Six Things Before Breakfast

12

They're fine.

They're absolutely fine. They don't talk about their—their argument (?). It's easier to just let it float over their heads, ignore what was said and what wasn't said, go back to what they were before.

Because it's clear Maxon doesn't know how to reassure Becks that she doesn't need to hide boxing from him.

"You, uh, you're going to school?" he asks, drawing his eyebrows together.

Becks blinks. "Yeah."

"Oh, have fun boxing!" he says cheerily, grinning. "Punching bags, and—and people," he mutters. "Yeah."

"Right," Becks says, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Thanks."

Becks doesn't bother hiding her gloves anymore. She dumps them on the couch, takes off her hand wraps in the kitchen, doesn't mind if Maxon sees her bruises or the gashes on her knuckles. It's freeing for her, she says. But Sanders can see—she's not happy. She was happier when she was hiding boxing from him.

As an athlete himself, Sanders can't help but feel disappointed at how shameful Becks is of her sport. Even though—even though Maxon thinks it's cool. He dropped by the gym once while she was sparring with her coach. His mouth is open, and his eyes are wide. "Cal is amazing, don't you think?"

Becks doesn't like it. She doesn't like showing this side of her to him.

So when she has an upcoming match, she tells Sanders without Maxon in the room. They're eating, and Becks is on her third cup of rice, and she swallows it down with water before saying, "I have a match next week. You can come, right?"

She says this like Sanders has a choice.

"Can I come, too?" Suho asks brightly, grinning. Sanders doesn't even know why the kid is with them. He just...tagged along. "Our training might end late, so I'll have to follow, but can I come? I want to watch you again!"

"Sure, kid," Becks says fondly, ruffling his hair. "Don't bring anyone else. You can sit with Sanders and Rosen."

Suho's smile grows wider.

But before the match, they have Kaitlyn's birthday party to go to first. Sanders is wearing a suit that hasn't been touched in a year, he's putting on a bow tie, and he thinks he'd have to pray that his dress shoes don't break or fall apart. Suho is sitting on his bed, wearing the same thing, but he's struggling with putting on his tie. "Why are we even wearing these things to Kait's birthday? It's just a birthday," he whines, pulling on the fabric, face scrunching in annoyance.

"There'll be lots of food," Sanders reminds him, lips tilting up. He kneels down in front of him and swats his hands away. "Let me do it, kid. Christ, you're such a baby. Like my son."

"I am your son."

"Glad you've decided to take on the role." Sanders knots his tie, careful not to accidentally strangle him. "Fix your hair. Put on some gel. You can't dance with anyone if you look like that."

Suho huffs. He borrows Sanders's gel. Outside, Maxon is buttoning his cuff sleeves—he's in gray.

Kaitlyn's friend from gymnastics is picking them up. They're picking up a lot of people, so the four of them will have to squish in the back, the trunk—in face-to-face seats. Sanders doesn't mind. Becks is seated right next to him, body crushed to his and legs folded to the side, resting her head on his shoulder.

She's wearing a black lace, long-sleeved dress with a pleated skirt ending mid-thigh—she borrowed this from Adan last week (Sanders was there when she tried it on, and he—well, his brain kind of froze). Her hair is in waves, curled down her shoulders, pulled up in a half-ponytail, and her face is painted with light makeup. Maxon has been teasing her for her eyeliner for the past twenty minutes of the ride. Becks glares at him. "Try doing your own makeup, asshole. You can insult me, then."