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Everyone knows of the Great Rivalry.
At least, everyone at Avalanche High does. It’s one of the first things freshmen are filled in on. These are the edible meals from the cafeteria, these are the bathrooms not to go into if you don’t want a contact high, and also, if you ever want to stop Mr. Barrie’s Chem class for ten minutes, ask him about the time Mr. Landeskog stole all his pens. That will get you at least ten minutes of ranting about humanities teachers who think they’re too good for logic and rationality and like to nitpick other people’s grammar and the time it takes to grade and fashion choices and who definitely think they’re better than everyone else just because they happen to be good at everything. He might go a bit into his perfect hair, but take takes a particularly windswept day.
Of course, if you want to delay Mr. Landeskog’s class, you can ask about the time Mr. Barrie put a stink bomb in his classroom so he had to have class outside all day. He can’t prove it was Mr. Barrie and his homeroom, but that won’t stop him snapping about it and ridiculous science teachers who don’t understand nuance and purposefully misinterpret everything and never take things seriously. If you catch him at the right moment, and ask about Mr. Barrie’s habit of bringing in cookies for his classes, Mr. Landeskog might skip a beat, but it usually won’t get you a longer rant, so it’s not useful.
This is the Great Rivalry. This is Avalanche High’s favorite drama. (This is Nathan Mackinnon’s, long-suffering Phys Ed teacher, greatest bane).
Tyson definitely really does hate Gabe. He tells Nate that, over and over again. Partly because he doesn’t trust that anyone can actually be that hot and smart and good a teacher and so loved by the kids and look so good in the shorts he wears when he’s coaching field hockey. He has to be faking all of that. Tyson is sure he is, in fact, because the polite, charming face he puts on around literally everyone else somehow always falls with Tyson.
“Maybe because you’re mean to him too?” Nate suggests, as they sit in the teacher’s lounge eating the brownies Tyson brought in because it was easier to bake than to grade.
Tyson glances over to the table wear Gabe is sitting with some of the other humanities teachers, laughing loudly. “I’m not mean.” Nate raises an eyebrow. “I’m not meaner to him than anyone else,” Tyson amends, because fine, he can be sarcastic, what the fuck ever. Nate’s eyebrow stays up.
Because Tyson doesn’t want to see that judgy eyebrow (Nate really shouldn’t through stones if he’s living in the mean house too), he looks around again, somehow settles on where Gabe is. Gabe’s not laughing anymore, and somehow he looks over at the same time, catches Tyson’s eye. He raises his eyebrows, all dripping condescension. Tyson makes a face back.
“You only prank him.”
“I do not—”
“So, Tyson. I hear your kids are going to Science Olympiad this year.” Tyson doesn’t need to know who’s standing there, because he recognizes the voice, the tone, and also the trim torso, but he looks up anyway. Gabe’s standing there, looking down his aristocratic nose at Tyson. “First time?”
Tyson flushes. He’s proud of his kids for that, it’s a pretty new program and they’ve all been working their asses off. Gabe doesn’t need to say it like that, like he let them down because they didn’t get qualify before. “Yes,” he retorts, trying and probably failing to let that show on his face. “How’s the field hockey team doing?”
It’s a low blow because they all know that it was a pretty devastating loss last week, and one of Tyson’s Olympiad team is on the field hockey team and she’d been in literal tears when they lost, and Tyson had just been getting ready to go over to the bench to maybe say something when Gabe had found her and talked to her until she sniffled and smiled a little. But still. Gabe shouldn’t insult Tyson’s team if he’s not ready to be insulted.
Gabe clearly isn’t ready to be insulted, because he flushes a dull red. “We’re rallying,” he replies, cooly, and reaches down for one of the brownies on the table. Tyson grabs the brownies away.
“These are for people who don’t give my team shit,” he tells Gabe. “No cookies until you can recite the quadratic formula.”
“Then why does Nate get them?” Gabe asks, and Nate makes an offended noise but doesn’t disagree. Gabe grins at Nate, easy and handsome in a way he never is with Tyson.
“That’s the Dogg exception,” Tyson says, and Gabe turns back to Tyson, that smile freezing on his face. It’s fine. Tyson doesn’t care that Gabe never looks at Tyson like that. “It’s a narrow one.”
“Sure it is,” Gabe agrees. He knocks on the table, which should be lame except he somehow manages to pull it off, then heads out of the teacher’s lounge with a wave to Nate. Nate turns to Tyson.
Tyson gestures wildly. “See!”
Nate’s eye roll is probably a risk to his health. “Oh, I see.”
(The first time Tyson talks to Gabe, Tyson really was trying to be friendly. They were both new, or so Tyson guessed given that everyone was giving him the ‘hi new kid’ handshake, and Tyson was excited and nervous and wanted to make friends, especially with the hottest guy he’d ever seen. They’d been milling around before the first teacher’s meeting, and Tyson had gone over to Gabe, and held out the Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies he’d made to bribe everyone into liking him. “Cookie?” He’d said.
Gabe had turned around, and he’d given Tyson a look like—it was the look he still gave Tyson, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there. “I don’t eat cookies,” he’d replied, all snooty, and Tyson had still been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Seriously, bud?” He’d asked, still smiling so it was clear it was a joke. “How do you survive without a sugar fix? It’s like, my drug. Well, and caffeine, but that doesn’t count.” Gabe still didn’t say anything, so of course Tyson was going to keep talking. “I mean, I can see you don’t eat much sugar, or you’d have to be working out like, an insane amount to look like that, which you clearly do, but not like, as much as you would if you ate as much chocolate as me.”
“Is the sugar why you talk so much?” Gabe had replied, and like, Tyson got it, okay? He knew he talked too much, especially when he was nervous, and said stupid shit and he was trying. Gabe didn’t need to jump down his throat for it.
Tyson had swallowed, and then, “Fine, I’ll go give the sugars to someone who deserves it,” he’d retorted, trying to save face. He left before Gabe could say anything else. But he’d seen Gabe eat a cookie later, in the teacher’s lounge, so. He got the message. And it was on.)
Gabe really does hate Tyson. He tells EJ that, and sometimes Nate, and sometimes Mikko. Often his sister. Generally, anyone who will listen.
“Okay, yeah, but you don’t,” EJ informs him. EJ, Gabe thinks, probably has a class to teach, but is instead sitting on Gabe’s desk as Gabe tries to prep for his next class.
“He planted a stink—“
“Have you ever tried being nice to him? Then he might be nice to you.” EJ waggles his eyebrows obnoxiously on the word nice. Gabe is an adult and thus doesn’t blush.
“I’ve tried,” he says, very dignified. “He takes everything I say the wrong way. It’s like he’s willfully misunderstanding me. Yes,” He goes on, before EJ can say what Gabe knows he was going to say, “I heard it, I know, but this is not Pride and Prejudice.”
“But you’d make such a good Darcy,” EJ retorts. “And you want it to be. You can carry him off to your manor and have sex on every surface and to the lake swim thing so he can gape at you as you get out and—“
“I don’t want any of that,” Gabe snaps. He’s only like. 25% lying. “He’s so annoying and so touchy and I don’t—“
“Wow, say what you really feel,” comes a voice from the doorway, and Gabe resists hitting his head to the desk by the skin of his teeth. Every time. Every single time. He just can’t seem to say anything right around Tyson.
“What are you doing here?” He asks. This is the humanities wing of the building, Tyson usually sticks to his lab. Except this time Tyson is standing in his doorway, his arms crossed over his chest in that way that Gabe can’t quite look away from, and scowling. As he usually is, looking at Gabe.
“I was going to find Colin to see if he was coming to drinks tonight. But I guess I’m not wanted around here.” He snorts. “Good. Too many books here anyway.” He smiles, but it’s not the one he gives everyone else, that bright, open thing. “I think I’m allergic.”
“You can’t be allergic to books,” Gabe points out.
“Because you’re the expert on allergies? Did you go out and get an MD along the way?” Tyson asks, snorting.
“And you are the expert?” Gabe retorts. Tyson always does this, pokes at him until it gets Gabe’s back up and he has to snipe back, even if he hadn’t meant to at the beginning. Even though he never means too, at the beginning. At least when he’s irritated he actually knows what he’s saying, though.
“I’m closer than you, I took some bio classes,” Tyson informs him, and looks ready to say more, but then the bell rings, and he glances over his shoulder at the hallways that will be filled with students soon. “I’ll see you later,” he tells EJ. He doesn’t look at Gabe when he leaves.
“See?” Gabe demands of EJ.
EJ smirks. “Oh, I see,” he says, and then yelps as Gabe smacks his arm.
(The first time Gabe talked to Tyson, Gabe meant to be friendly. He had been so, so nervous, and trying not to show it—waiting for the questions about why a non-native speaker was teaching English, wanting to impress everyone, wanting to be liked—and then he’d heard “Cookie?” And turned around, and—
Gabe’s smooth, usually. Often. But there was something about his nerves already, and that big smile and the glint in those brown eyes and the way his shirt hugged the muscles of his arms and Gabe had not been expecting it, the sudden hit of attraction. And…he wasn’t always good, with things he didn’t expect. So he’d stammered something about not eating cookies, because it was the first words his brain put together, and, well. It all went downhill from there.
But if Tyson wanted to bring it. Gabe was going to bring it back.)
So everything’s good and they’re only minorly driving Nate crazy and entertaining EJ to no end, and then it’s someone’s brilliant idea to assign them to spearhead the baking sale. (EJ. Tyson is definitely blaming EJ. On principle, and also because he’d utterly failed at keeping it together when Bednar announced it at the staff meeting).
(“But it’s perfect!” Nate says, looking very innocent. “You love to bake and he’s good at the organizational shit.” So maybe Tyson blames Nate too.)
So they have to work together, it seems like, because Tyson’s definitely not going to let their bake sale raise less money than Calgary High, because fuck that shit. So once Gabe stops sneering at him long enough to actually set up a time to meet after school, Tyson really does do his homework. He’s not going to let Gabe show him up either.
Gabe does not show him up, but he does show up to their meeting—at the coffee shop down the street from the school because it’s after school hours and also Tyson’s classroom smelled a little suspicious from a mix up and he wanted to let it air out before he spent a significant amount of time there again—with a to do list. And a chart.
“Wow,” Tyson drawls, when Gabe lays the to do list on the table. “Really leaning into the whole teachers are just nerds who grew up thing, eh?”
“No one says that,” Gabe retorts, rolling his eyes. “And you’re a teacher too.”
Tyson waves a hand. He doesn’t see how either of those things matter. “Yeah, but I’m a cool teacher.” Gabe snorts. “You think you’re cooler than me?”
Gabe raises an eyebrow. He looks, fine, very cool doing it. But that’s just because anyone with that jawline and that hair and those eyes would look cool. It’s not like, inherent to him. Tyson is cool despite genetics that gave him unruly hair and barely average height and a predilection for babbling. Gabe’s only cool because of genetics.
“Okay, let’s get down to business, defeat the huns and all that,” Tyson says, grabbing the paper. He ignores Gabe’s snort, and glances at it. It’s, fine, a lot of useful things, like figuring out the budget and getting volunteers and coordinating parents. Tyson would have thought of all of it. Definitely. “Okay, but where’s the baking?”
“We’re organizing, we don’t have to contribute,” Gabe replies, like that’s obvious and Tyson should have known it. Which, thanks. Tyson does actually get the distinction. But,
“Yeah, we’re not going to get any teacher to contribute if we don’t,” Tyson informs him. Maybe Gabe should know that. “Like, there’s no way to passive aggressively guilt them into it if we don’t do it too.”
“Maybe they’ll contribute without the guilt,” Gabe says, but Tyson doesn’t both to pretend he doesn’t crack up at that, and Gabe waits a beat, then he starts chuckling too. “Okay, fine, yeah. But I don’t really bake.”
“I’m not doing the baking for both of us,” Tyson warns. He’s not going to be that person in the group project, because fuck that shit.
“You like to bake.”
“Yeah, but not to do other people’s work,” Tyson shoots back. Gabe shakes his head.
“I didn’t—I just…probably shouldn’t bake,” he admits, looking a little shame-faced and a little irritated he has to admit it. Tyson’s not not into the look. “It doesn’t end well or edibly for anyone.”
“You aren’t getting out of it for something like that,” Tyson decides. He is not caving on this.
“So you’d rather poison our students?”
“It can’t be—“
“Ask EJ,” Gabe interrupts, with a dire look on his face. It’s the look of a man who’s Seen Things. Tyson thinks a lot of things about Gabe, but he doesn’t think Gabe could fake that.
But he can’t just give in. That would be, well. Giving in. So, “Fine, we’ll bake together. But I’m still not doing everything, you’re going to contribute,” he warns, and Gabe opens his mouth, then closes it again, then opens it. “I know, it’ll be tough to handle each other for that long, but it’s for the kids, Gabriel. Think of the children.”
“Um. Yeah.” Gabe swallows. He must really be dreading it. “If it means you’ll actually pull your organizational weight—”
“Sorry some of us don’t need to color code our flashcards,” Tyson rolls his eyes. He’s not going to let Gabe mess this up. He reads the first article off the to do list. “Okay, budget. All of it to chocolate. Next.” Gabe snorts, like that’s stupid, which, duh. “That was a joke, I didn’t actually mean—“
“I know,” Gabe snaps back. “That’s why I laughed.”
Tyson’s mouth snaps around his next retort. “Oh,” is all he can come up with. Which Gabe takes as a cue to start talking about his budget ideas, which definitely lean too hard into Principal Bednar’s admonition to try to keep it under cost. Tyson can definitely fix that.
Gabe is not saying that maybe EJ was right and if he’d just powered through earlier, everything would have been better. He’s definitely not saying that, on principle if nothing else. But—well. It does get easier, the more time he and Tyson are forced to spend together for the bake sale. It’s hard to mess up everything you say to someone when you actually have to have real conversations. He’s definitely made real jokes, not just said something sharp to make up for the fact that he doesn’t know what to say.
And he thinks—well, Tyson actually smiled at things he said a few times. Maybe it’s hard to misinterpret everything Gabe says when you have a real conversation too.
Or maybe Gabe just looks ridiculous, with flour in his hair and probably some dough on his face and definitely looking like he has no idea what he’s doing. Probably because he doesn’t.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding,” Tyson says, and mercifully takes the whisk away from Gabe. “You really suck at this.”
“No, I just joke about murdering children for fun,” Gabe retorts. He’s maybe pouting a little. He hates looking stupid, and he knows he does now. It’s especially bad in front of Tyson, who will definitely make fun of him for it.
“Look, we don’t yuck anyone’s yums in this house unless I need to report you to the police,” Tyson says, and Gabe chuckles, despite himself. Tyson’s smile flashes, sudden and surprised, and then he ducks his head to go back to whisking. This is the Tyson Gabe’s seen before with other people, quick with a joke and a smile, cutting but not mean-spirited. And, somehow, looking cute with the flour on his nose. And very competent. “Now get back, I think you might set off some electronics if you stay here.”
“I’m not radioactive,” Gabe retorts, but he scoots back to the island so he can watch Tyson bake. It’s safer for all concerned, probably.
“How are you so good at this?” Gabe asks. He’s had Tyson’s baked goods before, generally when Tyson’s not looking so he can’t snatch them away.
“It’s a better addiction than booze or weed,” Tyson says, half-laughing. Gabe rolls his eyes at Tyson’s back, but doesn’t say anything. “Nah, I just—I don’t know, as a kid, whenever I was bummed or whatever, my mom would have me help her bake. It made me feel like I was good at something, you know? And bonus, sweets at the end.” He sets down the bowl, then reaches over to pour what looks like an arbitrary amount of chocolate chips in.
“Then why didn’t you open a bakery or something?”
Tyosn snorts. “Come on, me, run a business? That’s not for me. I’d have to be able to find my head to do that.” The way he says it, it sounds like he’s quoting someone. It also sounds like he believes it.
Gabe must make a sound, because Tyson turns around, looking at him. “What? You know it’s true,” he says, and his lips twist, just a little. “You say it enough.”
“That’s not—“ He hadn’t known it had hit a nerve, Gabe doesn’t know how to say. He hadn’t known that Tyson actually believed it.
“It’s okay, I’ve got other skills. Like making sick baked goods. And, you know, teaching kids. Chem’s just advanced baking you can’t eat. Well, shouldn’t eat.” Tyson reaches for some Saran Wrap in a cabinet. Gabe takes the opportunity to reach in and grab some dough.
“Hey! No touching.” Tyson spins, glares. “If you’re going to eat cookie dough, use a spoon. And wait till I add the Nutella, that’s when it gets really good.”
Gabe shrugs. “It’s really good now.” He tries to put his words together, make sure they can’t be misunderstood. That he’s not accidentally poking sore spots. “I’d buy it, if you had decided to go that route.”
Tyson glances away, his cheeks stained red. “I thought you didn’t like my baking,” Tyson says, all in a rush.
“What?”
Tyson looks back up at Gabe, rolls his eyes. “You don’t eat cookies, remember?”
“What are you talking about, Tyson?”
Tyson covers the bowl carefully. “Never mind. Nothing.”
“Tyson—“
“So I think I have a task you can manage,” Tyson interrupts, loudly. “Can you put this in the fridge? I cleared a space and everything. I know it’ll really be taxing you, but I have faith.”
“Wow, thanks,” Gabe drawls, and lets it go.
Tyson’s just finishing up his junior lab when he hears the door open. He’d generally ignore it—these aren’t the kids he’s worried about sneaking out or whatever, these are his AP kids—but then the whispers start, spreading from the door closer to the front. He is, in the end, unsurprised to see Gabe standing near the door, looking a little sheepish and of course, unnecessarily attractive.
“Hold on a sec, then we’ll get to the good stuff,” he tells everyone, then goes over to Gabe. The whispers definitely follow him. It’s not like he doesn’t know what the kids say about him and Gabe; they’re definitely all waiting for something to blow up. Well, something other than the experiment he’d been setting up. “What’s up?”
“Sorry, I thought you’d be done with class.”
Tyson glances at the clock, and, yep, oh shit. He hadn’t heard the bell. “Shit,” he mutters, too quietly for anyone other than Gabe to hear, then turns to the class. “Okay, looks like we went long. You guys can go, or you can wait a couple minutes and see what I’ve got for you. No harm no foul either way.”
A few of the kids start to pack up, but most of them stay, Tyson notes with no little bit of pride. He glances at Gabe, to see if he noticed. The kids can like him, too.
Gabe doesn’t look particularly impressed, but he doesn’t look surprised, either. He’s also just looking at Tyson.
“So is it urgent, or can it wait?” Tyson asks. Gabe blinks, like now he is surprised.
“No, I just wanted to go over some last minute things before tomorrow. It can wait.”
“Okay, cool. Stick around if you want, we’re going to blow shit up.” Gabe barks out a laugh, which gets another line of whispers down the tables.
“Sounds like fun,” Gabe says. It’s–careful? Nice? Tyson’s not sure. He thinks Gabe might be plotting something, it’s the only explanation for why Gabe’s been…easier, lately. Like, sure, they can’t fight constantly if they have to work together, Gabe has to let him do some things, but it’s…Tyson doesn’t know. Less condescending. Gabe smiles more. Laughs with him, not at him.
It makes it harder for Tyson to be on his guard, which is what makes him sure it’s a trick. Tyson knows how to be ready against Gabe’s barbs and patronizing sneers. He hadn’t been ready for his smiles. But Tyson’s strong, he’s not going to be taken in.
And right now, he needs to blow something up, so. “Okay, let’s get to it,” He says, and they do. Gabe hovers in the back as Tyson explains what he’s doing, the science behind it, then vamps a bit because he likes the drama. Everyone is appropriately impressed by the bang and multicolored smoke that comes out of the beaker, because Tyson knows how to impress an audience if nothing else, then the rest of the kids start to pack up and Gabe comes up to the front table, leans against the counter.
Tyson pushes up his safety glasses onto his forehead. Gabe snorts.
“What?” Tyson demands. “You thought that was cool, don’t front.”
“You look like a mad scientist,” Gabe informs him.
“Okay, stereotype of every hipster Lit teacher ever,” Tyson retorts, reaching up to try to smooth out his hair. “I am responsible enough to teach good lab safety.”
“I know,” Gabe says, which isn’t on script. Tyson blinks. “It’s cute.” He reaches out to tap the glasses.
Tyson can feel himself go red. So what, a hot guy is complimenting him. It’s definitely part of a nefarious plan, but he’s only human. He has to take his ‘being complimented by guys who look like Gabe’ where he can find them.
“Whatever,” Tyson mutters, then rallies. “What do you want, anyway? This is a long way from home for you.”
“I told you, I wanted to go over some last minutes changes facilities wants.” He pulls out another one of his ridiculous printed lists.
“Okay, Landesnerd,” he says, and smirks at Gabe’s rolled eyes at the nickname. “Hit me.”
The bake sale is going great, if Gabe does say so himself. They managed to get plenty of teachers to participate as well as parents (not guilting, thank you Tyson, Gabe is sure), and there’s plenty of buyers. They’re going to raise a lot of money, and Bednar is definitely happy with them, given his expression as he and his wife browse the offerings.
“So you survived it?” EJ asks, sidling up to Gabe. He has a brownie in one hand and a cookie in the other. He’d been one of the people Tyson had not-guilted into contributing, so Gabe’s not sure who’s watching his booth, but that’s not Gabe’s problem anymore. “Working with Tys?”
“Somehow.” Gabe looks over to where Tyson is manning their booth. He’s laughing with one of the moms, clearly on some sort of selling spiel. He’s managed to get chocolate on his shirt. Of course.
“And you still hate him?” EJ asks. He doesn’t manage to sound very innocent. Or anything but smug.
Gabe’s not an idiot, thank you very much. And Tyson looks over, sees him watching, and grins, that big open grin like he’d had the first day they met, and it’s still just as cute as it was then.
“Shut up,” he tells EJ, and goes to sell some baked goods.
“So we rocked that,” Tyson informs Gabe, when everything’s all done and packed up. “Definitely beat Calgary.”
“Yeah,” Gabe agrees. He sounds a little distracted, though, which is unusual for him—he was definitely on the ‘crush Calgary’ team. Tyson wipes at his mouth, because whatever’s distracting Gabe seems to be in his general face region.
“Um, earth to Gabriel? We kicked ass? Our cookies were the star of the show? Or they’re really mine, but. You can have some credit,” He allows. He’s ready to keep talking, but then Gabe blinks.
“Come with me.”
“What?”
“Come on,” Gabe says, decisively, and he starts towing Tyson down the hall with a hand on Tyson’s wrist. Tyson sort of has to follow.
“Gabe, what are you doing? Is this part of your plot? Where you take me away and murder me?” They get to Gabe’s classroom, and he tugs Tyson in, then shuts the door. “Nate has find my friends with me, he’ll be able to find me, and he totally knows it’d be you, I—”
Then Gabe takes a step forward, so Tyson’s back is to the door, and Tyson’s mouth snaps shut. “Gabe?” He asks. He doesn’t—this is off script too. Gabe’s too close to him, all—stupidly handsome and big and his lips are like, right there, Tyson doesn’t know—
“Fuck, Tys,” Gabe mutters, then he is definitely kissing Tyson. That is a thing. That is happening. He has a hand on Tyson’s neck and the other one on the door behind Tyson and he’s an irritatingly good kisser and Tyson can’t just let that stand, so clearly he has to kiss back, show Gabe that he’s not the only one with game around here.
He doesn’t concede defeat, but he definitely does end up sagged against the wall—not because his knees give out or anything, just because the wall is conveniently there. “Oh,” he says vaguely, as Gabe continues to press kisses to his jaw, “So this is your plan?”
“What plan?” Gabe asks, and kisses Tyson again, deep and maybe a little knee-melting.
“I don’t know,” Tyson comes up with, “It’s your plan. Whatever—plan you’re doing by being nice and friendly for a change. And kissing me.”
Gabe’s head drops onto Tyson’s shoulder for a second, which is a shame because it means he’s not kissing Tyson. That should change.
Then Gabe lifts his head. “It’s not an evil plan,” he says, sounding a little exasperated. “I just want to kiss you. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Um, yeah? You don’t like me.”
“You don’t like me,” Gabe corrects, and Tyson manages to roll his eyes even now.
“No, you definitely don’t like me. You were a dick to me when we met, and—“
“I was—when we met I was already nervous and then a cute guy started talking to me about his cookies and I blanked and said something that he misinterpreted,” Gabe retorts, definitely sounding exasperated now, but also—incredulous, maybe? “For the first but not the last time.”
“I—what?” That is very very off script. That isn’t—they hate each other. Right? “You didn’t eat my cookie.”
“I honestly don’t remember what I said,” Gabe laughs, a little, but doesn’t meet Tyson’s eyes. “I was—it was a lot.”
“You thought I was cute?” Tyson’s only just now hearing this. “You said—you said I talk too much.” He mutters that last part. It was a shitty thing to say, but maybe Tyson’s too sensitive, maybe—
“No, I kiss people I find really unattractive,” Gabe says, and then he does look up, meets Tyson’s gaze with those big determined baby blues. “And you do talk a lot of shit, Tys.” He keeps going before Tyson can reply to that. “It’s cute too.”
“I—what?” No one’s said that before, for sure. Even Nate like, just puts up with his babble.
Gabe groans. “Can I kiss you again?” He asks. “And then take you to dinner and work on convincing you not to hate me?”
Well. Put that way. “I suppose I can allow that,” Tyson says. He doesn’t say how he’s pretty sure that’s not going to be much of a job, any more. Instead, he tugs Gabe in to kiss him again.
The Great Rivalry ends, as all things must.
However, tales of the Great Romance is spread in whispers around the school. Apparently, it’s just as easy to distract Mr. Barrie by asking him about Mr. Landeskog’s dog, and to distract Mr. Landeskog by talking about Mr. Barrie’s latest antics. You can’t really get more details out of them, though sometimes if you’re around after school, you can see them working together in one of their classrooms, arguing about something with their feet hooked together under the table.
(You can still get Mr. Landeskog going about the stink bomb, though. That one’s always going to be a classic).
(They are still just as annoying to Coach Mac. But he guesses he can be happy for his friends too).