Chapter Text
The first thing Eli noticed was that his locker looked...wrong.
Not trashed. Not graffitied or duct-taped shut or whatever other chaotic nonsense he’d seen happen to unfortunate freshmen. Just — wrong. Subtly. Like it had been touched by someone who wasn’t him. The lock hung a little too loose, and the door sat slightly open, like it had exhaled and never quite sealed again.
Suspicious as hell.
His eyebrows creased as he reached for the handle, half-expecting something to fall out — a prank, maybe, or one of Hawk’s old tournament flyers he kept finding in weird places. But when he eased the door open the rest of the way, what fell out wasn’t paper. Not exactly.
Okay, technically it was paper. But not like, homework .
It was a bouquet. Or at least, a very Miguel-coded attempt at one.
Crammed gently into the front of his locker, nestled between a decapitated binder and an old pack of gum, was a cluster of meticulously folded flowers — all origami, all varying levels of crumpled and beautiful. Some were made from the margins of a notebook, still showing half-solved equations and what looked like a tiny, messy sketch of Eli himself. One was unmistakably a vending machine receipt. Another bore the faint red smudge of a ketchup packet like it had barely survived the cafeteria battlefield.
And right in the middle, crookedly taped to a flower made from a torn-up math worksheet, was a jagged little heart.
you’re the BEST!!! it declared in red pen, double-underlined, with three exclamation points and what looked like a doodle of a smiley face doing finger guns.
Eli blinked. And then blinked again. His face twitched into a confused sort of snort before he could stop it.
Of course. Of course Miguel made him a literal garbage bouquet for their one-month anniversary. Of course he did.
Tucked into the base of the bouquet was a smaller note, folded into a vaguely square shape and wedged between two origami tulips like a secret. It was a little squashed and creased down the center — clearly folded with care at first, then probably shoved into a pocket for hours before being deposited here with exactly zero subtlety.
The handwriting was familiar. Miguel’s was way too neat for a guy who constantly lost his own earbuds — that intentional, kind-of-girly print that made Eli's own scrawl look like it had been written by a raccoon who accidentally picked up a pen.
i know you said anniversaries are fake but you’re still stuck with me for a whole month now. sorry. (not really.)
Eli stared at the note. Read it twice. Maybe three times.
Then he sat down hard on the bench next to the lockers and let his head thunk back against the metal.
God. Miguel.
He remembered saying that. Loudly. Weeks ago. “Anniversaries are just capitalist traps, you know that, right?” Eli had scoffed, all smug cynicism and barely concealed nerves. “Like cool, congrats on surviving thirty days, here’s some overpriced chocolate and manufactured expectations.”
Miguel had just smiled that infuriating little smile of his and said “Sure, whatever you say,” like he was tucking the comment in his pocket for later. Apparently this was later.
Eli turned the bouquet over in his hands. It smelled faintly like strawberry gum, locker room air freshener, and a little bit like Miguel’s cologne, which made zero sense and was deeply unfair. His heart did something annoying in his chest. Like a twitch. Or a squeak. He glared down at it.
“I’m not smiling, ” he muttered to no one in particular, as if the act of saying it out loud would make it true.…but he was. Not big or anything. Just this soft little half-smile, barely tugging at the corner of his mouth like it was trying not to be seen. A secret smile. The kind you don’t even know you’re making until someone calls you out for it, and then it’s all over.
He looked back down at the bouquet again, running his thumb over the crinkled edge of a paper lily. Miguel had folded the stem so it curled, kind of wonky, kind of sweet. It looked like it had been re-folded three different times. Maybe four. Probably because Miguel kept second-guessing whether it was good enough to give him in the first place.
He’d probably spent hours making these dumb flowers. Hours, when he could’ve been doing anything else. Studying. Sleeping. Watching that dumb show about competitive glassblowing he got weirdly into. But no. He made…this. For Eli. Who didn’t even say “Happy Anniversary” that morning because he didn’t want to look like he cared .
And now his heart was doing that twitch-squeak thing again.
He folded the note again, way more carefully this time, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his hoodie. It was stupid. He was definitely going to lose it in the laundry. But not right now. Right now, it stayed close.
He closed his locker slowly, bouquet still in hand, and leaned his forehead against the cool metal.
One month. It had only been a month?
Somehow it felt like both forever and five minutes. Like Miguel had just appeared one day—this soft-voiced, quietly intense human golden retriever with a stupid good jawline—and now Eli couldn’t remember what it felt like not to orbit around him.
He checked the time. Four minutes until the final bell. He was supposed to meet Miguel out front after school—just like any other Friday. No mention of the date. No plan. Just their usual routine: walk, snacks, maybe make out behind the 7-Eleven if the timing was right.
But now—
Now he had a bouquet made of chemistry notes in his hand and a stupid note in his pocket, and his whole chest felt like it was full of bees.
He didn’t know how to say this. He never knew how to say this. All the stuff Miguel made look so easy—being open, being sincere, being warm without setting yourself on fire—Eli had no idea how to do that. His brain just wasn’t wired like that. His heart always wanted to sprint ahead of his mouth, and his mouth kept tripping over the wiring.
But maybe he didn’t need to say anything. Maybe Miguel already knew . That was the whole thing, right? He knew Eli didn’t mean the things he said half the time. That when Eli called him a nerd, he meant it with a capital-L heart around it. That when he rolled his eyes and muttered “ugh, disgusting” after a particularly good kiss, what he actually meant was “don’t ever stop.”
Maybe Miguel already understood.
Even so… maybe Eli wanted to try. Just this once.
He didn’t have a game plan. No witty comeback loaded in the chamber, no Eli-brand sarcasm locked and loaded to mask whatever the hell was happening in his ribcage right now. All he had was a bouquet made of actual trash and a thousand butterflies doing backflips in his stomach. That, and an almost unbearable urge to see Miguel's face.
Outside, the hallway buzzed with the familiar chaos of pre-dismissal — slamming lockers, sneakers squeaking on tile, someone yelling about a forgotten lab report like the world was ending. Eli barely heard any of it. Everything else dimmed at the edges as he made his way to the front doors, bouquet clutched tight in one hand, his hoodie sleeve fisted around the stems so no one would see .
Because, yeah, he could be soft. But he didn’t want to be witnessed being soft. There was a difference.
The sunlight was stupidly cinematic when he stepped outside. Late afternoon glow slicing across the pavement, painting everything in gold like a teen drama about to hit its emotional climax. He scanned the usual hangout spots out of instinct — the steps, the sidewalk, the patch of grass near the flagpole where couples sprawled like unpaid extras in a spring break ad. Then—
There.
Leaning against the bike rack with one foot kicked up behind him, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up like he was trying to make forearms a personality trait — Miguel. Of course. Looking irritatingly good and like he hadn’t just folded a bouquet out of vending machine receipts for someone who mocked the concept of relationships.
Eli swallowed. His feet kept moving before his brain could catch up.
When Miguel spotted him, his face lit up in that way it always did — like someone had flipped on a switch inside his chest.
“Hey,” he said, voice already tipping into laughter when he saw what Eli was holding. “You found it.”
“I did,” Eli said, deadpan. “And I have so many questions. Starting with, what kind of maniac keeps so many worksheets from last semester and ketchup-stained napkins in their bag?”
Miguel shrugged, a grin tugging at his mouth. “The kind who gets nervous folding flowers for their boyfriend and messes up, like, twelve times.”
Boyfriend.
The word landed somewhere behind Eli’s ribcage and immediately started doing cartwheels.
He shoved the bouquet against Miguel’s chest. “You’re the worst.”
“You liked it.”
“Shut up,” Eli said, except he was smiling now, and Miguel was looking at him like he was made of sunrises and punchlines and things worth holding onto.
There were people everywhere. Friends lingering by cars, music leaking from somebody’s phone, the world still spinning around them. But right then, Eli didn’t care who saw. He didn’t even remember how to care. He stepped closer. Close enough that his shoulder brushed Miguel’s and the tips of their sneakers knocked together. “You’re such a nerd,” he murmured, the words barely out before his voice cracked like a traitor.
Miguel’s grin went lopsided. “I love when your voice does that.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You’re soft.”
“You’re soft,” Eli said, flustered, and then, before his nerves could stop him—he kissed him.
Not dramatic. Not some sweeping, over-the-top movie moment. Just a kiss. Easy. Familiar. The kind that said thank you and I like you way more than I’m willing to admit in front of people and don’t stop doing weird romantic things even when I pretend to hate them.
When he pulled back, Miguel looked a little dazed.
“Does this mean that we’re dating now?”
Eli smirked. “Dude, we’ve been dating. You’re just slow.”
Miguel blinked at him, still slightly wide-eyed, like Eli had short-circuited some crucial system inside his brain. Which, fair. Eli was still recovering from it, too — from the fact that he’d just kissed his boyfriend in public like it was no big deal, like it didn’t immediately set off every alarm in his deeply over-defended heart.
A weird silence settled between them. Not awkward, exactly. Just… different. Heavy in the kind of way that made Eli suddenly hyper-aware of everything — how close they were standing, how warm Miguel’s arm was against his, how the paper bouquet was still squished in his hand and probably getting crushed to death.
Miguel’s face was doing that thing again, where it tried to be neutral but kept twitching into a smile anyway. He ducked his head slightly, ears a little pink, and muttered, “You never do that.”
Eli frowned. “Do what?”
“That,” Miguel said, gesturing vaguely between them. “You know. Public displays of affection. ”
It wasn’t accusatory. If anything, it was weirdly gentle. A fact more than a complaint.
Eli felt something squeeze behind his ribs. “Yeah, well,” he said, voice dropping low, almost like he didn’t want to hear himself say it. “You made me a bouquet out of homework and trash. I figured I owed you one public humiliation.”
Miguel laughed — quiet, surprised — like the sound had slipped out before he realized it. Eli felt it in his chest more than he wanted to admit, a sudden twist low in his gut, sharp and immediate.
“That wasn’t humiliation,” Miguel said, still smiling a little.
“It was for me,” Eli muttered, glancing away. “You’re used to being liked. I’m not.”
It came out more honest than he meant it to. He didn’t follow it with a joke or a shrug to soften the edges. Just let it hang there, awkward and exposed.
Miguel went still beside him. His head turned slightly, gaze landing with that focused kind of quiet he always got when Eli said something real without meaning to. It wasn’t pity — thank god — but it was the kind of look that said he’d heard every word, even the parts Eli hadn’t said out loud.
“You know I don’t care who’s watching,” Miguel said, even and simple, like it didn’t need explanation.
“I know,” Eli said. He shifted, arms folding tighter across his chest, eyes dropping to the pavement. His voice was low, barely more than breath. “I know.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to because Miguel stood next to him, close enough that their sleeves brushed when the wind picked up. He didn’t try to close the space or fill it either. Just let it exist, the same way he always did — like whatever Eli had to give was already enough.
And yeah, there it was — the real thing under all the snark and posturing. The part of Eli that still crouched somewhere in his chest, convinced that every good thing had an expiration date. That if he looked too happy, someone might come by and remind him he didn’t deserve it.
He felt the old instinct crawl up his spine — say something dumb. Make a joke. Shove him, insult his music taste, fake gag. Just do something to undo the softness in the air before it crushed him.
Miguel’s fingers tightened slightly where they still looped in the hem of Eli’s sleeve, as if afraid Eli might pull away before the moment could settle. His thumb brushed back and forth, soft, nervous, like he was memorizing the feel of the fabric.
“I liked it,” he said. Quiet. A little shy. “The kiss.”
Eli’s breath caught in his throat, sharp and quick. His spine locked up for a second before he forced himself to blink. His face was hot. He was not allowed to get flustered.
“Okay,” he said, voice low, a little scratchy like he’d swallowed a spark. “Cool.”
Miguel smiled again — not the dazzled, kicked-in-the-heart one from earlier, but his real one. Familiar. A little uneven. He bumped their shoulders together gently, the weight of it grounding. “So if I do another nerd bouquet next month, do I get another kiss?”
“You get maybe another kiss,” Eli said, folding his arms tightly like he needed something to do with them, “if you stop using my locker like a craft bin.”
“No promises.”
A laugh slipped out of Miguel’s chest, warm and loose, and Eli’s stomach twisted like a string pulled tight. They stood there, just barely touching, shoulders brushing every few seconds like their bodies didn’t quite want to part again. The crowd had mostly thinned, the golden late-afternoon sun catching in the edges of Miguel’s hair and painting his skin with light. Eli could still smell the faint sweetness of paper and cologne and vending machine snacks.
He shifted, not stepping back, just angling closer. His fingers twitched near his hoodie pocket, where the note was still folded, warm now from his body heat.
That humming, golden, horrifyingly domestic thing was back. Settling under his ribs. Dangerous. Familiar.
Eli dared a glance sideways and Miguel was already watching him.
His expression had softened in that stupidly fond way again — eyes low-lidded, mouth tugging at the corner like he was trying not to smile too big. His hands were shoved into his sleeves, knuckles brushing his own stomach, but he rocked slightly on his feet like he wanted to close the gap again.
Eli stared for half a second too long. His chest felt huge and way too small at the same time, like something had cracked open inside and was now filling with sunlight and panic and hope.
“…You really are slow,” he muttered, voice barely audible.
Miguel didn’t even blink. Just smiled wider, eyes crinkling a little at the corners.
“Only with things that are worth taking my time on,” he said.
And Eli — who had kissed him already, had let himself be soft in a crowd — still had to look away for a second, because it was too much. Because Miguel said things like that and meant them, and it made Eli’s heart do that awful fluttery thing that felt like a warning and a promise all at once.
So he swallowed, nodded, and let himself lean just a little further in. Shoulder to shoulder. Almost an embrace, if you squinted.
He didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.