurance that pooled in the back of his eyelids was still just as raw, was just as real as it was that day on the playground.  In these rare moments where they melted into their past selves, eight and twelve and the million versions in between, Cyrus wondered how he could ever doubt his best friend in the first place.)

Buffy held his hand so tight that his knuckles ached.  Her heartbeat thudded, soft but steady, from where she gripped it.  

“Okay,” Cyrus said finally, taking a deep breath.  Relief reached Buffy’s mouth as she let his hand go.  Cyrus swore he saw eight-year-old Buffy flicker in her eyes.  Like the light that spun in glass bulbs, then died out just as fast.  “I just hope you guys are going to ask him to plan my surprise party, or something,” Cyrus teased.  He waited for Buffy’s normal punchline that never failed to follow: It’s hard to surprise someone who’s constantly asking to be surprised.

What she said next was the opposite.

“Oh, wait!  Your birthday is this Saturday!” Buffy gasped, slapping her hand to her forehead in realization.  Cyrus’s heart dropped into his stomach.  

He watched as Buffy scrolled through her phone calendar, hovering over March 30th.  It was blank.  

Cyrus swallowed down his hurt, choked down the shards of glass, rising and slicing up his throat.  Was this a prank?  His friends never forgot his birthday.

“I haven’t even gotten an invitation from your parents yet,” Andi chimed in as she texted someone on her phone, distracted.  Like she couldn’t be bothered, almost.  

Cyrus had been so busy hanging out with T.J. lately that he hadn’t even thought about helping his parents plan his party like he usually did; did that mean that everyone forgot about his birthday, too?

“Don’t worry, Cyrus,” Buffy said, patting him on the shoulder.  “I’m sure your parents are getting things ready right now!”

“They were probably just busy with work, or something!” Andi tacked on, hopeful. 

Cyrus nodded despite the fear that was starting to seep in.  It always crept in like shadows often did.  In a way you often didn’t notice until it was swallowing you up, until you were paralyzed by it.  

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said, talking around the giant lump in his throat.

The Good Hair Crew continued to walk to their sixth period together, each of them seemingly lost in their own separate thoughts.  He usually tried to guess what the other two were thinking.  Jonah or art for Andi, and maybe sports or Marty for Buffy.  Right now he couldn’t tell, though.  (He wondered what they’d guess for him.  Whether the other person they associated him with was T.J. the way he associated them with Marty and Jonah.  Or, maybe not associated with.  More of, thought of them as an extension.  Knew that, even though they were separate people, it was hard to think of one without thinking of the other.  Cyrus wanted T.J. to be that for him.  Even if he didn’t entirely want to accept what that meant and all the stipulations that might come with it.)

A flash of blonde hair and a snarl that could start brush fires snapped Cyrus out of his thoughts as they shouldered their way past a row of lockers.  Reed .

His stomach dropped.  When they turned the corner, Cyrus glanced back and found Reed watching him, openly and without remorse.  Instead of rising to his level and staring straight back, standing his ground like his friends and his parents and T.J. were always telling him to, Cyrus forced himself to turn away.  The lightning that had been rushing through him earlier was gone, only leaving burnt-up, spent static behind—the way that lightning often did.  

We used to be, like, a million worlds apart, or something.  And sometimes I think that we still are, because I'm not sure how you feel, or if you could ever feel the same way about me or any of that, but maybe you do. 

Cyrus still wasn’t a huge fan of going to detention (well, minus the part with T.J.—Cyrus really liked that part), but he had gotten used to it, didn’t let it derail his entire day anymore.  Well, that much was true until March 25th at 3:00 PM, as in right at this very moment .  He knew that Buffy promised that it was nothing bad, but...anxiety didn’t listen to promises!  (As much as he wished the opposite were true.)

Buffy and Andi were waiting further down the hallway, talking amongst themselves while they snuck glances at him and T.J. every few seconds; they said they wanted to give them some privacy , but Cyrus knew they just wanted to spy on them like the overprotective, nosey best friends that they were.  (He couldn’t even blame them, if he was being honest.  He and Buffy used to do it all the time in the early days of Jandi , as Buffy liked to call it.  Not so much anymore, though.  They fought more than they had cute moments these days.)

T.J. strolled up to where Cyrus was, across from Cyrus as he leaned on the opposite side of the detention door frame.  He was so, so close.  Close enough where Cyrus could lean in and— 

“Hey, Underdog.”  T.J. greeted, jostling him out of his head (a place he was more often than not these days).  He smiled in that easy way of his and Cyrus saw the galaxy and everything contained within it.  (They were like shooting stars flying by, stretching around the entire world.) 

"Hey, Teej." Cyrus smiled back.  Well, more like melted , because, wow , T.J. smelled nice, like comfortable sweaters and pressed warmth and mildly citrus-y, somehow.  Cyrus wanted it to envelop him, wanted to breathe him in forever.  (Forever didn't really exist, but with T.J., it might be the next best thing, the closest Cyrus would ever get to tasting it.)  "How was your free period?  Did you study for your math test next Thursday?"

T.J. cocked his head at him.  His eyebrows drew together.  "What math test?"

Cyrus 's eyes latched onto T.J.'s expression.  Took him in.  "You know, the one Mr. Coleman told us about in class?"

T.J. looked confused. "I thought that was a few weeks from now."

Cyrus shook his head with a sympathetic smile.   “No,” he said softly.  He cleared his throat, then louder, "Did you seriously not know?"

T.J. turned his head away where he couldn’t see, but Cyrus still made out a shade of worry that touched the narrowing of his eyes, glinted in the edge of his jawline.  “How could you tell?" he asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes.  Cyrus raised his eyebrows at him pointedly.  T.J. unraveled the tiniest bit. (Cyrus noticed in the way his shoulders slouched forward, how he seemed to sparkle a bit, then).  "Fine, no.  I was...busy during fourth period today, so I must've missed Coleman telling us."

"Busy with what?" 

T.J. looked right into him, staring and staring and staring, almost like he was debating with himself.  He sighed and looked away, eyes skipping over to the kids crowding the lockers around them.  "Nothing.  I was just distracted, I guess." 

"Hmm." Cyrus didn't really believe him, but he didn't want to push it.  (Well, he did , but he didn't want to make T.J. tell him if he didn't want to.  Except, why wouldn't T.J. tell him?  Unless he did something?  What if it was connected to what Reed said earlier, somehow?  Guilt needled at him…)

"Are we okay?" Cyrus blurted out.  (Sometimes a part of him just took over, a part he couldn’t see but could feel, strong and willful and wanting, a deep, bottomless pit that couldn’t be filled. This was one of those times.)  At T.J.'s expression, he wanted to immediately take it back, wanted to disintegrate his words with his hands.  

"Of course we are," T.J. said, inching closer, just the tiniest bit, so subtle that no one but Cyrus would have even noticed.  His mouth softened into something Cyrus couldn't name.  A smile, but more reserved, a softer, more fragile kind of thing.  

Cyrus grabbed onto the tail ends of T.J.'s jacket.  He couldn't describe it, what took him over just then, but the air was charged around them, atoms colliding, the moment shifting into something brighter and louder and vibrant enough that his chest glowed. "You sure?"

"Why wouldn't we be?"  T.J. seemed lighter than air; Cyrus wanted to be lighter than air, too, wanted to reach into T.J.'s chest until the world floated away beneath them, until it crumbled away from a ground they weren't standing on.  "Did I do something?"

"No, of course you didn't," Cyrus said, eyes dropping to the floor.  He let go of T.J.'s jacket, hands falling to his sides.   He felt hot, all of a sudden, like he was being electrocuted.   His face burned.  "I just...nothing.  Just feeling anxious today, I guess.”

T.J.’s hand swung dangerously close to his.  Cyrus wanted to grab onto it like a lifeline, like he was dying and T.J.’s hand was the only thing that could pull him out of it.  He pinched the seam of his pants.  (It was this sort of gravitational pull.  Like how sometimes two atoms were stuck together and didn’t want to separate, because they had finally found their other part.  And even though they each were their own whole, entire beings, they both still longed to find that other piece that slotted perfectly within them.  They didn’t necessarily complete each other, they were just...complete together .  That’s how Cyrus felt when he wanted to hold T.J.’s hand.  When he wanted to hold T.J.’s hand but couldn’t, because Cyrus wasn’t sure if T.J. wanted him.  Not like he wanted T.J.)

“Well, I’m here for you.  Okay, Underdog?”  T.J. bent his head down, forcing Cyrus to meet his eyes.  It really would be so easy if he just...you know, knelt up and— 

“Hey,” a voice greeted behind them.  Cyrus and T.J. whirled around to see Andi wiggling her eyebrows and Buffy tapping her foot impatiently. (Cyrus felt torn in a way he wasn’t used to at their interruption.  Wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved.  Maybe a little of both.)  

“What’s up?” T.J. asked, like this was the most normal thing in the world.  (This was so not normal.  Even though they made up at Ren Fair, it still just seemed so... weird !)

“We just wanted to talk to you about ‘you-know- what ,’” she said, clenching her teeth at the end with a forced smile.  What was that supposed to mean?

“Oh, right, that ,” T.J. said, understanding perfectly.  Was Cyrus missing something?  “Go ahead, Cyrus, I’ll be right there.”

If Cyrus were still twelve, he would pretend he didn’t hear T.J. and stay glued to the floor until someone (probably Buffy) forced him inside the detention room.  But he was almost fourteen , so he decided to exercise some of that cool-’macho’-fourteen-year-old willpower like everyone else.  (Even though Cyrus was normally good at deluding himself, this time his brain wasn’t having it.)

“Fine, I’ll just,” he gestured to the detention room dramatically with his head, trying desperately not to look as forlorn as he felt, “be in here.  All alone.”

“ Bye , Cyrus,” Buffy tried again, trying to push him through the door. 

Cyrus sighed loudly.  “Okay, fine .  Yell if you need me,” he said, casting an almost pout over his shoulder.  

“We won’t,” Buffy said through clenched teeth,  And with that, she shoved him the rest of the way in, the door slamming shut behind Cyrus as his shoes painfully skidded across the hallway floor. 

He frowned as he slung off his shoulder bag, huffing into his desk chair.  Well!  That was awfully rude of her!

He peered through the glass window carved into the door, attempting to read their lips, but to no avail.  (He wanted to blame it on the bad angle.  Buffy and Andi would probably blame his ‘nonexistent lip reading skills’ according to them .  Cyrus knew they were just jealous!)

The final dismissal bell finally rang, and Cyrus saw the three of them wave goodbye as the rest of the hallways began to clear out.  

The door clicked shut behind him as T.J. took his seat beside Cyrus.  He snorted when he saw Cyrus pouting at his desk in that easy way of his that Cyrus admired.  

“What’s up?”

“What were you guys talking about?” Cyrus pressed, unable to keep the edge of a whine out of his voice.  (He couldn’t help it.  He had to know!)

“Nothing,” T.J. shrugged, nonchalant.  “She was just, uh...saying that since we’re all cool now, I can come hang out with you guys at The Spoon.”

“Oh.”  Was he telling the truth?  Deep breaths, Cyrus.  Deep breaths .  “And would you...come?  To The Spoon?”

T.J. shrugged.  “Yeah, why not?” His voice went softer, then, quiet yet full of noise, the kind you had to strain to catch.  A wisp of wind too strong could break it.  “That is, if you would want me to come?”  He left the end open, like he expected Cyrus to say no.  His hand inched forward slightly, dangling over the edge of his desk.  Like that gravitational pull Cyrus talked about before, how it felt like they were constantly being pulled together without any thought.  Cyrus swallowed.

“Of course I would want you to come.”  Cyrus’s heart was hammering in his chest.  This felt like one of those timeless moments that you never wanted to end, that you wanted to exist in forever while it unfolded around you.  It felt like the start of something new.

“Glad to see both of you here on time,” Dr. Metcalf announced as he barged in.  Cyrus and T.J. jumped apart; the stillness from before split in two as the door slammed shut behind their principal.  He dropped a thick stack of paperwork onto his desk.  

Cyrus’s ears were pounding—he couldn’t even look T.J. in the eyes, and—ugh.  He was in way too deep here.  

“Anyway, no talking, no texting—”

“—no breathing, I think we got it,” T.J. bit back.  Cyrus and him shared a quick smile, a flash of a thing, tentative and awkward and perfect.

Dr. Metcalf rolled his eyes so hard that Cyrus thought they might fall back into his skull.  “Very funny, T.J.  I’m afraid if you stopped breathing, then I’d have no one left to torment since the rest of my students decided to be well-behaved.”

“At least you admit it’s torture,” T.J. replied cheekily.

Cyrus’s face split open; he tried to contain his laughter, yet unsuccessfully.  Dr. Metcalf shot them both a death glare.  

“Do you two want more detention?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.  He was met with silence as T.J. and Cyrus both shook their heads.  A smug grin grew on his face. “Hmm.  Didn’t think so.  Detention starts now.”

A few minutes of stilled quiet passed before a note landed on Cyrus’s desk.  

So...since we have that test next week, do you wanna study this Wednesday?  In the library? -T.J.

Cyrus smiled.  Sure!  But what about your tutor?  Won’t she be a better help to you than me? -Cyrus

Ugh, don’t remind me.  She’s out of town this week, and I need all the help I can get so I can get my grade up.  So, you in? -T.J.

Yeah.  I’m in. -Cyrus

Sounds good.  It’s a date.  -T.J.

Cyrus’s heart skipped.  He ran the words in his mind on repeat.  It’s a date, it’s a date, it’s a date.   If only that were true.  Unless...maybe?

His eyes ran over T.J.’s face, examining.  T.J. caught him staring. Sent him a smile that made the universe pause.  Cyrus tried to tilt the world back into motion and gave him a smile in return.  Ignored the little hope that was burning in his chest from it.

Yeah, he wrote back.  it’s a date. -Cyrus

It was in Andi Shack on Tuesday afternoon when Cyrus began to spiral.

“Guys,” Cyrus whined.  “What do I do?”

Buffy paused in the middle of flipping her sports magazine.  Andi looked up from a beaded bracelet she was making. 

Andi Shack felt like the only place that wasn’t constantly changing or moving, that wasn’t shifting itself alongside with the curve balls that life threw.  Sometimes, when Cyrus was starting to panic or worry, he just closed his eyes and listed all the parts of Andi Shack he could remember.  The sea of rainbow duct tape that swallowed up the wall and the paper cranes that brushed against your face when you came in, the shiny CD lamp made from Nickelback’s ‘greatest hits’, according to Bex.  (Buffy’s mom said that Nickelback didn’t have any greatest hits.  Cyrus was inclined to agree, even though he didn’t think he’d listened to a single Nickelback song in his entire life.)  He thought about the way that he and Andi and Buffy all connected together the way constellations did; they each existed as their own bright and beautiful thing, but once they were together...they created something even better.  

“What are we talking about again?” Buffy asked, blowing a curly strand of hair out of her face.  Andi cut a piece of string with her molars as she shrugged.

“I’m talking about my study date with T.J. tomorrow,” Cyrus complained, flopping back on Andi’s loft bed.  “Well, not a study date, because we’re not together and I don’t even know if he’s like me , so,” he grabbed a pillow and hugged it to his face.  His voice came out strangled and muffled as he yelled into the void.  “What does it all mean ?”

Buffy rolled her eyes (or Cyrus would assume since he couldn’t see, but he guessed he wasn’t too far off) and wrangled the pillow from his loose grip.  

He pouted his lips, scrunching his nose up at her.  “Hey, I was using that!”

Buffy flopped down on the comforter beside him.  “Cyrus,” she said.  Sympathy poured out of her voice.  Andi abandoned her bracelet on her work table and walked over, sitting on the other side of him.  Cyrus forced himself up, propping himself against Andi’s pillows.  

“I think I’m just deluding myself,” he sighed.  He looked between them, eyes wide and vulnerable.  Thought that, if Andi and Buffy weren’t sitting on both sides of him, that he would fall apart without them holding him together.  

Buffy and Andi shared a look, one of the ones that Cyrus wasn’t a part of, one he didn’t quite understand the meaning behind.  

“How about me and Andi crash your study date?” Buffy suggested.

Cyrus scrunched his eyebrows together.  “Really?”  He had no idea what Buffy was thinking.  It was probably either really smart or really, really crazy.  It was always hard guessing with her, if he was being honest.  (He loved and feared that about her.  Mostly feared.)

“ Why would we do that?” Andi interjected.  (At least Cyrus wasn’t the only one questioning her sanity.)

Buffy stood up from the bed.  “Think about it!  If we show up and T.J. doesn’t care, then he probably doesn’t think of Cyrus in that way.  But if we show up and he seems disappointed—”

“—then he probably wanted it to be just the two of them,” Andi finished, a look of awe on her face.  She stood up next to Buffy, giving her a high five.  “Woah, you’re good !”

Buffy flipped her hair over her shoulder.  “I know,” she said smugly.  She fixed her gaze on Cyrus.  His mind was racing.  “What do you think, Cyrus?”

Honestly?  He was scared.  Because what if T.J. wasn’t disappointed, and what if Buffy was right and that meant that he didn’t like Cyrus after all?  He...Cyrus didn’t know he would deal with that.  It had taken so long for him to get over Jonah (at least he thought he was over Jonah), but this thing with T.J. had always felt stronger, intense and bright in the way that stars probably feel if you touched them.  

“Are you guys sure about this?” he asked.  His stomach was turning inside out and it felt like he swallowed an entire bunch of butterflies and they were all trying to climb out at once.  “I mean, what if—”

“Cyrus,” Buffy interrupted.  Her face was reassuring, a strong, steady tide in a sea of panic.  “No matter what happens, we’ll be there for you.  Okay?”

He bit his lip.  Nodded.  “Okay,” he breathed out.  He couldn’t believe he was doing this.  “Fine, fine!  Let’s do this.  I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Apparently the worst that could happen was the fact that Buffy and Andi were both running late and Cyrus was stuck in an empty library all alone with T.J. and his nerves.  Which, as he had proven time and time again, did not mix well.  (He wasn’t usually so anxious around T.J.; in fact, he usually seemed to have the opposite effect on Cyrus.  But everything that had happened this week...first Reed, and then Buffy and Andi’s little ambush, and all the little moments with T.J. in between...well, he should just say that they weren’t doing his anxiety any favors.)

“You okay, Cyrus?” T.J. asked, pulling out his math textbook out of his backpack. 

Why did he agree to this again?  (Why was he like this?  Why couldn’t he just be normal ?)

“Uh, yeah!” Cyrus said, putting away his phone.  His palms were so clammy, and, oh no, was that sweat or tears in his eyes?  “Never better!  So, how about that math?”

T.J. didn’t look too convinced; he tossed him one of his special smiles, the ones without any filter like he carried around everyone else.  Cyrus tried to breathe through it, through how breathtaking it was.  

Instead of pressing on, T.J. cleared his throat.  “So, what section do you want to start with?”  He tapped his pencil eraser against his notebook (endearingly, Cyrus might add.)  He had never had a study session like this, at least not one so... official .  He wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

“Oh, yeah,” Cyrus said dazedly.  Like he had forgotten what he was doing here.  “We, uh, we can start on chapter 14, section 1.”  He pointed to the first practice problem.  “You recognize this kind of problem, right?”

T.J. nodded, nose wrinkling.  “Yeah, I’ve seen it before.  Me and my tutor worked on functions for, like, two hours last week.”

“So, you remember how to do them, right?  You plug in the function here and—”  

T.J. pushed the textbook away, putting his head down onto the desk.  “I hate these.  I always mix up which one I’m supposed to plug in and where.”

“It’s okay,” Cyrus reassured.  He checked his phone real quick as he flipped the page of his notebook.  No update from Buffy or Andi.  “I’ve...well, I’ve actually been looking into ways to help you with your dyscalculia, and—” 

“Wait, what?”  T.J.’s head shot up.  Cyrus froze.

“Should I not have done that?” Cyrus rushed out.  Oh, no, had he just ruined everything?  Curse his naturally helpful instincts!  “I’m sorry, Teej, I only wanted to help—”

“No,” T.J. hurried out.  His voice came out wet, almost.  Seized by emotion.  “No, uh.  Thanks.  That means a lot.”  He cleared his throat.  (Cyrus was imploding, was becoming comets and meteors and all those amazing, infinite things only found in space.)   

“Of course.”  His eyes dropped to the table.  He couldn’t.  Every time he looked too deep into T.J., a wave of guilt hit him.  What Reed said on Monday flashed in his mind.  He chose you over me.

“What’s wrong?”  T.J asked, leaning forward.  He ran a hand through his hair.  His elbow nestled against Cyrus’s.  

He brushed T.J. off.  “Psh, I don’t know what you’re talking about!  I’ve never been better.”

“You already said that,” T.J. pointed out.  (It was probably a good thing that Cyrus wanted to be a director instead of an actor.)  “C’mon, what’s up?”

His instincts screamed, deflect, deflect, deflect.  

But instincts weren’t always right.  They were these edges that you adapted when being vulnerable and open failed you. When being yourself seemed to scar and bruise instead of protect you from all the bad. (Cyrus kept everything in until it flooded out his ears. The ocean swam in his head, in his chest; every part of him was a vessel spilling over.)

But T.J. was always proving how instincts could change for the better.  Like how he used to be mean and now he wasn’t. Maybe...maybe Cyrus should do the same. 

He looked up at T.J.  Everything he’d ever felt was shining in his eyes.  “It’s not a big deal, it’s just...I had a mild confrontation with Reed the other day.”

T.J. grew alert, his jaw growing sharp. He leaned forward slightly, like he was trying to catch every single word. “Did he say anything to you?”

“Well, yeah. And I honestly don’t remember a lot of it, it’s all sort of a blur, but one thing he said stuck with me. He said that you chose me over him.”

“Cyrus—“

“What exactly does that mean?” Cyrus blurted out. He didn’t know why it rubbed him like it did, why it made his skin crawl. It was just another question unanswered in the abyss of life. Another question that didn’t seem to have a clear answer connected to it. “Like, I hardly know him, and suddenly I’m the reason your friendship fell apart?  Do you know what he’s talking about?”

T.J. looked at Cyrus like a deer in headlights, panicked in a paralyzed kind of way. Cyrus let out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding. He moved his hand forward. Held it over T.J.‘s heart. 

T.J.‘s eyebrows drew together.  “What are you doing?”

Cyrus felt anxiety trickling out of him, like the first drop of rain before a lightning storm. “It’s this thing Buffy and I did when we were little. Like, when we wanted to tell the other something important, or made a promise, we held the other’s hand over our heart and we knew that they were telling the truth and that everything would turn out okay, as long as we let it.”  After hearing his own words, Cyrus flushed. He dropped his hand pinned against T.J.’s chest. “Never mind, we don’t have to do this. It’s silly—“

“—it’s not,” T.J. protested.  He grabbed Cyrus’s hand and pressed it back to his heart. Put his own hand on top of Cyrus’s, just like Buffy always did. (Except Buffy never made sparks fly across Cyrus’s skin, never made Cyrus feel like he was drowning in this indescribable feeling. Except maybe drowning wasn’t the right word, because Cyrus succumbed to it, let every last inch of him fall into whatever it was every single time. He didn’t know what else to name it except T.J. )

“And, Reed’s not exactly wrong.” T.J. looked away, then. Couldn’t look Cyrus in the eyes, couldn’t face the weight of his own words. “I mean, it wasn’t like what he said. What happened, I mean.”

“T.J.,” Cyrus started slowly, trying to catch his gaze. T.J.’s eyes shifted to his, hesitant, darting everywhere in the library except at Cyrus. “What did happen?”

“Look, it’s—“ T.J. huffed in frustration, rolling his eyes (more at himself than at Cyrus, he thought). “It’s hard to explain.  Well, at least,” he scoffed, “out loud . But you trust me. Right?”

He nodded. (Cyrus always trusted too easily, or at least that’s what Buffy, Andi, and his therapist-slash-stepmom said. But this time, he didn’t know if it was losing himself in T.J. in this case so much as it was...finding his footing.)  “Of course I do.”

T.J. softened a bit. Lost a bit of the sharpness tugging at him, the blunt edges lying in his face. “I promise you’ll know all my stuff soon enough.  Alright, Underdog?”

“Okay,” Cyrus echoed. His voice was a whisper. (He was feeling too much. T.J. was a light, was swallowing all the darkness in the room whole.)

They were staring and staring and staring. Cyrus didn’t know what he wanted T.J. to do right now (except he absolutely knew, was just scared to think it, was afraid what would happen if his thoughts ran too far away from him before he could wrangle them in.)

T.J. took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m really not that good at this kind of thing.”

Cyrus’s eyebrows scrunched together. “What kind of thing?” He could feel T.J.’s heartbeat, ready to jump out of his skin. He wanted to lean into the warmth thrumming underneath his fingertips. 

“ This, ” he repeated, like Cyrus was supposed to understand some hidden meaning. What was he talking about?  Math? Being Cyrus’s friend?

T.J.’s hand gripped his tighter. Unless…oh.  Oh. 

“Me either,” Cyrus breathed out, without even trying, without even trying at all.  And maybe it was just how the light was hitting T.J. just then, or maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, but T.J.’s face seemed to inching closer and closer…

“Hey!” two familiar voices erupted.  T.J. and Cyrus jumped apart.  His heart was slamming in this awful sort of way, and why was the room suddenly spinning?

“Hope you don’t mind us crashing your study date, ” Buffy said with a giant smile that indicated the exact opposite , shooting Cyrus a glance, “but we needed to study, too. Right, Andi?” she announced, sliding in the seat across from him.  

“Right!” Andi supplied, sitting beside Buffy. “For…?”

“Advanced Algebra!” Buffy reminded her. 

“Advanced Algebra!” Andi echoed happily. “Right!”

Cyrus put his face in his hands. He hoped oblivion consumed him. He was suddenly regretting this whole ambush thing a lot more than he anticipated.

(The world felt like it was caving in. Their timing could not be worse. Because if he was right and wasn’t just imagining things, he and T.J. almost...almost...you know!)

“No problem,” T.J. said, shrugging. “Right, Cyrus?”

Cyrus’s phone buzzed beside him. He peeked at the lock screen. 

Did you see his reaction?  Was he disappointed? -Buffy, Good Hair Crew Member #2

“Yeah!” Cyrus said, attention pulled elsewhere. He peeled his eyes away from his phone, worry painted on his face. How had he forgotten to look at how T.J. reacted?  He definitely didn’t seem that disappointed right now. “No problem at all.”

He took the opportunity to text them back in their group chat when T.J. seemed to be working on a problem of his own. 

No! Did EITHER of you see how he looked when you came in? Forlorn? Indifferent? -Cyrus, Good Hair Crew Member #3

I missed it! I was too busy trying to remember my lines for this whole thing! -Andi, Good Hair Crew Member #1

Is that what took you guys so long to get here? You were rehearsing lines?! -Cyrus

It’s not my fault that Andi couldn’t stick to the script! -Buffy

This was your idea! -Andi

The three of them started at each other, borderline glaring. T.J.’s head popped up from his textbook. 

“Is everything okay?” he asked carefully, eyebrows raised. 

“Sure is!” Andi replied. 

“Yep!” Buffy said. 

“Definitely!” Cyrus assured. 

They all shared another glance. This time, Buffy and Andi offered him sympathetic smiles. Cyrus’s heart fell. 

T.J. didn’t like him. Cyrus was probably just imagining things earlier...why else would he seem so indifferent now?

T.J. caught his gaze, gave him a tentative smile.  Cyrus tried to return it, but could feel the flatness of it, the way it didn’t shine like smiles were supposed to.  He settled for a shrug instead.  

He didn’t even notice T.J. frowning beside him because something else entirely began to unfold in front of him.

“Oh, hey guys!” Jonah greeted in his normal fashion, reminiscent of a golden retriever or some kind of happy-go-lucky equivalent.  “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Cyrus tried on a forced kind of smile.  It didn’t fit on his face right; he didn’t like the way it pinched his cheeks.  “Hey, Jonah.  I didn’t know you would be joining us, too.  Did you guys know about this?”  He shot a glance to Buffy and Andi, who looked just as confused as Cyrus was.  

“I thought you had plans, Jonah?” Andi said, standing up to greet her boyfriend.  She had a sweet kind of smile—confused but happy about it anyway.  

“Oh, actually I’m not here alone,” he said, looking behind him.  A shadow that Cyrus was just now noticing stepped into the light.  His stomach churned as he realized what was happening.  

“Oh.”  All the life went out of Andi’s voice.  It was a defining, hollow sort of sound.  It was being scared to wake up from a dream because you knew that real life would never measure up.

“Natalie’s helping me with my Ultimate Frisbee oral report due Friday,” Jonah supplied, like saying more would help.  Cyrus felt like he was watching an avalanche come down, down, down.  There was nothing he could do to stop it or delay the damage yet to come; all he could do was watch and hope for the best.

“Wow.  How generous of her,” Andi said through clenched teeth, boring a hole into the table.  Cyrus and Buffy shared a wide-eyed glance.  They’d never really been in the middle of an Andi-and-Jonah-and-Natalie confrontation before; at least not in person .  Cyrus’s heart was racing, and it wasn’t even him it was happening to.  His almost-something with T.J. nearly slipped his mind.

T.J. nudged him, his forehead creased.  He could read the question flashing in T.J.’s eyes: What’s going on?  Instead of answering him, Cyrus just grabbed his wrist lying on the tabletop and didn’t let go.  (Okay, so it hadn’t completely slipped his mind.  Sue him!)

“I know, right?” Jonah piped up, walking towards the table.  Cyrus wanted to facepalm.  He’d known Jonah for almost two years now, and he still couldn’t believe how oblivious he was.  

Andi was trying not to implode, Cyrus could tell.  He and Buffy exchanged a worried glance.  

As a sort of peace offering, or something, Andi scooted her chair down to make room for Jonah and Natalie.  He took a seat beside Cyrus instead, Natalie following suit by sitting on Jonah’s left.  

(Andi’s face looked like a broken mirror, then, her sadness reflecting right back at them like a punch to the gut.)

She pushed herself away from the table, the chair legs screeching.  She stood up abruptly with her stuff in tow.  “I can’t do this anymore, Jonah!  I’m done.”

Jonah jerked his head in her direction.  His eyebrows drew together.  Panic started to seep into his face, his voice.  Cyrus’s stomach turned. 

“What...what do you mean, ‘you’re done’?  Done with studying?” A hopeful lilt hung onto his words.

Andi whirled around mid-stride, shaking her head.  “ We’re done, Jonah.  I’m tired of always having to...to second guess myself, and then feeling crazy for ever doubting you in the first place!  So...I’m done.”  She let her hands fall to her sides, storming out of the library and pushing open the thick double doors.  Jonah rose out of his seat to go after his girlfriend (or ex -girlfriend, Cyrus should say), but Buffy stood up and braced her hands against his shoulders.  Shook her head firmly.

“Not now,” she said, “She needs time.  Okay?”

Jonah searched desperately into Buffy’s face before nodding slightly, relenting.  He sank back into his chair.

“Come on, Cyrus,” Buffy said, motioning towards him as she slung her backpack over her shoulder.  He waved her on, promising to catch up.  She nodded solemnly and shoved her way past the doors.  

Cyrus sent an apologetic smile T.J.’s way, who was standing up beside him.  “Where are you going?” Cyrus asked, cocking his head to the side.

“With you,” T.J. said, like it was extremely obvious.  Butterflies swarmed in Cyrus’s stomach.  “No way I’m staying for this mess,” he joked, gesturing to the two.  Cyrus looked over at Jonah and Natalie.  His head was slumped over on the library table while Natalie awkwardly patted his shoulder.  

Cyrus huffed amusedly through his nose.  “Okay, fine with me.  I hope you don’t mind making a detour to the girls’ bathroom.”

T.J. wrinkled his nose.  “Why there?”

Cyrus smiled, sort of sad, as he patted T.J. on his back.  “Andi’s my best friend.  I know she’s there.”

Andi was here, just as he predicted—it looked like Buffy had already figured that out, too, because her and Andi’s backpacks were discarded outside the door.  Cyrus sighed and slumped against the wall.  He dropped his backpack on the ground.

“So...what now?” T.J. asked.

“Well, I have to wait until Buffy coaxes Andi out of whatever stall she’s hiding in, and then usually we go to Andi Shack and comfort Andi until she stops making sad bracelets with Jonah’s name on them,” Cyrus explained.  “Or she makes angry necklaces with Jonah’s name on them, which is a whole other thing.”

“Does this happen a lot?” T.J. asked.  “Jonah and Andi breaking up, I mean?”  Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him curiously.  “It’s just...you don’t seem too surprised .”

“ Oh ,” Cyrus drew out.  He worried his lip as he angled his ear toward the door, barely making out his friends’ voices through the solid wood.  “I mean, yeah, I guess I’ve seen it coming for a while now, but...that doesn’t make me any less sad for Andi.”

“Right,” T.J. nodded.  A pause.  “But are you okay?”

Cyrus blinked.  His eyebrows scrunched together.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, because of your stuff.  With Jonah, I mean.”

Cyrus’s throat felt tight all of a sudden.  (He tried not to think about it, when Jonah and Andi had fights or broke up like this.  Tried not to let his own feelings get in the way of being there for his best friend, because when they did, that’s when hope started to seep in, started to pour out of him.  Hope that, maybe— impossibly —he had a chance with Jonah Beck.  Except now, the thing was, Cyrus realized he didn’t have to try and smother his own feelings down at all.  In fact, all he felt was this...wave of sympathy for both of them.  Huh.  He wasn’t used to his jealousy being gone, wasn’t used to being able to walk without envy green vines wrapping around his ankles like chains.  Cyrus had always thought that, once the jealousy went away, a part of him would go away with it, but now he found that that wasn’t the case at all.  He was more whole now than ever before.)

He wanted to tell T.J. all of this, but he couldn’t.  (How do you talk about your old crush to your new one without combusting?  That was one of the many secrets of life, Cyrus guessed.)

“I’m good,” he said instead.  “And I’m sorry about my friends showing up unexpectedly.  I’ll make sure to explicitly not mention the next time we’re hanging out to them.”

T.J. snorted.  “I would’ve brought some dinner if I had known we were getting a show.”  

Cyrus smiled, trying to mask the disappointment steadily rising in his throat.  He wished T.J. would be more upset that they crashed their study thing , because then… 

Because then Cyrus would have something to line his hope toward.  Something tangible he could hold in his hands instead of reaching for the unattainable objects on the top shelf like he was always used to.

Cyrus wanted all those impossible things that he’d ever let himself hope for with T.J.  But it didn’t matter, because T.J. wasn’t even like him, and— 

“Seriously,” T.J. continued, squeezing Cyrus’s shoulder, “I’m just glad we got to hang out before that whole nightmare happened,” he said, and it was sarcastic and teasing and so, so perfect.

“Seriously?”  Cyrus asked.

T.J. huffed, amused, through his nose.  “Yeah, that entire thing makes detention with Metcalf look fun—”

“No, I mean,” Cyrus interrupted, so, so desperate to find what he was looking for in T.J.’s eyes, “About being glad that you got to spend time with me.   You mean that?”

“Well, yeah, of course I do.”

“Promise?”

T.J. grabbed Cyrus’s hand.  Held it against his chest.  “Promise.”

They were looking into each other, and it felt like it was just the two of them in the entire universe and no one else, nothing else except Cyrus and T.J. and their hands on top of each other just like this.  As far as Cyrus was concerned, T.J.’s eyes were one of those little secrets of life, too.  (And maybe it was one that Cyrus would hide away for safekeeping.)

The bathroom door swung open and T.J. startled, dropping Cyrus’s hand like hot coal.  Cyrus ignored the sting that accompanied it, the way his heart sank into the floor.

“I’m gonna walk Andi back home.  Are you coming?” Buffy asked, picking up their fallen backpacks off the floor.  Andi sniffled beside her.

Cyrus looked at his puffy-eyed best friend, how her cheeks were rubbed red.  He smiled sadly.  His heart ached for her.  “Yeah, I’m coming.”  He squeezed Andi’s hand and twisted around to face T.J., picking up his bag.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

T.J. nodded, a subtle smile on his face.  “Yeah.  Tomorrow.”

Cyrus gave him one last smile before wrapping an arm around Andi’s back as they huddled down the hallway together.  Right before they went through the glass exit doors, Cyrus turned his head to catch one last glimpse of T.J.’s retreating figure before they descended into the bleak sky outside.

Little did Cyrus know that T.J. looked back at him, too.

It’s like there’s this...nice person on the inside trying to get out.

Cyrus tossed his backpack onto his bed, rubbing his eyes.  This was probably the worst breakup of Jonah and Andi’s that Cyrus had seen yet—she was nearly inconsolable, but eventually they broke through, thanks to Cyrus’s therapist skills and Buffy reminding her how special and amazing she was.

She wasn’t feeling completely better by any means, and definitely couldn’t face Jonah at school yet, but it was something .  And that’s all they could ask of her right now.

Cyrus collapsed onto his bed, a yawn being ripped out of his chest.  He hadn’t been this tired in so long.  He closed his eyes.  Memories of earlier played in his head.

Promise?

Promise.

T.J.’s hand on his chest lingered like a glowing handprint, warm and solid and real.  Cyrus covered the memory of it with his own hand.

On Saturday, Cyrus would be drowning inside of himself, unsure of how he should tread what was yet to come.  Would marvel at how, absolutely and disastrously, everything had changed.

Tonight, though, he smiled softly to himself.  Pretended T.J. was there with him, his burning green eyes looking right back into his.

Soon enough, without a thought, without a trace of anything at all, Cyrus drifted off to sleep.

It was like the calm before the storm.  Peaceful and serene, completely unsuspecting of the lightning overhead.

Chapter Text

What were you supposed to do when the world felt so small but you felt so big?

Cyrus was bursting at the seams.  Lately it just felt like he and his problems were taking up too much space.  He meant, he always felt like he was taking up too much space, in a way that made his clothes feel too tight and the air too thin and everything too up close for his liking, but this time was more intense than usual.  Given everything that had been happening over the past few days, Cyrus wasn’t really even all that surprised.

Cyrus sat his tray down in front of him as he slipped into his seat, sitting across from Buffy and Andi.  Andi’s eyes were consumed with worry as she surveyed the cafeteria for Jonah Beck, her eyebrows drawn together while she clutched her hand over her heart.  Cyrus frowned; if it was possible to experience heartbreak when you hadn’t even had anything happen to you specifically, then that was what he was feeling at this moment.  He took her free hand and squeezed it, momentarily catching her attention.  She cast him a forlorn smile before pulling away, continuing on her search for her boyfriend.  Well, ex-boyfriend now.

A tray fell onto the table right next to him, and Cyrus glanced up.  His face broke out into a smile that he quickly suppressed; he didn’t want to seem too happy in front of Andi, considering recent events.  

“Hey, you,” Cyrus said, bumping T.J.’s shoulder as the boy sat down beside him.  Buffy shot him a suggestive glance as she rubbed Andi’s shoulder.  Cyrus glared at her with any vitriol he could muster (which was basically none, since Cyrus was, well... Cyrus.  Must he elaborate any further?)

T.J. opened his water bottle; Cyrus swore his eyes were sparkling the way mirrors did when they reflected light.  Like they were blinding, almost.  Cyrus wanted to look away, but he forced himself to stay glued to T.J.’s beautiful smile and eyes and mouth, to T.J., T.J., T.J .  

“Hey.  What’s up?” T.J. asked, eyes trailing over to Andi, who looked like she was about to either burst into tears or run off at any second.

Cyrus understood the underlying question there: What’s the matter with her?

He turned to T.J., lowering his voice.  “She’s still broken up about the breakup,” he explained.

T.J. nodded in understanding.  Buffy’s back suddenly went stiff.  

“Look, here he comes,” she hissed to the table.  

Jonah and Marty approached the table together, and all of them seemed to go quiet at once, like when you were watching TV and it just fizzled out into static out of nowhere.  Marty slid into the seat next to Buffy while Jonah sat next to T.J. 

Marty cleared his throat after a while.  “So...how is everyone?”

He was greeted with silence, the awkward kind that stuck in your lungs like wads of paper. After a minute or so, Andi stood up abruptly. 

“I can’t do this,” she announced, wiping her cheeks.  She stormed off, and Buffy threw a glare in Marty’s direction, like she was silently calling him a traitor for letting Jonah sit with them, before running after Andi.  This felt all too familiar to their lunch table, Cyrus thought.  Except this time T.J. was here to hold his hand through it.

Well, not actually hold his hand through it because they weren’t—you know, they weren’t together obviously, but—nevermind!  

“Well, that was awkward,” Cyrus announced, as if it weren’t already obvious to the four boys. 

Jonah buried his face in his hands and groaned.  “Dude, I don’t even know what I did!”

“Well, you were blowing Andi off to hang out with Natalie,” Cyrus pointed out.  Marty nodded in silent agreement. 

“But I said I was sorry!” Jonah protested. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through Saturday without making her more mad at me.”

Marty and T.J. both shot hard glances at Jonah. Jonah’s face flushed as Cyrus’s eyebrows furrowed together. 

“What’s Saturday?  Well, I mean, besides my birthday,” Cyrus joked.  None of them met his eye. Had they all really forgotten about his birthday this weekend?

“Oh, uh…,” Jonah trailed off, “you know, she just wanted to go somewhere and talk things out this weekend. I’ll probably just make it worse, though.”

“I’ll help you!” Cyrus offered.  Jonah's anxiety always got worse whenever he had to talk about this kind of stuff. “Here, we can even make a coping card, too, that can remind you of what breathing exercises to do in case your anxiety starts acting up. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Jonah breathed out. “Thanks, Cy-Guy.”

T.J. cleared his throat beside him. Cyrus cocked his head at him, concerned, and he put a hand on T.J.’s shoulder. “You okay?”

T.J. nodded. “Yeah, just uh…something in my throat, I guess.  Anyways, I’ve got to go talk to Mr. Coleman about my tutoring schedule for this week, so I’ll see you guys later.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna bounce, too. I have to go make sure Buffy’s not mad at me,” Marty explained, standing up alongside T.J.. 

“Okay, bye, Marty. Oh, and I’ll see you in detention, right, Teej?”

T.J. nodded. “Yeah, of course. 

Cyrus smiled at him and T.J. smiled back, although it seemed a little tight at the corners, wound up. His heart sank as T.J. walked away. He hoped he hadn’t done anything to upset him….

He shook it off. Cyrus was sure he was imagining things. 

“So, Jonah, you ready to make that coping card?”  Jonah didn’t reply.  When Cyrus followed his gaze, he found that he was staring after T.J.  Huh.  That was odd, to say the least. He shook Jonah’s shoulder. “Jonah. Did you hear me?”

Jonah shook himself out of his trance. “Yeah. Coping card thing. Let’s do it.”

Cyrus nodded, almost buzzing with excitement—helping people was his specialty, after all. As he pulled a pen and a notecard from his backpack, he caught a pair of piercing blue eyes from across the cafeteria, cruel and narrowed.  Reed. 

Cyrus swallowed and glanced away, instead trying to focus his energy on helping Jonah.  Still, his mind drifted.  Now he felt like the smallest thing in the entire world…

It took too much charcoal and tape and glue, and T.J.‘s hands were cramped and smeared with blue ink, but it was finally done.  In big, block letters, the front cover read, The Notes We Write.

It was Buffy that gave him the idea, after all.  About making a sort of scrapbook for Cyrus’s birthday.  But T.J. didn’t really know how to scrapbook, and he’d die before he’d ask his mom, so it was really like more of a notebook with all of their notes in them, all the ones they’d ever written that T.J. could get his hands on.  He’d been saving his own since that first day of detention together, plus he took Cyrus’s out of his locker that one time after breaking the lock open.  So, suffice to say, it was pretty full of notes and drawings and anything else he could think of that reminded T.J. of Cyrus.  (Everything reminded T.J. of Cyrus.  He compared the stars to his smile and the sun to his eyes.  Cyrus made time stop by existing within it.  He was sort of beautiful in that way.)

T.J.’s nerves, much like the ink on his hands, were all over the place.  He meant, Cyrus’s birthday was tomorrow.  And the notebook wasn’t the only thing he was giving Cyrus, either.  No, because T.J. had to be stupid and ruin the best thing that'd ever happened to him with a dumb, sappy letter confessing his feelings for his best friend.  And he stuck it in the scrapbook he made Cyrus, no less.  (What was wrong with him?)

He’d written it after the Renaissance Fair.  After the fortune teller had told him to tell Cyrus, before it was too late (whatever that meant).  And it didn’t help that he’d lost the paper he’d written his fortune on, anyway—what if Cyrus found it and already knew?  What if he was just trying to spare his feelings by keeping his mouth shut?  Cyrus was way too nice to ever mention it, but T.J....T.J. would disappear and never come back.

Even now, as he walked with Cyrus to their Friday after-school detention, his heart was pounding just thinking about the party tomorrow.  Was he so totally stupid for this?

T.J. didn’t get much of a chance to linger on the thought any longer before Dr. Metcalf jerked the door to the detention room open.  T.J. and Cyrus jumped back in surprise.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite partners in crime,” their principal snarked.  The two boys moved past Dr. Metcalf and to their usual seats, T.J. huffing to himself as he sat down.

“You say that at the beginning of every detention, and yet somehow I’m not sure if I believe you,” T.J. replied sarcastically.  

Cyrus tried to suppress his smile, coughing around the laugh he was clearly attempting to choke down.  T.J. smiled, too. He couldn’t help it; Cyrus was contagious like that. 

Dr. Metcalf gave his usually dry smile to the two boys, the kind that was so brittle you could blow on it and it would break.  "Trust me, there are far better students to choose from, but none of them are such delinquents to be stuck in detention, so I guess I'm stuck with you two, too."

"Great," T.J. said flatly.  

The final ball rang just then, clamoring throughout the empty halls.  Dr. Metcalf sank into his rolly-chair, wheels squeaking underneath the sudden weight. 

"You know the drill by now, but let me repeat it anyway since I trust you not at all.”  T.J. wanted to slam his head into his desk until stars swam in his vision. "No talking, no texting, no passing notes—“

"No moving, no breathing, I think we got it,” T.J. interrupted, raising his eyebrows.  “Can detention officially start now?  We don't want to be here longer than we need to.  Right, Cyrus?"

Cyrus nodded fervently.  Even as T.J. said it, he knew it wasn't entirely true.  (As long as he was with Cyrus, he could stay here forever.  Whatever forever meant, anyway.)

“Well, I’ve never been one to stop a student's wishes,” Dr. Metcalf retorted. 

(T.J. wondered if Dr. Metcalf was being serious before. About them being his favorite ‘partners in crime’.  He didn’t really care much, didn’t really care much at all, except, a part—a small part, nevertheless—did.)  

“Detention starts now.  If I see you so much as blink, you’ll be cleaning the cafeteria floors after sloppy joe day in the cafeteria with a toothbrush,” he added with a self-satisfied smirk. 

Cyrus winced beside him.  T.J. rolled his eyes.  Honestly, he wasn’t too worried.  Metcalf never watched them that closely anymore; even the most evil of principals had other things to do besides torment kids in detention the entire hour. 

So, like, do you think we’d get to keep the toothbrushes? Hypothetically speaking, I mean. -T.J.

He passed the note to Cyrus quickly, not even batting an eye when Dr. Metcalf didn’t bother looking up. 

Cyrus scrunched his nose down at the paper before responding. Please elaborate. I have so many questions. -Cyrus

Well, we do have detention on April Fools’ Day, so I’m just entertaining all possible avenues… -T.J.

Cyrus shook his head, more amused than disgusted. 

You know we’ll have detention until we graduate middle school if we even THINK about pranking Dr. Metcalf. -Cyrus, AKA Your Moral Compass!

P.S. You have a prank idea involving dirty toothbrushes? I don’t even want to know.

Ha, ‘Moral Compass’.  He wasn’t too far off with that one. 

Detention isn’t too bad with you here. -T.J.

P.S. Yeah, you probably don’t wanna know. 

Dr. Metcalf looked up at them over the rim of his coffee mug with pointed eyebrows.  (Did adults really drink coffee at 3 in the afternoon?  Weird.)  T.J. and Cyrus both looked away from their principal, eyes dropping to invisible homework on their desks. 

Metcalf leaned down to sign more paperwork. Cyrus passed him the note back. 

Yeah.  Detention turned out a lot better than I expected. :)  On another note: did you like Ren Fair with Andi, Buffy, Jonah, and Marty? -Cyrus

T.J. was blanking. Who’s Marty? -T.J.

You know!  Marty from the Party? -Cyrus

Well, that cleared everything up.

Buffy’s boyfriend? -T.J.

Yes, him!  And you didn’t answer my question! -Cyrus

Yeah, it was nice. You know, to hang out with more than one person. -T.J.

I’m glad! It must be boring spending so much time with me. -Cyrus

No, of course not. You’re still my favorite. -T.J.

He could feel Cyrus beaming from right next to him, filling up the entire room with his light.  (Cyrus was light.  He could power the whole world with it.)

I don’t think I’ve been anyone’s favorite anything before, so I’m not sure if I believe you. -Cyrus

You’re my favorite everything, Underdog. -T.J.

Oh, no. He was getting to that point again, like he was about to confess everything, spill all the words that had been building up over the past several weeks and onto this page. Words flashed into his head and disappeared just as fast. 

T.J. tried to ignore the swimming in his ears, the way everything was too bright and too loud in this dim, quiet room, because that was what Cyrus did. He breathed life into the dying, and gave hope to the hopeless.  He turned T.J. into a mosaic just by looking at him, took all his sharp, ragged-edged pieces and filled in the small gaps between the glass, arranged them into something that made T.J. a little more whole.  Or maybe whole wasn’t the right word.  Made him feel a little more solid, real.

Just as T.J. went to pass back the note, Dr. Metcalf stood up, clearing his throat.  T.J. retracted his hand, hiding the note by tucking it underneath his binder.

Their principal stared at them for a beat, then two, before sighing, like he was ‘relenting to the delinquents,’ as Metcalf would probably say.  T.J. snorted to himself.

“I need to use the restroom.  If either of you want to graduate with the rest of your class, you are not to move a muscle.  Understood?”  

He raised an eyebrow at the two of them.  Cyrus nodded fervently, like his neck was about to break off from the rest of his body.  T.J. shrugged, internally rolling his eyes at his empty threats.  Dr. Metcalf glared at him before turning towards the door. 

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.  Don’t.  Do.  Anything.”

T.J. saluted as Dr. Metcalf exited the room.  Then, he immediately turned to Cyrus.  “So, are you excited for your birthday tomorrow?”

Cyrus frowned immediately.  (According to Buffy, Cyrus had no idea about the surprise party they were planning for him.  In fact, he thought everyone had forgotten about his birthday.  It was sort of sad to keep the truth from him, but T.J. knew it would be worth it.  Besides, Cyrus did love a good ‘birthday blindside,’ according to Buffy and Andi.) 

“Honestly?  I’m dreading it.  I think my parents forgot.  I’ve been dropping hints like crazy all week and they just keep brushing me off!”

T.J. tried to hide the smile peeking out from the corner of his mouth.  Cyrus’s parents were in on it, too.  Thank God Buffy was in charge—T.J. would’ve never thought of half of the things she had in order to make sure everything would work out perfectly.  She really was an awesome party planner, as much as she constantly reminded all of them.  

“Well, I remembered,” T.J. reminded, “and I’m sure Andi and Buffy did, too.”  And Cyrus’s parents, and Jonah.  And the Other Kid—Marty, he guessed—too, but he couldn’t give them all away.

“Only because I reminded them!” Cyrus pointed out.  He sighed, putting his head down on the desk.  “I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that I will be spending my birthday at The Spoon by myself, eating my feelings away.”

“Well, I’ll join you then,” T.J. said, teasing yet not at the same time.  His hand started inching towards his bag, to where the notebook was.  How did Cyrus make him feel like this?  He would barely even look at him and T.J. would just.  Freeze.  Like something in Cyrus’s eyes seized him and made T.J. lose all control.  

“Really?”  Cyrus perked up, regaining his composure.  The sun that lived in Cyrus’s eyes poured into him.  T.J. was a rock skipping across the water, floating momentarily before sinking below. 

“Yeah,” T.J. said, leaning forward.  His eyes flickered down back to his bag and back to Cyrus.  He grabbed his backpack, feeling around for the notebook.  “Listen, Underdog, I know your birthday’s tomorrow, but I wanted to give you thi—”

“Glad to see you both blatantly disregarded what I said,” Dr. Metcalf interrupted.  

Their heads both jerked toward him.  T.J. dropped his bag onto the floor, feeling embarrassed for a reason he wasn’t sure about.  He meant, he never really cared when he got in trouble, except...except it felt like Dr. Metcalf was walking in on something that he wasn’t supposed to.  Something that was supposed to be theirs.  

Their principal scoffed while looking at his watch.  “Luckily for you, it’s time to leave.  Get out of here before I change my mind about giving you more detention.”

Cyrus slung his bag onto his shoulder and scurried past their principal.  Dr. Metcalf continued to glare at T.J. as he quickly shoved his books into his backpack and ducked though the door.  Although, little did T.J. know, his and Cyrus’s notes were still sitting innocently on his desk, waiting to be read… 

Once they made it past the corner out of the hallway, Cyrus wiped invisible sweat off of his forehead.  “Thank goodness.  I want to live to see fourteen!”

T.J. laughed.  He grabbed onto the strap hanging onto Cyrus’s shoulder, squeezed tight.  “Don’t worry, Underdog, I won’t let Metcalf get you.”

Something seemed to spark in Cyrus’s eyes.  “Oh yeah, what were you saying?  I mean, before we were interrupted?”

We.   T.J.’s heart skipped.  You know, from the fact that Cyrus considered them a we.  (Ugh.  He was so far gone it wasn’t even funny anymore.)  “Oh, it’s nothing.  Don’t worry about it.”  

That was the bad thing about confessing your feelings to someone.  The nerve to do it was always fleeting.  A shooting star of a thing.  A blink, and it was gone. 

“Oh-kay,” Cyrus sing-songed.  They started walking down the hallway, all shoulders and elbows and hands bumping together.  T.J.’s stomach jumped.  “Well, I have to head to Andi’s for an emergency Good Hair Crew meeting, but I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

“Tomorrow,” T.J. corrected.  Cyrus cocked his head at him.  Shoot.  He wasn’t supposed to say that.  “Uh...because of The Spoon thing.  Remember?” T.J. said, racking his brain.

“Oh!  Ha ha, very funny,” Cyrus said, breaking out into a smile, one of his sweet ones. (They were all sweet ones, like those sugar packets you put in coffee.)  “Okay, yeah, ‘tomorrow.’  See you then,” he joked back.

T.J. watched as Cyrus pushed his way out of the glass doors, giving T.J. one last glance before he disappeared around the corner.  His heart stopped in his chest before starting again.

Ha.  Yeah.  Tomorrow.  Cyrus had no idea.

“I need all hands on deck!” Buffy shouted at them.  T.J. suppressed a yawn; 8 AM was way too early to be awake on a Saturday morning.

“Calm down, Dictator Driscoll,” T.J. drawled, rubbing his eyes.  The sun was too bright and the grass was too green and he was just So. Tired.  “Cyrus’s parents aren’t even bringing him here until, like, 2.”

“I know!  Which means we have no time to waste!”  Buffy reminded him wildly.  She spread out a huge paper full of décor arrangements and instructions onto the table, smoothing out the crinkles with her hands.  She blew the stray curls out of her face with an exasperated huff.

The Shadyside Park Greenhouse had been secured, and, since they were all such good friends, T.J., Buffy, Marty, Andi, and Jonah had all shown up super early to set things up for Cyrus’s surprise party later that afternoon.  Considering that Andi and Jonah had just broken up literally three days ago, it wasn’t exactly easy to swim through the tension in the air.  Andi was trying so hard to pretend like she didn’t care about Jonah and their breakup, but it was painfully obvious that she felt the opposite by the way she kept glancing at him out of the corners of her eyes.  What was even weirder was that, instead of staring back at her, Jonah kept looking at T.J.

Buffy interrupted T.J.’s train of thought like she had been doing all morning, shouting, “Marty, T.J., start putting centerpieces on the tables.  Andi and I will work on the balloon arch, and Jonah, you can help Cyrus’s dad set up the inflatable bouncy house maze and the rental rock climbing wall.”

T.J.’s eyebrows shot up, incredulous.  She had to be kidding.  “There’s a maze and a rock climbing wall?”  

Buffy shrugged.  “Cyrus’s family loves parties.”

Cyrus had said the same thing to him before, but T.J. didn’t know they went all out every year like this.  T.J. was lucky to even have a cake that had the words Happy Birthday, T.J. on it.  Most of the time his parents just got a box of cupcakes from The Spoon and that was that, but this was unbelievable. 

Marty and him walked over to the sidewalk, where Andi’s mom Bex had unloaded what looked like glued CD’s to lamps—according to Andi, she never got to use them for her parents’ wedding, so she was repurposing them for Cyrus’s party.  T.J. and Marty crouched down and gathered the centerpieces, one cradled under each arm.

“You’re Marty, right?” T.J. asked, breaking the awkward silence.  

Marty looked at him in shock.  “You actually know my name?”

T.J. scoffed.  “Yeah, of course.”  Well, he did know his name.  Since yesterday, but.  It still counted.  “Do you know why Jonah keeps looking at me?”

Marty and T.J. both glanced behind their shoulders, only to find Jonah staring at them from across the lawn.  He looked away as soon as they met his gaze, but that only left T.J. with more questions.  What was up with that ?

“No clue,” Marty replied, seeming just as confused as T.J. was.  “Did you do something?”

T.J. tried to think.  He hadn’t really ever talked to Jonah much, because God knew what would come out of his mouth if he was in one of his jealous moods.  “I don’t think so.  Maybe it’s nothing.”  

Somehow, even as T.J. said that, he knew that wasn’t the case.  Maybe it was intuition, or just a hunch, but something was pricking at the back of his head, like he almost knew what this was about…

Cyrus woke up like he did on all his other birthdays: with a smile on his face.  He just couldn’t help it!  Cyrus loved to be celebrated.  

It took a little longer than he would like to admit for his conversation with T.J. yesterday to pour into his mind.  About how everyone had seemed to have forgotten about his birthday.  His smile melted into a frown.

He went to check his phone for any happy birthday messages, but he had no texts except a notification for an Instapic picture that Buffy had posted.  He opened the app, only to see a selfie of Buffy and Andi posing together at what looked like the park.  How dare his best friends hang out without him?  On his birthday no less?

Cyrus tried not to obsess about it.  Maybe it was an old picture that Buffy decided to post this morning!  Maybe they were putting together a surprise party in his honor at this very moment!

Even as Cyrus told himself that, he wasn’t sure if he believed himself or not.  An ugly feeling twisted in his gut.

He descended down the stairs, expecting his stepdad to be cooking a huge breakfast for his birthday like he always did while his mom picked up the apple cider and spiced pumpkin donuts from the bakery near the Alpine Slide.  However, when he found his way into the kitchen, the air felt empty and dead, like it hadn’t been touched in hours.  Cyrus rushed over to the window, pressing his face against the glass, only to see his mom and step dad's cars missing from the driveway.  He slumped down onto the couch and a note on the coffee table caught his eye.  

I have an emergency patient and your step dad is at a life-coach seminar for the day!  I left some money on the counter for you to get breakfast, and we’ll celebrate your birthday later at dinner with your dad and stepmom.  Happy Birthday, my sweet little man! -Mom

A lump formed in Cyrus’s throat.  An emergency patient?  A life-coach seminar?  He meant…they were good excuses, but he just…wish they cared more, he guessed?

No, no.  That was a selfish thought, and one that they definitely didn’t deserve.  His parents only ever wanted to help people. And they could all always celebrate Cyrus’s birthday another day!

Cyrus sunk into the cushion, negative thoughts devouring him whole. This had to have been the worst birthday ever.  

He clicked on his lock screen, slightly disappointed that even T.J. didn’t wish him a happy birthday.  He thought they were each other’s person.  Like…like the two halves of a magnet that always found their way back together.  But he guessed he was wrong.  T.J. wasn’t—T.J. didn’t like him.  Not like that.  Not like Cyrus wanted him to. 

Cyrus tossed his phone onto the coffee table, running his hands through his hair.  You know what?  He didn’t need his best friends to have a good birthday!  He could…well, he had other things to do. Other adventures to venture. On his own, too!

He hurriedly got dressed, thoughts spidering out from his brain a mile a minute.  When he came back downstairs, he saw his phone sitting on the coffee table.  What if…what if he invited T.J. along?  Cyrus knew they joked about doing something for his birthday at detention yesterday, but…it couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

No, Cyrus told himself, shaking his head. He needed to stop crushing on T.J.  Besides, he probably wasn’t even awake. Right?

Yeah , Cyrus thought as pushed his way out the door. He left his phone behind to stave off the temptation and took in a deep breath, growing more unsure with each step.  Right.

Beads of sweat formed on T.J.’s forehead, and he chugged a bottle of cold water as he cooled off in the shade. It wasn’t even that hot, but Buffy had them all running around like they were doing basketball drills.  That was definitely one thing T.J. didn’t miss about the season being over. 

People were starting to show up, gift bags and envelopes in hand, and T.J. checked the time on his phone. 1:27 PM.  Cyrus was supposed to be arriving really soon. 

T.J. was just about to change into his clothes for the party when he heard Buffy shout, “What do you mean you can’t find Cyrus?”

His head immediately shot up. How do you lose a whole person?

The plan was simple, or at least it was when Buffy explained it. They were all supposed to pretend to forget about Cyrus’s birthday.  Even Cyrus’s parents were in on it (which T.J. thought was going too far, but it wasn’t exactly up to him).  Then, when everything was set up at the Shadyside Greenhouse, Cyrus’s mom was going to say her emergency session ended early and she wanted to take him out to a birthday lunch.  Then, surprise.

It took everything not to text Cyrus this morning.  He knew Buffy wanted to blindside him as much as possible, but…he knew how awful Cyrus must have felt.  He probably felt, well…invisible.  Like he’d told T.J. he felt like all those weeks ago. T.J. just hoped everything paid off like it was supposed to.

“And he doesn’t have his phone on him?” Buffy practically yelled into her phone.  T.J.’s head was spinning with something Cyrus mentioned yesterday.  Birthday.  Eating feelings away. The Spoon. 

T.J. tapped on Buffy’s shoulder, a weird, itchy feeling bubbling on his skin.  She turned around and pressed the receiver to her chest to muffle Cyrus’s mom. 

“What is it, T.J.? I’m kind of in a crisis here!” she exclaimed, exasperated. 

“I think I know where Cyrus is.”

“Eating your feelings? I do that.”

Surprise grabbed Cyrus by the throat.  It couldn’t be...right?

He looked up from the permanent spot his eyes had been glued to for the past hour only to find T.J. staring down at him, bright and glowing and golden in that breathtaking T.J. Kippen way of his.  

Cyrus’s eyebrows scrunched together.  “You...came,” he said, an air of disbelief hanging onto his voice.  But...he couldn’t believe T.J.  T.J. with his green eyes and always knowing just what to say and a heart that was bigger than the sky, even if he didn’t know it.. 

“Of course I came,” T.J. said, so soft and fragile that if Cyrus brushed against it, it’d shatter into pieces.  He slid into the corner booth, nestling into the seat across from Cyrus.  “You know, when we were talking yesterday, I didn’t think you’d actually be here. You’re lucky I’m such a good listener.”

Cyrus chuckled softly. “I guess I am lucky,” he said, more to himself than to T.J.  He cleared his throat, speaking louder.  “No one wished me ‘happy birthday’ today, besides my mom, who just left me a note. No one even… remembered . I just feel…invisible, I guess.”

T.J. pursed his mouth for a beat, then two. “If it helps... you’re all I see.”

Cyrus’s face flushed, hot and red and excuse me?   What was that supposed to mean?  Did it mean what…did it mean what Cyrus wanted it to?

“By the way, I didn’t forget. I just wanted to tell you in person.”  T.J. shifted in his side of the booth, and Cyrus watched him rifle through a backpack that he was just now noticing. “Happy Birthday, Underdog.”

A thin, rectangular-shaped object was shoved into Cyrus’s hands, covered in green-and-blue wrapping paper.  All the air was snatched from his lungs, like someone had reached down his throat and grabbed a fistful of it. 

“Teej, I don’t know what to say.”  Cyrus looked up at him, and something seemed to open up in his chest, gaping and wide and needing to be filled.  He wanted to reach across the table and hold T.J.‘s hand. Cyrus wanted to do a lot of things.  

His fingers went to rip open the paper, but T.J. grabbed his hands from across the table.  Cyrus halted in his tracks; he felt himself melting at his sides. 

“Wait until I’m not here. It’s…it’s embarrassing,” T.J. admitted, not quite meeting his eye  

Cyrus raised an eyebrow, but relented, lowering the present down.  “I literally don’t see how that’s possible, but okay.”

He slid the present into his own backpack, trying not to focus on the anticipation humming on his skin. He meant, what could it be that would make T.J. Kippen embarrassed? 

“Thank you, though. Maybe this isn’t the worst birthday ever.”

T.J. smiled down at the table.  It seemed like one of those private ones that you were supposed to pretend you didn’t see. Cyrus wanted to burn it into his brain forever, wished he were like T.J. and could spin it into a drawing that he could frame on his wall.

“You wanna go somewhere?”

Cyrus cocked his head to the side, intrigued. “Like where?”

T.J. stood up, holding a hand out to Cyrus.  Cyrus took it, standing up right in front of him. He tried not to fall into T.J.'s eyes, knew he’d never find his way out of them if he did.  

“Let’s just say it’s a surprise.”

“I know you said it was a surprise, but is the blindfold really necessary?” Cyrus asked, blindly fumbling forward. 

T.J. grabbed onto Cyrus’s shoulders, refocusing him as they walked along the trails.  He was sort of improvising at this point since their original plan had kind of been thrown out the window, but hopefully Buffy got his text letting them know to be on the lookout.  

“It’s nothing too special, but I wanted to give you the full birthday surprise experience. Even if it’s just with me.”  

He was totally lying, but was it weird that Cyrus didn’t seem to mind that it was just the two of them?

Nah, he had to be imagining that part. Right?

Cyrus pursed his lips in agreement. “I am a fan of the birthday blindside,” he admitted. “Even if it is just with you.”

T.J. tried not to snort to himself.  Cyrus really had no idea what was coming.  If he did, he wouldn’t be able to contain himself without exploding, drowning everything around him like a tidal wave. 

“I know you are.  You’ve told me, like, a million times.”

Cyrus ignored him, probably too busy being caught up in his own thoughts, if T.J. had to guess. The air sparked around Cyrus like a halo, catching onto his excitement like fire with fuel.  

“Ooh!  Let me guess where you’re taking me!”

“As if you could get an answer out of me,” T.J. teased.  He saw a pothole Cyrus was about to stumble into, and his arm shot out almost reflexively, guiding Cyrus out of the way. “Careful. We’re almost there.”

“It’s hard to be careful when I have a blindfold on,” Cyrus joked. “Who am I kidding?  It’s hard to be careful even when I don’t have a blindfold on.”  

T.J. snorted. “True.”

The air went quiet then, the only sound being their shoes trampling through the damp spring grass.  T.J. looked ahead, squinting through the sunlight peeking through the branches.  They were really close; just a little further…

“Wait!” Cyrus cut off, abruptly halting in front of T.J.  T.J.’s chest bumped straight into his back, which only caused Cyrus to stumble again.  T.J. caught him by the back of his shoulders and turned him around to face him.

“What is it?” T.J. asked, lightly panting.  Even though he volunteered to retrieve Cyrus and bring him to the party, T.J. was starting to see why no one else contested him for the job.  Guiding a blindfolded Cyrus was a tough gig.

Cyrus reached his arms out and felt around the air, like he was trying to find T.J. and pin him down into place.  He patted at T.J.’s arms, down, down, until he eventually found T.J.’s hands.  He squeezed them tight.  

“Before you take me to...well, wherever you’re taking me, I wanted to thank you.  And I know I can’t really see you right now, so don’t laugh, but...thanks for always seeing me .  Even when I thought everyone forgot my birthday, you did what you always do.  You were… there for me.”

T.J.’s heart pounded in his chest, a pinball pinging against glass.  His head started to spin, was full of everything he wanted to say to Cyrus, of everything poured out onto the letter in Cyrus’s backpack like ocean water spilling over rocks, rushing out onto the shoreline then receding just as fast.

First of all, Happy Birthday, Cyrus.

I'm not too good at all of this feelings stuff, but I want to get this thing with you right.

I've just noticed you.  I always have, I think.

But you were changing me from the second I first saw you, even if you didn't know it.

Anyway, if you haven't figured it out by now, I like you.

The words were lurching up his throat like a gust of leaves surging in the wind, unable to be shoved back down.  He was gonna do it.  He was gonna say:

“Underdog, I really—”

Brrrrrring!  An obnoxious blaring, buzzing noise emerged from his back left pocket.  T.J.’s jaw jumped.  He wanted to rip his own face off.

T.J. let go of Cyrus’s hands, angrily taking his phone out.  He accepted the call without even checking the caller ID, knew who it was without even checking.

“Hello,” he said dryly into the receiver, trying not to let his annoyance surface.  He wasn’t doing such a great job. 

“Just checking in,” Buffy returned, her voice full of urgency and authority.  She really was captain material.  “You almost here?  I need to know when we need to start hiding.”

“Yes,” T.J. replied, forcing himself to breath out of his nose.  Some tension released, the way steam did from a tea kettle.  Now wasn’t the right time to tell Cyrus anyway, he convinced himself.  Besides, wasn’t that the whole point of the letter, anyway?  So he could spare himself the embarrassment of...of Cyrus rejecting him?  

“Oh, wait, I see you guys!  Great.  Does he suspect anything?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’.  He glanced at the boy in question, who was waiting patiently for T.J.’s call to end.  Well, that was what T.J. was gonna assume, since most of Cyrus’s face was swallowed up by a blindfold. 

“Cool!  We’ll see you soon.”  Click.

T.J. sighed before putting his phone back away.  His hand returned to the small of Cyrus’s back, gently guiding him forward.  “Almost there.”

“What was that about?” Cyrus asked after a few steps.  T.J. knew he couldn’t exactly see his face, but he could nearly imagine his wide eyes, the way his eyebrows were probably scrunched up like they always were.  

“Nothing, just my mom checking in,” he lied.  He peered forward at the party they had set up at the greenhouse; he could see Buffy and Andi signaling everyone to hide.

“Well, what were you gonna say?”

“Hm?” T.J. asked.  His attention was elsewhere—only a few more stragglers were left…

“Before,” Cyrus explained.  “You started to say, ‘Underdog, I really—’ but you stopped.  You really what?”

“Uh,” T.J. stalled.  Or maybe it was the right time?  The fortune teller had said to tell his ‘friend’ soon, and he assumed she was referring to Cyrus about confessing his feelings.  Before it was too late.  “Listen, Cyrus, I really—”

“Surprise!”

What sounded like a large crowd yelled, “Surprise!”

Cyrus ripped off his blindfold, confusion pouring in. His eyes adjusted to the sight before him.  What is all of this?

Shadyside Greenhouse was brimming with people—friends, family, classmates.  Tables were covered with colorful tablecloths and topped off with Andi’s infamous CD lamps, and Cyrus could see stands toppling over with food and presents. There was even some sort of rock-climbing wall peeking over the tops of the trees. 

Cyrus had to fight off the tears threatening to well in his eyes as he found Andi and Buffy smiling at him in the crowd.  They did all of this for him?

In a surge of adrenaline, Cyrus sprinted over to his best friends (well, as good as a sprint he could manage, at least), emotion seizing him tight.  “I can't believe you guys did this for me!"  He broke out into a giant, watery smile, flinging his arms around the both of them, around two of his favorite people in the whole entire universe. The party started to liven up around them, conversations floating around as a DJ propped up in front of the greenhouse turned up the music. His previous conversation with T.J. seeped out of his head, like it never even happened at all. 

“Of course we did!” Buffy bragged, flipping her hair over her shoulder.  Cyrus knew that he was the sassy friend, but she definitely gave him a run for his money. 

“We’re sorry about lying to you,” Andi apologized, “but we figured the only way you’d believe us was if you thought we’d forgotten about it completely!”

“And we know you’ve always wanted a birthday blindside, so: surprise!” Buffy added on.

Cyrus was giddy with excitement.  Here he thought everyone had forgotten about him, when it turned out to be just the opposite.  “Did you guys plan this all by yourselves?  And you got T.J. involved?  And my parents?”

“Well, we came up with the idea to have the surprise party, but T.J., Marty, and Jonah helped, too.”

Andi wrinkled her nose at the mention of Jonah’s name.  “Well, Jonah was probably too busy texting you-know-who , but the rest of us planned it.  T.J. even picked the Shadyside Greenhouse!”

Cyrus raised his eyebrows up incredulously. “He did?”  He turned his head to see T.J. across the dance floor, beaming at him.  Cyrus blushed, knowing the flush on his cheeks wasn't from the excitement of the party or his best friends surprising him but was because of T.J. Kippen, because of what he did to Cyrus just by looking in his direction.  

He couldn’t believe that T.J. would think of something as amazing as this just for him!  Did Cyrus really deserve that kind of attention from him?  And why was T.J. always so willing to always spare him a second glance, an extra thought?  Maybe…a forbidden thought entered Cyrus’s mind, one that had been making an appearance more than once lately.  Maybe…T.J. felt the same way?

No, Cyrus reminded himself. That was…that was impossible.  Cyrus was just deluding himself, as usual.  He meant, he didn’t really have the best track record, now did he?

“Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?” Buffy exclaimed. “All my doing, of course.” Andi nudged her. “Well, and everyone else’s, too. Thanks for the help, by the way.  Anyways—who’s ready to get their party on?”

“Me!” Cyrus exclaimed. 

The two looked at a silent Andi, who was glancing over her shoulder to stare at Jonah.  Cyrus and Buffy shared a glance; this was like his bar mitzvah all over again. Andi was obsessing over her and Jonah's ‘breakup’ then, too, if you could even call it that.  Back then, Jonah wouldn't even call Andi his girlfriend.

“You okay, Andi?” he asked cautiously. 

She gave them a stiff smile. “Am I ever fine?”  She sighed, shaking her head. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. Let’s go celebrate,” she offered half-heartedly. 

Cyrus swallowed. His throat was tight, an invisible fist closing in around it.  He wanted to tell her how he understood how frustrating and oblivious Jonah could be, even if Jonah didn’t mean it. He wanted to tell her all those things he’d kept tucked away for the past two years.  Even if he could make his best friend feel only an ounce better, he would do it. 

Cyrus breathed deeply.  Now wasn’t the right time. Besides, who was going to be the life of the party if not him?

“Let’s do it!”

Partying was exhausting work.  It wasn’t long before Cyrus had to excuse himself to grab a few refreshments (and regain his breath back, if he were being perfectly honest; keeping up with Andi and Buffy on the dance floor was proving to be harder than he anticipated). Once he reached the buffet table, he couldn’t believe how many food and drinks there were, including all of his favorites, like his most sought-after chocolate chocolate-chip muffins and even Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider!  His friends thought of literally everything; this had to be one of the best birthdays ever, if he did say so himself. 

After popping the last bite of muffin into his mouth and smearing his mouth with a napkin, Cyrus reached for the bottle of sparkling cider. His fingers tore at the foil around the bottleneck, frowning when it revealed the metal cap screwed on underneath.  Was there a bottle opener anywhere? 

His eyes searched the table far and wide, but to no avail. Okay, so maybe his friends didn’t think of everything. 

Cyrus felt a presence materialize behind him, a shadow looming over the table. He whirled around, only to come face-to-face with T.J.

“Hey,” Cyrus greeted, the breath leaving his lungs. T.J. was wearing new clothes now, a blue jacket draped over a green shirt and dark jeans.  He hadn’t seen T.J. in a while, and a well of guilt surged through him.  After all, T.J. was just as responsible for planning this party as all of his other friends. (He still couldn’t believe it; it just didn’t sound real.  T.J. Kippen helped plan his surprise party. T.J. Kippen was actually his friend.  Even if Cyrus wanted more than that, he couldn't help but be overwhelmingly grateful for all the things that T.J. had done for him, tonight and for the past several weeks.)

“Hey,” T.J. said back. His voice was much more strong, confident, than Cyrus’s.  A pillar holding strong within the current.  “I haven’t seen you in a while.  Have you been dancing?” 

The way he asked it made it sound like he already knew the answer, if the hint of a smile curling at the ends of his mouth was any indication. 

“Yep, I sure was!  I hope you didn’t see that mess,” Cyrus joked.

“I did,” T.J. said. “It wasn't a mess.  You looked like you were having fun.”

“I was!  You should join me—I mean, us.  You know, dancing is always better as a group!” Cyrus sputtered out. He internally cringed; he hoped T.J. didn’t catch his slip up.  Even if what he said was true. 

“Maybe I will,” T.J. challenged, bumping arms with Cyrus. “What are you doing?  Thirsty?”  

He gestured towards the bottle of Martinelli’s in Cyrus’s hands, and Cyrus frowned down at the bottle, his reflection dancing back at him tauntingly in the olive glass. 

“Yeah, but I can’t get it open,” Cyrus admitted.  His face burned, creeping up to his ears. He knew he was helpless—he even heard Jonah say as much once when he broke his thumb, and hearing him say that hit him like a ton of bricks—but he always wanted to prove to T.J. that he was brave and confident and strong. Truth was, Cyrus wasn’t any of those things, no matter how hard he tried.  But T.J. always made him believe that he could be, if he wanted to.

“Can I?” T.J. asked, holding his hands out. Cyrus tried to hide his smile, instead handing the bottle to T.J.  Their fingers brushed together, sparking like fireworks exploding in the sky. 

T.J.‘s hand wrapped around the cap, twisting, twisting.  

Cyrus started, “Okay, but I’m just warning you, it’s hard to open—“ 

The words weren’t even completely out of his mouth before Cyrus heard a muffled crack, steamy carbonation floating out of a teensy gap in the lid. 

T.J. smiled down at him, amused.  He handed back the bottle to Cyrus.  "Here you go, Underdog."

Cyrus peered down at the lid, confused.  It was loosened, sure, but it definitely was still partially closed.  “Wait, why didn’t you open it all the way?  Have you met me?” he joked.  

“Because,” T.J. said, sauntering away with his hands in his pockets, walking backwards, “what’s the fun in that?”

Cyrus’s eyebrows drew together.  What was that supposed to mean?

He tried at the cap again, unscrewing as hard as he could, as T.J.’s words floated around in his head like the carbonation in the bottle.  With a loud pop, sparkling cider shot out in a wide arc and sloshed onto the grass.  A crowd of people nearby cheered.  Cyrus’s heart sped up.  Was this T.J.’s plan?

“Sparkling cider for everyone!” Cyrus shouted. 

The party whooped as Cyrus raised the bottle to them.  He searched the crowd and caught T.J.‘s gaze at the back. 

“Thank you,” he mouthed to his knight in shining armor. 

T.J. smiled, opening his mouth to say something before closing it again. He shook his head to himself. “You’re welcome,” he mouthed back. 

How could he be so perfect?

Later, when it was time to cut the cake, Cyrus’s mom lit the fourteen candles, one by one.  The flames flickered in the moonlight, glinting across Cyrus’s face. 

Buffy leaned in close, whispering, “Do you know what you’re gonna wish for?”  She waggled her eyebrows towards the other side of the cake table. Cyrus smiled back at her, seeing what she was getting at. 

He did know, actually. It was one of those things you couldn’t help but hope for with every ounce of you, gambling on every shooting star and betting on every spare penny that you threw into wishing fountains. 

As everyone around them sang Happy Birthday, Cyrus glanced around at his friends and family, his chest feeling full.  What had he done to deserve such amazing people in his life?

“Happy Birthday dear Cyrus, Happy Birthday to you,” they all chorused, finishing the final line. 

Everyone clapped around him, and he smiled at the people surrounding him.  Buffy nudged him as he went to blow out the candles.  “Make a wish!” she encouraged. 

Cyrus watched T.J. carefully from across the table. He blew out his candles, watching the smoke curl into the dusk-ridden sky.  He closed his eyes momentarily, wishing silently to himself. 

I wish that T.J. Kippen liked me back. 

When he opened his eyes, T.J. was staring right back at him from across the table, a soft expression on his face.  It was like they were connected, held together even though they were far apart. Somewhere, in the back of Cyrus’s head, he couldn’t help but hope that T.J. had made a wish of his own…

By 9 o’clock, the party was still in full swing and raging well past Cyrus’s expectations.  (Well, honestly he thought everyone forgot his party this year, so the fact that this was happening at all was exceeding his expectations, but still!)  He caught Buffy by the buffet table, grabbing a handful of cheese puffs and putting them on a blue paper plate, along with a slice of his cake that Andi’s dad, Bowie, had made for the occasion. 

“Great party!” Cyrus shouted over the music, dancing along to the music. Even though the venue was outside, the DJ seemed to crowd every single corner.  Crowds of kids from their school huddled together on the dance floor, jumping up and down to the beat.  Over in the corner, Cyrus saw Jonah trying to talk to Andi, but he didn’t seem to be going too well. He would definitely have to ask about that later. But right now, he had another idea in mind…

“I know, right!” Buffy shouted back, jumping alongside him. A few of her cheeseballs bounced off her plate and onto the grass below. “I should totally be a professional party planner!”

Cyrus smiled to himself.  Classic Buffy.  Always so ambitious.  

“Have you seen T.J.?” he asked, yelling back. 

“What?” Buffy shouted. 

“Have you seen T.J.?” Cyrus shouted again. 

Buffy pursed her lips in thought, still dancing beside him. “I think I saw him headed to the fountain!”

“Thanks!” Cyrus yelled back.  The fountain?  What was T.J. doing all the way over there by himself?  (Unless he was there with someone else...like a girl...)

Cyrus silenced the thought. No, no, no, no..., he chanted silently to himself. He probably just wanted to get away from the party!  It was pretty loud over here...

(Cyrus wasn’t sure if he was convincing himself all that much.)

He squeezed through the handful of trees on the other side of the greenhouses, only to find T.J. sitting on the stone edge, face buried in his hands. Cyrus’s heart started flying out of his chest for some reason.  Like he was witnessing something that he wasn’t supposed to. 

Courage took over Cyrus’s voice for him; it made his legs move toward T.J., step by step.   

“Not-So-Scary Basketball Guy,” he called out confidently.  He stuck his hands in his pockets, sauntering over to T.J.  

T.J.’s head shot up. His pinched face relaxed into a smile when he saw it was Cyrus. His heart melted a little bit at that.

“Underdog,” T.J. greeted back. “What are you doing here?  Isn’t your party still going on?”

“Yeah,” Cyrus said, taking a seat next to T.J.  He looked right into his green eyes, confused and narrowed and beautiful.  Cyrus wanted to stare into them forever, he’d decided. “But I haven’t really talked to you since you helped me get that bottle of sparkling cider open. I wanted to say thanks.”

T.J. looked away, shrugging. He fiddled with his hands, like he was trying to memorize the lines of his fingers. 

“It was nothing.”

“That’s not true,” Cyrus protested. “You always help me more than I help you!”

T.J. scoffed. “Yeah, right.  I don’t remember helping you find out about your secret learning disability.”

Cyrus nudged him playfully.  T.J. glanced up.  The air was somehow tense and easy at the same time.  Like they were simultaneously holding their breath and exhaling all in the same second, like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

“Seriously, though, you’re like...like Superman! And I’m just your lame friend Cyrus!”

T.J. softened slightly. His mouth curled up at the edges, so subtle that if you blinked you might miss it. 

“Underdog,” he started, and Cyrus’s chest melted, an ice cube pressed against heat, “you do way more for me than I do for you. Trust me.”

Cyrus wanted to argue that that was not true, because T.J. gave him all the confidence in the universe and that was something no one had ever been able to give Cyrus before. Whenever Cyrus was too scared to live on the edge, T.J. met him somewhere in the middle. How could he ever live up to that?

“Please,” Cyrus pleaded. Guilt was bleeding out of him, like cracks of lava running over his skin. “Just name something you’ve never done that I can help you with. Like…like how you help me cross stuff off my bucket list!  I want to cross something off of yours.”

T.J. looked away, scoffing at the ground. Cyrus held his breath, then released it when T.J.‘s resolve fell away.  

“Fine,” he relented. “Uh…I’ve never been on a plane.”

Cyrus cracked a smile. “Might be too expensive, keep going.”

T.J. huffed out of his nose in that sort of amused way of his. “I’ve…I’ve never been to that aquarium you talk about so much.”

Cyrus gasped dramatically. “Now we have to go. After all, aquariums have the best gift shops.”  They shared a grin; this wasn’t the first time Cyrus had explained that fact. “What else, though?  Now I’m curious.”

“I’ve never read the Harry Potter books,” T.J. admitted, wrinkling his nose. 

“I’m sorry, what ?” T.J. shrugged. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

T.J. laughed a little before softening. His face turned hesitant. “I’ve…never aced a math test.”

“T.J…,” Cyrus trailed off, sympathy rising in his throat. 

T.J. kept going, pushing past the sudden heaviness in the air.  “I’ve also never told anyone my real name.”

“And I’m still intrigued, just FYI,” Cyrus teased. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” he said suddenly.  The air stopped.  He glanced up at Cyrus cautiously, and the whole world paused on its axis. Cyrus’s cheeks heated up. 

“You’re joking,” Cyrus said.  The words sounded hollow, like he couldn’t believe what was coming out of his mouth.  There was no possible way for him to be serious.  How had no one kissed T.J. Kippen yet?  

T.J. snorted. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” Cyrus blurted out. 

T.J. looked taken aback by his answer, then shook his head. Cyrus’s heart was pounding for some unknown reason.  Sometimes, the universe gave you signs that something big was about to happen, something cosmic.  Times like right now.  If Cyrus were to guess, it was either the end of the world or the beginning of it. 

“Well,” T.J. started, grabbing Cyrus’s hand off his lap.  Pressing his palm against his chest, right over his heart, just like Cyrus showed him in the library.  Cyrus swore his atoms were splitting, were coming undone like fireworks and frayed nerves in his chest   “I haven’t.”

Cyrus’s heart skipped.  Why was T.J. telling him this?  Was there a reason?  Was he trying to send him a signal, or something?

Cyrus wasn’t great at catching onto those sorts of things; he ran over the details with his fingers until they were nothing but mangled versions of thoughts, unable to fit into one cohesive thing.  But this…this was different. 

T.J. was always pushing Cyrus to be brave and impulsive, to live on the edge, to dance with danger.  He wanted this so much he was burning at the edges. 

T.J. dropped Cyrus’s hand, huffing to himself. Cyrus’s mind went blank as he stared at the boy sitting next to him. “I know, it’s embarrassi—“

Cyrus cut him off and brought T.J.'s lips to his.  Suddenly, the whole world slid into focus.

What.  Was.  Happening.

Cyrus was kissing him, slow and sweet and beautiful, tasted like sunshine and a little bit of that hope T.J. was always chasing after but could never quite find.  He saw stars and stars and stars. The clouds were pulling them up, up, up, away to a million other galaxies where it was only them, existing and not existing all at once.  Just T.J. and Cyrus, melting and searching and fitting together into this impossible, atom-splitting thing.  Where the sky wasn’t the sky and the ground wasn’t the ground, where nothing wasn’t anything at all. The world shrunk down to Cyrus’s hands, to Cyrus’s lips, to Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus.  T.J. wasn’t breathing, or maybe he was.  Maybe he was evaporating into the air under Cyrus’s hands.  If he was allowed to remember this moment, maybe he’d be okay with that.

Was this actually happening?  Did he actually just kiss T.J.?  And was he still kissing him?

A warm pressure greeted him back, soft and hesitant, a ghost of a thing.  Was Cyrus imagining it?  

Just as he went to pull away, T.J.’s hand crept up to Cyrus’s cheek, his fingers slipping through his hair and cradling his jaw.  

Cyrus’s eyes opened wide, wider than he thought he could even open them.  Did this mean...did this mean T.J. was like him?  Did this mean that T.J. liked him back?

Cyrus leaned in deeper and let his eyes flutter shut, wanted this to last forever, for however long he could stretch it out for.  T.J. tasted like lemon drops and holding hands in the rain and notes floating off of piano keys.  Kissing T.J. was like...like finding one of those rare patches of sunlight that sifted through the rifts of the clouds when the air was all dull and grey.  Was like a beam that ripped a seam through the sky, lighting up everything below. 

It wasn’t until Cyrus heard painful gasps of air out of his right ear that he could find it in himself to break away. 

“Jonah!” Cyrus braced his hands against Jonah’s shoulders, eyes wide like saucers. “Breathe, okay?  Breathe.”

Jonah nodded fervently, but only hurried, shallow breaths came out.  Everything was happening so fast, all at once.  He was kissing T.J., and now he was calming Jonah down from a panic attack?  Cyrus felt torn; how could he leave T.J. after what just happened?

A strong sense of deja vu washed over him.  This was like his bar mitzvah all over again, except this time Cyrus was actually there to help Jonah.  He knew what the right thing to do was, even if half of him couldn’t seem to make up its mind.

“T.J., go get my dad.  I’ll take care of Jonah,” Cyrus said, a strong sense of authority that wasn’t usually there taking a hold of his voice.  Maybe that was why T.J. quickly got to his feet, sprinting through trees.

A mirage of emotions flickered through Cyrus all at once.  Guilt, for having to send T.J. away without talking about this.  Panic, at seeing Jonah having an anxiety attack. Giddiness, after kissing T.J. Kippen. 

He couldn’t believe that actually happened.  And that T.J. actually kissed him back. He didn’t imagine that part, right?

Stay focused, Cyrus, he reminded himself. Cyrus took a deep breath before putting a hand on Jonah’s back.  An idea began to take shape in his brain. 

“Don’t worry, Jonah.  I know the perfect place to help clear your head.”

T.J. couldn’t help but notice the lack of warmth against his mouth as he ran through the trees, riding the high he was left chasing on his way back to the party.  He couldn’t believe…a smile began to form on his face.  Cyrus kissed him.  Actually kissed him.  Did that mean Cyrus didn’t like Jonah anymore?  That he liked T.J. instead?

T.J. was gonna die. After what just happened, he might actually be okay with that. 

He finally found his way back to the party, heart pounding in his chest at everything that was going on.  Music blasting through the air while people danced on the dance floor, lights pulsing all around.  T.J.‘s brain was spinning out of his head—he thought his skull might split open. 

Where was Cyrus’s dad, anyway?  His eyes searched throughout the crowd, squinting past the bright spotlights attached to the DJ’s stand and spinning over the dance floor.  He saw Andi's dad, Gus, one of Cyrus’s aunts…but Cyrus’s dad was nowhere to be found.

What was he supposed to do?  Like, what were you even supposed to do when someone couldn’t breathe?  Was he having an asthma attack?  No, wait—Cyrus had mentioned this before.  Jonah had anxiety or something, he was pretty sure.  Apparently this happened a lot, so it wasn’t exactly easy for Jonah to hide.  At least that was what Cyrus said, anyway.

T.J. ran over to the banquet table, filling a plastic blue cup with water.  T.J. had dealt with plenty of hyperventilating kids at Jackson’s gym for one reason or another, and giving them water always gave them a second to calm down, to breathe through their nose instead of their mouth. He knew it wasn’t exactly the same thing, but hopefully this worked just as well as whatever Cyrus’s dad would suggest. 

He made his way back as quickly as possible to the fountain, balancing the water carefully in front of him so it didn’t spill. He halted at the spot where him and Cyrus had been kissing minutes before—kissing, for real —only to find it empty. Confusion seeped in. Something told T.J.’s feet to keep moving forward, one step at a time. 

T.J. saw movement a few yards away behind a giant oak tree, and he stepped in front of it, only to quickly hide behind it just as fast. His heart dropped into his stomach. He dropped the cup, ignoring the way it splashed onto his shoes. No, Cyrus wouldn’t…right?

He blinked, like the sight in front of him would magically disappear. But, surely enough, there he sat, next to Jonah on the swings.  At their spot.  T.J.’s throat tightened.  Like a fist was closing in around his windpipe. 

Because of course Cyrus still liked Jonah.  Jonah was perfect, everything that T.J. wasn’t.  And Cyrus had just kissed him out of, what...pity?  To cross something off of a bucket list that didn’t even exist until Cyrus had pushed him for it?

How could Cyrus take advantage of him like that?  How could he take something away from T.J. when he hadn’t even meant it, hadn’t meant any of it?

This must’ve all been some elaborate joke. Of course.  Why would Cyrus ever want to be friends with someone like T.J., anyway?  

Tears pricking at his eyes, a few escaping and rolling down his face.  T.J. furiously wiped them away, rubbing his cheeks raw. How could he have thought—it was stupid of him, to even hope for it—that this could’ve ever been his?  Cyrus...well, things that perfect— people that perfect—weren’t meant for people like T.J.  People that were rotting from the inside out. 

T.J. couldn’t stand looking at them any longer and ran, sprinting as hard as his legs could carry him.  Buffy caught him as he ran past the rest of the party, eyes turning to him in question, but he shook her off, running out the exit and onto the sidewalk.  He couldn’t speak.  If he did, only tears would come out.

T.J. wished he would’ve never punched Reed, wished he would’ve never gotten detention with Cyrus in the first place.  Because Cyrus opened T.J. up to the world of feeling, of happiness and friendship and love and heartbreak.  And that was something T.J. could never forgive him for.

Cyrus looked around, worried, his mind wandering past the swings and to where T.J. might be.  What was taking him so long?

Never mind that, he told himself, shaking his head.  Jonah was still having an anxiety attack. That was what he needed to focus on. 

“Are the swings helping at all?” Cyrus asked, brow furrowing together in worry. Jonah quickly shook his head, and a pit fell in Cyrus’s stomach.  He frowned.  They always worked for him and T.J.  Maybe Jonah was just different?

“Well, what else could I do…,” he wondered aloud.  Everyone always looked to him for answers for these kinds of things, but sometimes even Cyrus felt at a loss.  What worked for one person didn't necessarily work for another.  What would help Jonah?  “Oh, I know!  Do you still have your coping card on you?  The one we made together at lunch yesterday?”

Jonah nodded, still panting heavily, and pointed to his jacket that was dangling off the seat of the swing next to him. Cyrus had made him shed it off as soon as they’d gotten there; he didn’t want Jonah to overheat.  If Cyrus’s own experiences with panic attacks were any indication, it was better to be safe than sorry when it came to sweat!

Cyrus grabbed his jacket, rifling through the left pocket.  Nothing except lint and a crumpled up straw wrapper. 

He went to check the other one, but a ruffling in the distance made him pause.  A clink to the ground.  Then footsteps, retreating back, back, until Cyrus couldn’t hear them at all. 

He almost went to ponder on what it might’ve been, but Jonah’s heavy breathing pulled him back, and Cyrus patted the right pocket.  He grabbed at what felt like a slip of paper, and pulled it free, holding it out in front of him, eager.  However, it was thick and red, very different from the index card Cyrus remembered making with Jonah yesterday afternoon.

It looked like one of the fortunes from the booth at Ren Fair. His back turned to Jonah, Cyrus curiously opened the flap.

Do I really have a crush on Cyrus?

Cyrus’s heart stopped, going cold.  Why would Jonah have this?  Unless…

Jonah liked Cyrus?

“Did….you…find it?” Jonah managed to wheeze out.

Cyrus dropped the paper like it was fire hot.  He stuffed it back into its rightful place and pulled out the coping card instead.

“Yep!" he said, struggling to keep his voice steady.  His brain was screaming.  What was happening, what was happening?  He was about to work himself into a panic attack of his own. "Uh, it says to remind yourself that this will end.  Can you do that for me, JB?”

Jonah nodded, mumbling, like a mantra, “This will end.  This will end.”

Cyrus nodded alongside him absentmindedly, rubbing his back.  However, his stomach couldn’t help but recoil at the action after reading that fortune. Could Jonah actually like him? 

Especially now that Cyrus didn’t feel the same?  Especially now that Cyrus only felt that way about T.J.?

Guilt spread its way through him, expanding like cracks in glass. What was he supposed to do?  He’d never really even been in this position before, unless you counted Iris, which he didn’t.  Not really. 

A month ago, if you told Cyrus that Jonah Beck had a crush on him, he would float all the way to clouds.  Now, all he felt was pure dread. 

Cyrus continued going through what the coping card suggested, listing them off one by one, and Jonah seemed to calm down with every passing bullet point.  Finally, with the last set of breathing exercises, he seemed good to go, albeit slightly shaky.  But that was pretty much normal after you felt like you were dying, Cyrus guessed.

“Thanks, Cy- Guy,” he said. “Andi won’t talk to me, and I guess I just…well, you saw how my body reacted.” Jonah scratched his head sheepishly, something Cyrus had never seen him do. Was that what Jonah did when he was flirting?  Cyrus had never noticed before.  He wanted to sink into the ground. He wished he had never seen that slip of paper in the first place. 

“Of course. We should probably head back to the party, though, right?”  It felt weird being alone with Jonah now.  What if Cyrus accidentally led him on, or something?

Jonah smiled, in that bright, dazzling way of his. Cyrus fought off the guilt piercing through his chest.  All he wanted to do was get back to T.J.  “Let’s go, then!”

They walked all too slowly for Cyrus’s liking (he never imagined that that thought would cross his mind; people usually moved too fast for Cyrus to keep up with).  As soon as they made their way out of the tree line, Cyrus ran to Buffy as best as he could, hoping to beat Jonah there by a few seconds.

"Buffy, I need to talk to you," he wheezed, bent over with both hands on his knees.  He saw Jonah approach them, and he straightened up, regaining his composure.  "Have you seen T.J. anywhere?"

Buffy opened her mouth to respond, looking worried, but Jonah beat her to the punch, saying, "Yeah, I need to talk to him, too."

Cyrus shot him a confused look.  Jonah grew flustered all of a sudden.  “It’s complicated,” he explained, voice hurried. 

“I don’t know where he went!” Buffy explained, clearly exasperated. “He ran off!  I tried to talk to him, but he looked really upset.”

Panic seized Cyrus, held him tight.  Everything was falling apart, slipping straight through his fingers. 

“Was it because you guys kissed?” Jonah asked, seemingly-innocent enough. 

Buffy grabbed Cyrus’s shoulders roughly and pulled him closer. “You kissed?” she all but shouted. 

This was too much, too fast.  Cyrus’s heart was pounding in his ears. 

He made T.J. leave. He made T.J. hate him.  Cyrus ruined everything, and for what?  For a kiss?  He would trade the whole world to take it all back. 

Cyrus tore away from his friends, racing away from the party, ignoring the panging in his side as he trailed down the sidewalk.  

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he slouched against a fence, trying to make himself as small as he felt on the patchy sidewalk.  Of course T.J. didn’t like him like that.  Cyrus was silly for ever thinking otherwise.  T.J. would never talk to him again, and Cyrus deserved it.  

T.J. was wrong. About taking risks, about dancing with danger, about being impulsive and brave and everything that Cyrus wasn’t. Because when you played it safe, when you stayed as far away from the edge of the cliff as possible, nothing could touch you. 

But Cyrus had ventured out, had swung on swing sets and stood up to bullies, had kissed a boy he thought that liked him back and thought wrong.  He had gone too far, had been sent flying over the edge.  Except now he couldn’t expect T.J. to catch him at the bottom and make sure everything was okay.

When did turning fourteen mean that you had to lose everything else?

Chapter Text

Love, as it turned out, was a cruel affair.

Well, if you could even call it that.  You know.  Love.  After all, what did Cyrus know?  

His weekend was spent in a silent grieving of the events that had unfolded that Saturday.  It was darkness present in little ways, these constant reminders of how dull and grey Cyrus felt.  It was the dying tips of the bouquet of flowers sitting next to the fruit basket, or the chip in his favorite coffee mug, the dark circles that were pressed underneath his eyes.  Always lingering, like it would never go away.

For the past few days, his only routine was dragging his feet from his bedroom, down the stairs, to the kitchen for food, and then back to his room again to hibernate under the covers.  The presents from his birthday party lay untouched in the corner of his bedroom.  

T.J. had yet to reply to his text messages.  At this point, Cyrus was convinced he never would.  

He had never hated himself as much as he did right now, like a lit match burning him from the inside out.  He deserved it, Cyrus thought.  He deserved the flames to lick up every last inch of him until there was nothing left, until there was nothing left at all.

He glanced at the alarm clock on his dresser through bleary eyes as it blinked back at him with the time.  6:32 AM.  Cyrus sighed, taking one of his blue pillows and burrowing his face into it, wanting to scream until his voice grew hoarse, until it went away completely.  Really, he was only delaying the inevitable.  He was bound to see T.J. at school.  After all, it wasn’t like he could avoid him; they did have detention together, including today.

Detention had been something that Cyrus had looked forward to ever since he became friends with T.J.  Now, all he felt was pure dread, spanning from the tips of his fingertips to his toes.  Cyrus hated those things that he couldn’t predict; it wasn’t like T.J. Kippen was the weather.  There was no guessing on what he would do or say once confronted with Cyrus that day.  That is, if he even wanted to see Cyrus at all. 

Cyrus forced himself out of bed, his feet hitting cold hardwood.  He shuffled over to the full length mirror propped up against his bathroom door, frowning into it.  His hair was mussed and tangled and his eyes were puffy, his lips bitten and chapped.  Had a truck run over him in his sleep?

Slowly but surely, Cyrus started to get ready for school, pulling on a shirt and pants without really examining if they went together (not really caring, either, if he was being honest.)  (What was the point if T.J. Kippen hated him?)

He stood back in front of the mirror, straightening the collar of his blue shirt with scattered, tiny white polka-dots.  He ran a hand through his hair until it flattened more to his liking.  Still, he looked awful.  Cyrus brought two fingers to his cracked lips.  T.J.'s face flashed in his mind, and the shocked way it looked when Cyrus tore his mouth away from his was burning into the edges of his brain.  His stomach rolled uneasily, like the sea pulling in its tide.

Plus, there was that matter of Jonah…liking him.  Why else would Jonah have that Ren Fair fortune in his jacket?  Cyrus’s life had quickly devolved into a soap opera, and a bad one at that. 

It wasn’t too late to drop out of school and move out of the country, was it?

The rest of the morning rolled by in a blur.  Cyrus only remembered flashes of things that had happened, like his untouched breakfast and orange juice, then climbing into the front seat of his mom’s van, walking blindly to his locker; he was sitting in his homeroom before he even knew it.

Cyrus kept his head to his desk the entire period.  T.J. hated him, he was sure of it.  Why wouldn’t he?  Cyrus kissed him, and T.J. didn’t like boys, not like how Cyrus wished he did.  He meant, why else would T.J. run away after they kissed and not come back?  Cyrus clearly ruined their friendship, all because he had spent the past month by reading into signs that weren’t there.  That were never there.  

Really, all this time he had just been deluding himself.

His first four periods passed by agonizingly slow.  He and T.J. didn’t share any classes, which was mostly a relief, but they still had detention after school.  It was a Monday, after all. 

It would just be the two of them.  Alone.  (Well, and Dr. Metcalf, but that didn’t soothe his nerves at all.)

It wasn't until lunchtime that it finally occurred to Cyrus that he and T.J. still shared the same lunch period.  Now he felt like Andi after she and Jonah had broken up, surveilling the cafeteria for any sign of T.J. or the basketball hoodie he so often wore.  His heart ached at the thought.

Buffy gave him a sad smile.  She squeezed his hand, and Cyrus wanted nothing more than to fall apart on her shoulder.  Buffy would gather all the pieces, though, put him back together.  That’s who Buffy was.

Cyrus had always thought he was like that.  He thought he was someone who could turn people into mosaics, could rearrange the pieces into something beautiful.  But it turned out he was wrong all this time.  Cyrus didn’t put things back together; he tore them apart.  

If there was an opposite of the Midas touch, Cyrus had that.  Instead of turning everything he touched to gold, Cyrus churned it to dust. 

“What’s up with you, Cyrus?” Andi asked, setting down her tray.  “It’s Walking Taco Day in the cafeteria, I thought you’d be excited!”

Cyrus forced himself to perk up for his best friend, ignoring the guilt pooling in his stomach.  He had sworn Buffy and Jonah to secrecy.  Andi didn’t need to know about his ‘T.J. problem’; after all, she and Jonah had barely been broken up a week and she was dealing with her own stuff.  Andi had so much stuff that it seemed bigger than the world sometimes, and definitely bigger than Cyrus.

“I am!” he protested.  He took a half-hearted bite for Andi’s sake, and she gave him an unsure smile.

“Where’s your other half, anyway?” She sat down, opening the lid of her strawberry milk.  

Cyrus spat out his food onto his tray, coughing.  Buffy patted him on the back, her eyebrows drawn together in concern.  She and Jonah shared a look.

“Psh, what other half?” Cyrus asked.  His eyes were everywhere but Andi.  “I have no idea who you’re talking about!”

And it was in that moment that he locked eyes with T.J. Kippen.  

The whole world was paused on its axis, simply hanging off stasis, hanging onto his every breath.  The events of Saturday night flashed in Cyrus’s head, rewinding and rolling back behind his eyelids like a VHS tape. 

T.J. tasted like lemon drops and holding hands in the rain and notes floating off of piano keys.  Kissing T.J. was like...like finding one of those rare patches of sunlight that sifted through the rifts of the clouds when the air was all dull and grey.  Was like a beam that ripped a seam through the sky, lighting up everything below. 

Cyrus couldn’t breathe.  He meant, how could you when your whole world was being torn apart right in front of you?  And it was all his fault.  Everything that had happened was his fault.

If only he’d never pulled the fire alarm that day.  Then he would’ve never met T.J., would’ve never gone and mucked up his life, and now T.J. wouldn’t hate him.  

T.J. wouldn’t…he wouldn’t even know him at all.  

The memory was ripped out of Cyrus’s mind as T.J. abruptly tore himself away, turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall.  

Normally Cyrus’s first instinct would be to get up from the table and run after T.J. and try to fix everything, because he simply couldn’t stand hurting people and them hating him for it, couldn’t stand that incomplete, aching wrongness of someone being upset with him.  But, for once, he let T.J. go.  Cyrus deserved this, after all.  Taking T.J.’s first kiss when T.J. was obviously straight, when he obviously only thought of Cyrus as a friend.  It was…it was unforgivable.  

Andi elbowed Cyrus from his left.  “Where’d T.J. go?  Why isn’t he sitting with us?”

Buffy stared at Cyrus with a sharp, urgent glance.  Marty looked as confused as Andi was.  And Jonah…Cyrus avoided looking at him altogether.  (Cyrus didn’t know if you could lead someone on simply by looking at them, but he sure wasn’t going to try and see!)

Cyrus bit a watery lip.  Shook his head at them in silent pleading.  Don’t say anything.  Not yet.  Not now.

Buffy stood up abruptly, huffing.  “Well, someone has to say something!” 

“Buffy,” Cyrus protested, voice shaky, “don’t—” 

Before he could even finish his sentence, Buffy was chasing after T.J.  Cyrus groaned, his head hitting the table.  He wished he could just disappear.  

“Say what?  What’s Buffy going to say?” Andi questioned, standing up.  The table greeted her with silence and, on Marty’s end, confusion.  “Hello?  What’s going on?  Cyrus?”

Her eyes landed on him, sharp and piercing and demanding.  Normally Cyrus would shrink underneath her gaze, but this time he didn’t have any energy.  Not enough motivation sticking behind it.

“Later,” Cyrus begged.  “I’ll explain everything later.  Please?”

Andi sighed.  She sat back down.  “Fine.  We can talk in Andi Shack after detention, okay?”

Cyrus nodded.  He didn’t trust his voice to not give out underneath him, didn’t trust it to hold up the weight of his words.  If he spoke, everything would simply slip through the cracks. 

Instead he leaned his head onto Andi’s shoulder, willing himself the little strength he had left not to cry. 

T.J., please answer me. -Cyrus

I’m so, so, so, so sorry.  I didn’t mean it! -Cyrus

I wish I could take everything back. -Cyrus

Will you ever talk to me again? -Cyrus

Read Monday, 2:57 AM

Oddly enough, the biggest joke this April Fools’ Day was T.J.

He meant, really.  How could he ever think that Cyrus would like him?  Could ever like someone like him?

That was the gag—one that T.J. was stupid enough to fall for.  Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Surprisingly, April Fools’ Day was T.J.’s favorite holiday.  Or, well, it used to be, that was.  With friends like Reed and Lester, the three of them were always coming up with ways to prank their classmates, teachers, teammates—you name it.   It wasn’t until this year that T.J. was clueless on what to do.  He meant, what was the point when you didn’t have anyone to pull pranks with?

Planning something spectacular and laughing with someone else about how you pulled it off was the fun part.  Laughing alone was cold, hollow—a voice in your chest that echoed until it ran bone dry.

T.J. stormed down the hallways, dodging shoulders as he flew past backpacks and propped-open lockers.  Somehow, with his fantastic luck, he was able to avoid Cyrus the first half of the day.  He had changed routes on his way to class in order to miss Cyrus’s locker and only used the bathroom after class had already started.  Still, he couldn’t help the anxious feeling rising on his skin; it would be hard to miss Cyrus and all their—no, Cyrus’s—friends at lunch.  Which was exactly where T.J. was heading right now.

He had half of a mind to ditch lunch and just raid the vending machines instead, but he saw a few guys from the basketball team crowded around them and quickly ducked into the cafeteria.  He wasn’t sure if Reed was with them, but it was better to be safe than sorry.  

God.  If he never talked to Reed again, it would still be too soon.  (At least, he thought he was using that phrase right.  That was one of those weird ones that people always got confused with, you know?  Like 'irony.'  Who really understood the meaning of that?)

T.J. went around the corner of the hallway, trying his best not to scan the room, but it was no use; his eyes immediately locked onto him.  

Cyrus.

His mind immediately flashed back to last Thursday:

Since their study session last week was a total failure thanks to Jonah and Andi’s dramatic breakup, Cyrus helped T.J. study again the next day for their upcoming math test. 

“T.J.,” Cyrus had said, tapping T.J.’s hand with his pen.  He left a slight blue smudge on the back of his knuckles.  “Are you listening to me?”

He hadn’t been.  He’d been staring at Cyrus’s mouth instead.

“Sorry,” T.J. said, shaking himself out of his reverie.  He refocused back onto Cyrus’s eyes.  “What were you saying?”

A grin split open across Cyrus’s face, the same way a crack formed in a geode.  One small break was a glimpse into all the treasures hiding underneath.  T.J. always wanted to pry beneath that smile, wanted to feel it against his own mouth, too.

And now he was staring at Cyrus’s lips again. Way to go, T.J.  

“I was saying how we should keep going over these formulas and the patterns of the equations,” Cyrus explained, that smile still on his face.  (They learned a new vocabulary word in English last week: effervescent.  That was the perfect name for Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus.)  T.J.’s heart skipped inside his chest like jump rope, going over and over and over and—

“Earth to T.J.?” Cyrus waved his hand in front of T.J.’s face.  

T.J. blinked.  “I’m listening,” he assured, grabbing his pen.  “Keep going.”

“Okay, well if we keep going over them repeatedly, I think you’ll understand them more.”

T.J. cocked his head to the side.  “Why’s that?”

“Well, it’s like how in dance class we have to do the same routine over and over again until we keep getting better at it and remember all the steps,” Cyrus explained.  “Well, I don’t really get better regardless because I’m, well, me, but still!  The point still stands.  Your brain has to know the material in order to build those neuropathways.  Once you know it by the back of your hand, then you can start to understand it.  Right?”

T.J. smiled.  He loved when Cyrus got in his ‘therapist mode.’  “Yeah, you’re right.  Got it.”

T.J. guessed that was what his brain had done with his feelings for Cyrus.  He was so used to looking for Cyrus in every room and wishing for him on every shooting star, so used to the tether that Cyrus strung him along that it was more instinct than something he had to think about these days.  It was something carved into the recesses of his brain, scratched into his very skin.

Cyrus’s innocent brown eyes glittered under the light, his dark eyebrows drawn together in worry.  

Everything flashed behind his eyes in quick pulses. 

Fountain.  Kiss.  Cyrus.  Jonah.  Swings.  

T.J. turned on his heel and sprinted back into the hallway.  His stomach spun like a merry-go-round. 

He couldn’t do this.  He couldn’t.  He couldn’t exist in the same space as Cyrus and act like everything was normal because it wasn’t normal.  It was like…like T.J. was standing upright in an upside down world.  Or maybe the opposite.  Maybe everything else was upright and T.J. was the one who was all wrong.  Messed up.  

The hallway was empty by the time he finally stopped running.  T.J. ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots.  He wanted to tear himself apart, thread by thread.  It didn’t even matter that he couldn’t go back to the cafeteria, because his appetite had completely vanished into thin air.  

Stupid.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.  T.J. should just drop out of school, or something.  How was he supposed to exist after kissing Cyrus Goodman?  How was he supposed to continue breathing after knowing what his lips felt like?

Cyrus was kissing him, slow and sweet and beautiful, tasted like sunshine and a little bit of that hope T.J. was always chasing after but could never quite find.  He saw stars and stars and stars. The clouds were pulling them up, up, up, away to a million other galaxies where it was only them, existing and not existing all at once.  Just T.J. and Cyrus, melting and searching and fitting together into this impossible, atom-splitting thing.  Where the sky wasn’t the sky and the ground wasn’t the ground, where nothing wasn’t anything at all. The world shrunk down to Cyrus’s hands, to Cyrus’s lips, to Cyrus, Cyrus, Cyrus.  T.J. wasn’t breathing, or maybe he was.  Maybe he was evaporating into the air under Cyrus’s hands.  If he was allowed to remember this moment, maybe he’d be okay with that.

T.J. wanted to throw up.  He was so pathetically, hopelessly head-over-heels for Cyrus.  It was so sickeningly mushy that his stomach ached.  He wished he’d never fallen so hard for him in the first place, because now it was etched into every surface of him and Cyrus didn’t really like him, not like that.  Because of…because of Jonah.  

He had thought that the swings were their thing.  But clearly it didn’t mean anything.  Not like T.J. thought it had. 

Did everything they’d ever shared mean nothing, then?

Before T.J. could get sucked into that black hole of a thought, the sound of footsteps caught up to him, echoing off the walls.

T.J. whirled around.  It felt like there was a bowling ball in his stomach.  “What do you want?”

He didn’t even know why she was here.  He meant, what was there even to talk about?

But it was Buffy.  T.J. guessed it didn’t matter; she always had her own reasons, whether they made sense to him or not. 

“You need to talk to him,” Buffy said, already taking charge of the conversation.  T.J. scoffed, looking away.  He didn’t have to do anything.  “I don’t know what happened, exactly, or why you’re not talking to Cyrus because he won’t tell me, but it’s killing him.”

No, it wasn’t killing just Cyrus.  

It was killing both of them.  

But it would kill T.J. even more to be near him.  Not right now.  Not after what happened.

After a beat, Buffy sighed.  Quieter, she added, “Listen, T.J., I know you like him—”

The world went blurry at the edges.  T.J.’s eyes started to prick.

“Then you should know why I’m not talking to him,” T.J. snapped, clenching his jaw.  He couldn’t bear to even look at her.  

I know you like him, I know you like him, I know you like him.

Not only that.  Maybe something more than like.  Maybe that was why it hurt so much.  

Before Buffy could get another word in, T.J. turned his back on her and made a mad dash for the library.  He ran as fast as his feet could take him, not stopping until he reached the back desk, far away from any prying eyes.  

Cyrus didn’t like him.  Cyrus just kissed T.J. out of…out of pity,  or something.  Kissed him because T.J. had never kissed anyone before, not before…not before Saturday.

There was an aching in his throat.  His nose started to sting.

T.J. clenched his jaw as hard as it could go.  He opened up his math textbook and ignored the stinging in his eyes.  

Don’t feel.

Don’t feel.

Don’t feel.

He took a deep breath, shaking the unsteadiness sitting in his shoulders.  He might as well do something productive instead of crying like a baby in the library.  His math test was in a few days, anyway, even though just thinking about it made him want to throw up.  Even though he was getting Cs and Bs on tests now, his anxiety about them still lingered.  After years and years of failing, T.J. guessed that was something that just…stuck.  

That was something T.J. wished he could scrape out of him.  There were a lot of things that he wished he could extract out of him.  Like…like the kind of person he was, who he liked.  T.J. would like to get rid of that part altogether. 

There was a sound of a chair squeaking across from him, then creaking as they sat down. T.J. looked up, chest tight, ready to bark at Buffy to go away, but, to his own surprise, the eyes staring back at him were green instead. 

“Jonah,” T.J. started carefully, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He didn’t do too great of a job. “What do you want?”

T.J. honestly wanted to be anywhere but there right then. 

“Look, I know about you and Cyrus,” Jonah said. “I’m not supposed to get involved, and I don’t really like to get involved in stuff like this, because it always gets me into trouble, as you’ve seen with Andi, so…here. I just wanted to give this back to you. I’ve been trying to since Ren Fair; I think you dropped when you and Buffy were jousting.”

Jonah slid a folded red card across the table, and T.J.’s heart began to pound outside of his chest. He hurried to grab it, unfolding it as fast as he could. The all too familiar works blinked back at him. 

Do I really have a crush on Cyrus?

T.J. swallowed against the lump in his throat.  Was this why Jonah had been looking at him weird for the past week or so?  Because he knew his secret?

“Does…does Cyrus know?  That I…,” he trailed off. 

Jonah shrugged. “I have no clue, man. Like I said, I’ve been trying to stay out of it. All I know is that Cyrus keeps saying he regrets that whole thing. You know, the thing that I saw at the party.”

T.J. looked down. Willed his eyes not to water. 

“He doesn’t have to worry,” T.J. said, clearing his throat.  The lump in it only grew bigger.  “I do, too.”

I’m sorry. 

I should’ve never—

I miss you so—

I’ve ruined everything—

It’s all my fault—

I never should have kissed you. I did it because I like you, like really, really like you, and I wish I could’ve committed every millisecond of that kiss to my brain because I know it’ll never happen again and it shouldn’t because you don’t like me and I don’t blame you and I was honestly deluding myself anyway—

Cyrus tore the page out of his notebook and crumpled it up, tossing it in the trash can near his desk along with all of his other failed attempts. 

What was the point, anyway?  T.J. was never going to talk to him again no matter what amends Cyrus tried to make.  This was something he couldn’t fix.  Not this time.  Cyrus deserved everything that happened.  All of it. 

He started on his normal trek to detention.  It had been over a month at this point, but it felt like that very first day all over again, only for a different reason this time.  What was he going to say to T.J.?   Should Cyrus even bother trying to pass T.J. a note?  Or should he leave him alone?  What if T.J. ignored him for the entire hour?

Cyrus walked into the detention room, heart leaping out of his body.  His eyes didn’t dare leave the clock.  Tik. Tok. Tik. Tok.  

It felt like hours, days, weeks, but in reality, it was only a few minutes before the door was jerked open. 

Dr. Metcalf walked in at 3 o’clock on the dot, swiftly shutting the door behind him.  He glanced at Cyrus before doing a double take.  He surveyed the rest of the room in suspicion. 

“Is your partner in crime coming? Or are you planning some kind of shenanigan for April Fools’ Day since it’s the last day of detention?” Dr. Metcalf raised an eyebrow. “Because if you are, I will make promise on my original threat—“

“No,” Cyrus quickly interrupted, swallowing thickly.  He stared down at the table in shame. “It’s…it’s nothing like that. I guess he’s just not coming. I’m sorry.”

Dr. Metcalf scoffed.  “Don’t be sorry, Cyrus. It’s T.J.’s responsibility to come to detention, not yours. It’s not your fault.”

If only you knew, Cyrus thought.  After all, if it weren’t for what Cyrus did, then T.J. would be here.  So, really, wasn’t it his fault?

Wasn’t everything?

Cyrus’s eyes started to blur, his eyelashes tacking together in clumps; his throat felt like it was stacked to the brim with pins and needles. 

No, he couldn’t cry.  He needed to pull himself together.  If not for himself, then at least for T.J.  T.J. still needed a proper apology from Cyrus, regardless of whether he decided to accept it or not. 

Honestly, T.J. probably wouldn’t—shouldn’t—but that wasn’t going to stop Cyrus from doing everything in his power to make sure T.J. knew how sorry he was. 

Cyrus opened his book bag to get a new piece of notebook paper. His heart plummeted to the floor when his eyes caught the colorful wrapping paper poking up between two of his textbooks. 

He’d completely forgotten about T.J.’s present from Saturday!  After all, hadn’t T.J. told him to wait?  Until he wasn’t there because he was embarrassed?

At the time, Cyrus had wondered what in the world there was for T.J. Kippen to be embarrassed about.  Now, he guessed he didn't have to wonder...

Curiosity getting the better of him, Cyrus retrieved the thin package from his backpack, carefully undoing the green-and-blue wrapping paper.  All air rushed out of his lungs. 

Cyrus’s feelings were often compared to the waves of the ocean in his therapy sessions with his stepmother.  If he were to describe what he was feeling right at that moment when he saw what T.J.’s present was, he would say that he was flooding the entire room.  Like his chest had split open and saltwater was pouring out of his every pore, out of every crevice. 

It was a kind of journal notebook with a textured green cover.  T.J. had drawn the moon and the stars, a swingset, a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, a basketball…Cyrus traced his fingers over each image carefully, trying to etch each curve into his brain. 

In the middle of the notebook cover read: The Notes We Write.  Was this…was this what Cyrus thought it was?

He cautiously opened the journal up to the first page, seeing the very first note they’d ever shared glued to the paper.  Doodles crowded the surrounding empty space.

So, do you hang out here a lot? -T.J.

Not so much.  Is it that obvious? -Cyrus

Cyrus smiled into the back of his hand, beaming so hard that his teeth left an imprint.  Little did they both know at the time how far a single note would take them. 

After Cyrus finished reading, he flipped to the next page.  He tried to stifle his gasp, but it was no use. 

There was a sketch of the two of them from Ren Fair.  Cyrus hovered over the page in recognition.  It was that one picture that Buffy took, where the two of them were looking at each other, smiling.  T.J.’s drawing was even better than the original; it was like…it was like he was able to capture the light of his own eyes, was able to pin it down to the page.  The light that probably only ever shone there when Cyrus was looking at T.J. 

Cyrus turned the page again, heart feeling full.  He savored every letter of every word. 

Do you think dancing is a sport? -Cyrus

Why wouldn’t it be? -T.J.

Reed doesn’t think it is! -Cyrus

Who cares what Reed thinks? -T.J.

I do. I can't help it!  Caring too much is my defining characteristic! -Cyrus

You’re the one who taught me not to care about what he thinks. Listen to your own advice, Underdog. -T.J., AKA your #1 Supporter

Thanks, Teej. You’re right! :) -Cyrus, AKA your Thankful Partner In Crime!

‘Course I am. Well, I’m usually not, but you get the point. -T.J.

You’re right more often than you think…speaking of being right, how did you do on your math test? -Cyrus

You’re not gonna believe this…a B-  :) -T.J.

I’m so proud of you!  We have to celebrate. The Spoon later? -Cyrus, AKA YOUR #1 Supporter

I’m there. -T.J.

Cyrus, I have a dentist appointment today so you probably won’t see me during lunch. -T.J.

Aww. :(  I’ll give you the science notes later…don’t have too much fun!

Oh yeah, I live for having my gums poked at. Definitely one of my favorite activities . -T.J.

At least you don’t have wooden teeth like George Washington! -Cyrus

I’ll count myself lucky. -T.J.

T.J., I have an important question. -Cyrus

What’s up? -T.J.

Is water wet? -Cyrus

Is that seriously what you think about during your English class? -T.J.

I just want to know if you have the correct opinion or the absolutely outrageous one like Buffy! -Cyrus, AKA Boy Who Is Dying To Know 

Obviously water is wet, Cyrus. -T.J.

How dare you…I thought we were friends…and you betray me like this! -Cyrus, AKA Boy Who Is Disappointed

If I get you a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, can you forget about this conversation? -T.J.

Maybe…but only if you get me the kind with chocolate sprinkles! -Cyrus, AKA Boy Who Is Suddenly Hungry

Anything for you, Underdog. And anything for you to never ask me again if water is wet again. :) -T.J.

Cyrus let out a watery laugh; a tear rolled down his cheek and onto the page.  How had T.J. even managed to pull something like this off?  He meant, some of the notes were ones that Cyrus had saved of his own.  Had T.J. broken into his locker to make this?  How else would he have gotten them?

Everything about T.J. Kippen seemed so impossible.  Even now, when T.J. probably hated Cyrus with every fiber of his being, Cyrus was still so…amazed by him. 

How could he have—even for a second —thought it was okay to risk everything they had for a kiss?  (Sure, it was an incredible kiss, like, the kiss to end all other kisses, but still!  How could Cyrus have been so selfish!)  T.J. was worth more than that.  He deserved more than that. 

He deserved more than someone like Cyrus. 

Cyrus frowned to himself, going to turn to the next page, but he noticed something thick sticking out of the back pages.  He went to flip to the pages it was stuck in between, but it was ripped out of his hands before he could reach it. 

“Ah!” Cyrus yelped, nearly stumbling out of his seat. 

Dr. Metcalf towered over him, thumbing through the pages. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, what do we have here?”

“Hey!” Cyrus protested, but it was quickly stifled by a sharp look from his principal.  He went completely rigid, heart racing.  

“Thanks, Cyrus, this is exactly the kind of proof I needed!” He snapped the notebook shut, and Cyrus’s chest screamed at him to say something.  Silence weighed heavy on his tongue. “I knew you two were sending each other notes during detention, which was, yet again, a clear disregard for the rules. I’ll be confiscating this.”

There was a ringing in Cyrus’s ears.  Confiscate?  That sounded so… official!  When would he get it back?  How was this even legal!

“But—!”

Dr. Metcalf steamrolled over him, waving a familiar looking piece of paper in Cyrus’s face.  It fluttered to the surface of his desk. 

“Maybe next time don’t leave incriminating evidence at the scene of the crime, huh?” Cyrus watched painstakingly as Dr. Metcalf waltzed back to his desk, locking the notebook up in the bottom right drawer.  He wanted to cry. “Looks like it’s happy April Fools’ Day for me,” Dr. Metcalf chuckled to himself, taking a sip out of his mug.  (Did Dr. Metcalf actually think they were criminals?)

Cyrus cautiously picked up the paper from his desk.  Huh.  It was a page of notes from detention last Friday.  Had T.J. left that there?  Cyrus remembered passing it back to T.J., so he was the one who must’ve forgotten it, right?

More importantly, there was another line at the bottom of the note that Cyrus didn’t remember seeing. 

You’re my favorite everything, Underdog. -T.J.

Cyrus’s heart was a speedometer, going up, up, up.  Did that mean…no, no, of course not.  T.J. made that abundantly clear; there was absolutely zero chance that T.J. liked him.  No matter how much Cyrus wished the opposite were true. 

He slumped his head down, trying to ignore the dark rain clouds swimming in his head.  Honestly, Cyrus would be surprised if T.J. ever wanted to see him ever again.  Cyrus would do everyone a favor if he simply just vanished off of the face of the planet.

Maybe it was a good thing to end things with T.J. now, before they could go on any farther.  One less thing for Cyrus to destroy, right?

T.J. put the keys of the golf cart into the ignition. 

Normally this would be one of T.J.’s infamous April Fools’ Day pranks.  Stealing Coach Bag’s golf cart?  Classic.  

But T.J.’s intent behind taking it was entirely different.  This time, he just wanted to escape.

The swings used to do that for him, but even the thought made his stomach twist into a knot.  Not after Saturday; he couldn't look at them the same right now.

He should have been at detention right now.  3 o’clock on a Monday was strictly reserved for room 34, was reserved for passing notes and feeling like the weight of the world was taken off his shoulders for that one singular hour of the day. 

Or maybe it wasn’t detention that made him feel that way; maybe it was the fact that he was with Cyrus. 

T.J. started the engine and shifted the gear, pressing down the gas pedal and racing across the field.  The wind coursed through his hair until it was knocked loose and free, and T.J. felt himself crack a small smile for the first time in 72 hours. 

He made his way to the front of the school, driving around the circle bends, and suddenly he felt a sinking feeling seep through him like a sponge.  This was supposed to distract him from his 'Cyrus Problem,' but the unfulfilled seat on his right did anything but—it was too glaring to ignore.  Even though he and Cyrus weren’t talking, hadn’t since Saturday, T.J. couldn’t do anything to take his mind off of Cyrus. 

T.J. went to turn the wheel to go around the next bend, but he suddenly slammed on the brakes as a startling figure appeared out of thin air.  His ribs pressed against the horn, crashing forward against the wheel. 

“Finally!" Reed exclaimed sarcastically, arms stretched out wide. "There’s my rideshare.”  

T.J. wanted to slam his head through the glass.  Great, because that was exactly what T.J. needed today: Reed, the menace of his life!  Of course!  Because why wouldn’t he show up right now?  He was quickly turning into the bane of T.J.’s existence. 

“What do you want, Reed?” T.J. asked flatly.  Reed felt like this little villain always lurking in the shadows.  Not at all like the best friend T.J. used to know.  Or, thought he knew.  Maybe Reed was never the friend T.J. thought he was, or maybe T.J. did a really good job deluding himself otherwise. 

“What do I want?  Oh, nothing.  It’s what you want.”  Reed inched closer.  T.J. rolled his eyes, shaking his head.  Oh, great, Reed wasn’t making sense.  As usual. 

“What are you on about?” T.J. was not going to entertain him in the slightest.  For a second, T.J. considered letting his foot off the brake.  That would be the best April Fools' prank of all.  (Relax, he was joking.  Mostly.)

“I mean, I noticed that you weren’t sitting with the dweeb today.  Ready to come back to me and Lester?

T.J. scoffed.  “What, keeping tabs on me?” he snarked. 

Reed laughed through his nose, amused.    “Come on, man.  Let’s just end this.  Just pick already.”

“What?” T.J.’s eyebrows drew together.  “Pick?”

Reed blew the hair out of his eyes, leaning against the hood of the golf cart.  “Yeah, dude.  Me or Cyrus.  Pick.”

A strange feeling unfolded in T.J.’s chest. 

“Cyrus wouldn’t make me pick,” T.J. said, voice faltering.  He shook his head, clearing his throat.  “Dude, why are you so obsessed with me and Cyrus anyway?  Just leave us alone.”

Reed rolled his eyes.  “I’m not obsessed, alright?  I just don’t understand—“

“I don’t need you to understand.” T.J. spat.  ”Besides, even if me and Cyrus aren’t talking right now, he’s still a better friend than you ever were.”

Reed’s smug smile rolled off his face.  He stumbled back slightly in surprise. 

Even though Cyrus didn’t mean their kiss—would rather kiss Jonah Beck—he was still the most kind, caring, beautiful person that T.J. had ever known.  And maybe that was why this was so painful.  It was like…seeing light for the first time after spending your entire life in the dark, only for the light to disappear through the cracks of your fingers, lost to the abyss yet again. 

T.J. eased up on the brake, starting to turn the wheel away from all this, away from Reed and all his problems.  Geez, and T.J. thought he had stuff. 

“You’ll regret saying that,” Reed called out from behind him.  His voice sounded tinny and far away as T.J. sped past him. 

“Sure I will!” T.J. called back, smirking sarcastically. 

Little did he know how much Reed actually meant that threat…

“Spill,” Andi demanded the second Cyrus stepped through the door of Andi Shack. 

She and Buffy were sitting side-by-side on Andi’s bed, clearly waiting on him to finish detention.  As soon as his eyes fell on the two of them, his best friends in the whole entire world, the dam he’d been holding together with his hands suddenly burst. 

“I kissed T.J.,” he blurted out, tears streaming down his face.  Andi’s eyebrows raised in shock, and Buffy scooted over, patting the space in between her and Andi.  He immediately sank in between them.  “I kissed T.J. and now everything is ruined.”

Buffy squeezed his shoulder in comfort.  Andi grabbed his hand. 

“Tell me everything,” she said. 

So he did. 

“And then Jonah appeared out of nowhere, and he was having a panic attack, so I told T.J. to go find my dad, and…he just evaporated.”  Cyrus chose not to mention the next part, about how he found that fortune in Jonah’s jacket. 

Do I really have a crush on Cyrus?

It was still so hard to believe.  Jonah Beck liking Cyrus .  Even harder to believe was that Cyrus wished that Jonah didn’t feel that way. 

Still, something about that note nagged at the back of his brain.  There was something so familiar about it.  Had Jonah’s handwriting always looked like that?  Cyrus couldn’t remember. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a misunderstanding?“ Andi asked. “Maybe he got scared of his own feelings and ran off.  I mean, that would be on brand for T.J., wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Cyrus sniffled; he refused to lie to himself anymore. It was time to face the hard undeniable truth that T.J. just didn’t like him.  Not like that.  “I think…I mean, I think I’d know what that looks like, you know?  When I first realized that I liked Jonah, I was—“

“Wait, you liked Jonah?” Andi interrupted, pulling away suddenly.  Oh, no.  What had he done?  “As in, Jonah Beck?”

Cyrus and Buffy shared a glance. 

“Um,” Cyrus started.

“Well,” Buffy said. 

Andi’s eyes shot over to Buffy.  “Did you know?”

Buffy looked over at Cyrus, hesitant, silently looking for permission.  He nodded, biting his lip. 

“Yeah,” she said, sighing. “Look, we just—“

“—couldn’t tell you!” Cyrus finished. “I realized right before you and Jonah got together and it was just…never the right timing after.  But I don’t even like him anymore!” he hurried to add. 

If only Jonah felt the same, he thought guiltily. 

“You don’t?” Buffy asked, surprised.  “Since when?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus sighed into his hands.  “Since T.J.?  Anyway, all I know is that I am one-hundred percent over him—“

“Cyrus!” Andi interrupted again. “It’s okay!  Even if you did still like Jonah. I just wish I knew. I can't believe I’ve been so oblivious this whole time to your feelings. I feel like—“

“Jonah,” all three of them chorused.  They all shared a watery laugh.

Andi grabbed his hand again.  “Boys are so hard, aren’t they?”

“That’s the thing,” Cyrus said, wiping his cheeks with his free hand.  “T.J. never was. I mean, we’ve had to go through some stuff, like his learning disability and Reed, but…it was all worth it. Every second.”  Cyrus paused, realizing how true that was.  He wouldn’t trade the time he had with T.J. for anything.  Even if it all had just ended.  “T.J. made me this book for my birthday.  It was filled with all of our notes, the ones we passed during detention or put in each other’s lockers…he saved everything.”

Buffy and Andi shared a knowing look. 

“I think it’s safe to say that T.J.’s in looove with you,” Buffy teased, tickling Cyrus. 

He smiled sadly, swatting her hands away. 

“He hates me—“

“He doesn’t!” Buffy insisted. “When I chased him down at lunch today, and he didn’t seem angry or disgusted.  He’s hurt.  And he definitely doesn’t hate you.”

Cyrus shook his head.  There was nothing either of them could say to change his mind; the way T.J. looked at him at lunch today…his stomach roiled.  T.J. wanted nothing to do with him.  Cyrus couldn’t even blame him. 

“How can you even know that, Buffy?” Cyrus pressed. 

Buffy bit her lip.  Her eyes shifted to the side, looking anywhere but at Cyrus.  Almost like she was hiding something. 

But what would Buffy even have to hide?

“Just trust me.  It’s impossible to hate you, Cyrus.”

“Agreed!” Andi chimed in.  “Who could hate you and your 'tater theater?'”

Cyrus smiled. “Thanks, guys.”  He flopped onto his back, bouncing against the bed springs. “Can we just eat ice cream and binge watch reality TV?”

“Takeout from The Spoon?” Andi suggested. 

“Cupcake Wars?” Buffy asked. 

Cyrus cracked the smallest smile. “You guys know me too well.

T.J. was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling.  Today had been weird to say the least.  Especially his conversation with Reed.  He meant, what even was that?

Pick.  What did that even mean?  And why did Reed care that much, anyway?  

Even now, T.J. still knew who he’d pick.  It was painfully obvious. 

He sighed, turning onto his side.  He was pathetic.  All day he had been avoiding seeing Cyrus, and yet a part of him still yearned to see his eyebrows quirk, to see his lips purse in thought.  No matter what T.J. did, he wanted to hide from Cyrus or hide away from the rest of the world with Cyrus. 

Even if T.J. did answer Cyrus’s texts, their friendship probably wouldn’t be the same.  At this point, Cyrus should have read T.J.’s letter.  The one confessing all of his feelings, pretty much every gay thought he’d ever had about Cyrus. 

Because that’s what T.J. was.  Gay.  No matter how you spun it, that was the only conclusion there was.  The only conclusion that even existed for T.J., the only thing that even made sense. 

Unless straight guys tended to think about kissing their best friends 24/7.  Then maybe T.J. was in luck after all. 

T.J. opened up his phone, going straight to his messages with Cyrus.  He reread his texts from that weekend, over and over until he could recite them from memory, until they were burned into his brain. 

Seeing Cyrus made him fall apart and yet not seeing Cyrus made him crumble to rubble.  T.J. would rather have all of his teeth pulled than have to endure this any longer. 

Impulsively, he opened Cyrus’s contact information.  His brain went blank, ears ringing, and before he could overthink it, his thumb was pressing the call button. 

Before T.J. could even gather his thoughts and sanity and hang up, the call was picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?” the voice was groggy, but urgent.  

T.J. listened, trying to unravel every meaning of every stressed syllable.  His heartbeat was pounding in his ears.

“T.J.?  Are you there?”

Everything in him screamed for him to say, 'Yes, I’m here.  I’ll always be here.’  He didn’t say a single word; his throat ached, eyes stinging. 

“Teej, I am so sor—“

Click. 

T.J.’s pulse was hammering a mile a minute.  Stupid.  What was he even thinking?  Why would he just call out of the blue like that, especially this late?  Hanging up like that, even with the present circumstances, seemed especially cruel. 

The truth was, he just wanted to hear Cyrus’s voice.  But it was too much. 

Still, T.J. couldn’t bring himself to call Cyrus back.  He just wanted to disappear and never come back. 

T.J. went back to his messaging app, seeing three dots appear under his and Cyrus’s conversation, then disappear.  T.J. sighed, throwing his arm over his eyes. 

Cyrus Goodman had always felt so out of reach.  He was something T.J. could see but couldn’t ever touch, something always kept behind glass.  Now that T.J. had touched Cyrus, now that he knew what Cyrus’s voice sounded like up close instead of far away and how his eyes shone in just the right light, it was impossible to go back to normal.  Impossible to be normal. 

T.J. turned off his phone and placed it on his bedside table, closing his eyes.  On the other side of town was a boy who felt the same way, wondering how the world could keep on revolving without him and T.J. Kippen at the center.