It's just past noon, the sun is blinding through the windshield, and with the window rolled down, the clean air feels nice against his face, and Sanders looks at the ETA from the screen on his phone propped up near the AC, and there's about an hour left before they reach Mako. He doesn't want to think about anything else rather than being able to flee the city for a couple of days, relax his bones, drink wine in a hot tub.

But day one and he's ready to throw open the van door and jump—doesn't matter if his guts spill all over the road. Rosen, Suho, Siam, and Maxon have been arguing for the past two hours ("Among all of us here, who's most likely to be president?" "Not Becks, because she'll kill every white person." "...true."), singing their lungs out (to Mamma Mia. Now, Sanders has nothing against the damn musical, but if he hears one more Waterloo, I was defended you won the war...he is going to lose. It.), and asking for pee breaks every fucking ten minutes ("I need to pee." "Jesus—again?").

His breaking point is his little brother asking, "Are we near?" for the ninth time. (Yes. Nine. Sanders counted.)

Sanders closes his eyes for a brief second, tightens his grip on the steering wheel, and clenches his jaw.

When they get to Mako, he's not allowed to have stress levels this high.

But for now, he sighs, tries to calm down and be patient, like the loving big brother he is, and opens his mouth—

But Becks beats him to it. In the passenger seat, she turns around to face Siam and answers, "One hour left, buddy. You should get some rest before we get to the beach. We left pretty early."

Sanders glances at her. She looks back at him and winks.

Suho pipes up, "Is it really this far?"

Sanders grits his teeth. "If you guys didn't ask for fucking potty breaks every ten minutes, then maybe—"

Sanders shuts his mouth. His breath gets caught in his throat.

"Not really. Suho, bud, get some rest, too," Becks says, grinning. She still has her torso faced towards the backseat (where the devils are).

It's not what made Sanders freeze. It's the hand covering his on the gear stick, firmly gripping his fingers.

He keeps his eyes on the road, but he's malfunctioning. He tries to remember he's driving six people, and it's six lives he's responsible for if he loses focus on the road.

So. Becks. Should, um, take her hand away. Before he bursts.

She looks at him and says, "I told you we should switch."

"I'm fine," he says tightly. Her hand is still on his.

"You've been on edge since this morning, even after you've had your coffee."

"This morning, we almost left Suho behind because we forgot about him. We made a U-turn back to Adan's apartment because she brought the wrong charger. And the line for breakfast was long, and my moms kept kissing me and it's embarrassing."

Becks laughs once. "I think it's cute."

"You would. Can I have a gummy bear?"

Finally, finally, Becks takes her hand away. She opens the pack of candies and leans over. Sanders opens his mouth, and she drops two gummy bears in there.

She doesn't hold his hand again for the rest of the ride, but she gets ahold of the AUX cord and plays Sanders's playlist from his Spotify account through her phone. She rests her head against the window and closes her eyes. "Wake me up if you want to switch."

Sanders doesn't, and Siam doesn't ask if they're near again. (He fell asleep. Finally. Suho and Rosen are playing Ketchup.)

And Mako is as calming as Sanders remembers it to be.The deep blue water stretches far beyond until the line where it starts touches a cloud, and the sand is hot on his toes, but it feels nice sinking into it, feels rough against his flip-flops as they lift their luggages towards the narrow stairs, where Sanders's dad's beach house is sitting on top of the cliff.

Elijah might not have been a good father, but he had damn good taste.

The house is all wood with yellow light, but it's open and cozy, with flipping windows and several adirondack patio chairs. As soon as Sanders unlocks the door, he breathes out in relief, being led to the spacious living room and kitchen with wooden tiles, and white and blue painted furniture. There's already a fire near the sofa, and Sanders kicks off his slippers, leaves his luggage by the entryway, and flops on the couch. "Finally," he breathes out, exhaling in relief.

"Whoa," Adan says, looking around with wide eyes. "This is amazing."

Suho left his things on the floor, too. He opens the French doors leading to the patio and gasps out loud. "You can see the whole beach from here!"

The house is perched on a wooden deck that looks over the water. Sanders and Siam used to eat with their family on the table there, enjoying the night and the view. Sometimes, Sanders would sit by himself on the lounge bed overlooking the beach with a book (when he still had time to read), and then he'll fall asleep and not realize the sun has gone down a few hours ago.

If that's not enough, there's also a Jacuzzi hot tub on that deck.

Maxon laughs loudly. "Fucking—Rush! You've been holding out on me, I should've been friends with you a long time ago."

Sanders blindly punches him in the arm. He's near enough the sofa. "Shut up and make some lunch, I'm hungry."

"Or we can go around town and find something to eat," Becks pipes up, sitting next to him. She takes off her sunglasses and stretches, and Sanders looks away. She's in a white polo shirt she borrowed from him with the first two buttons undone.

"Can I borrow this?" she asked a week ago, before they cleared their stuff for summer break at the apartment. She was holding up his polo, standing in front of his closet.

Sanders blinked. "Uh, sure...? What for? Does Matthew or Henry need it?"

"I'm going to wear it," she said, content, closing his closet. "On our first day at Mako. Thanks, Sanders."

The moment Becks stepped out of her house in that fucking white polo, Sanders almost spit out his coffee.

"Wipe your drool, bro," Rosen said, snickering. Sanders smacked him.

And if that's not enough to drive him fucking insane, she's also in jean shorts, and Sanders will admit—he's had to resist to put his hand on her thigh on the drive over, and remind himself that they're not together, and that it's fucking creepy if he does that.

Rosen comes out from the hallway. Siam is already raiding the cupboards and he found himself a jar of cookies. "There's three rooms. Adan and I will have one—"

"No," Sanders says firmly, shaking his head. "Nope, no. I own this house, and I do not want to hear you guys bonking from the other side of the wall—don't even tell me you won't be, because I fucking know you, Rosen."

The blonde leans against the wall and rolls his eyes. "Fine."

"Suho and I can share," Siam pipes up, mouth full of cookies. "And Maxon. You and Rosen can have the other room, and Adan and Becks can share the other."

"Fine with me," Becks says, leaning back and closing her eyes. Adan plops next to her and wraps an arm around her waist.

"Fine with me," Maxon agrees, grinning. He twists the ball cap around his head. "Let's go and grab some lunch! Suho, get in here before you fucking fall!"

Sanders looks at Becks. "I think it was better when it was just you, me, Siam, and Rosen."

She grins at him. A curl falls over her face, and Sanders fists his hand by his side to keep himself from reaching out. "Nah, this is more fun. Come on, I'm hungry."

*

Sanders said he'll be taking a break from volleyball.

He meant, um, competitive volleyball.

"Rush, you fucking idiot!" Rosen screams, pushing him roughly, and Sanders lands on his back. He winces at the heat of the sand on his skin. "That was a weak spike, you should've blocked it!"

"You should've dove for that ball earlier, then!"

Apparently, it's still competitive volleyball. Just on the sand.

"We're embarrassing ourselves," Rosen grunts angrily, shaking the sweat from the strands of his hair. Sanders stands up with a huff and brushes the sand from his arms and stomach. "We're athletes, for fuck's sake."

They're losing to two beach dudes who invited them for one set of play, and Sanders didn't fucking come here for this, and Rosen is being a shithead, and he wants to relax next to Becks and Suho on a lounge bed and sleep—

"Get your head in the game!" Rosen yells at him, shaking him with his hands on his shoulders. "Come on, man, we can still chase those five points!"

Sanders groans loudly and pushes him off. "Rosen, it's just a fucking game—"

"Head in the game, Rush!" he repeats, eyes wide and nodding. "We're the dynamic duo! The feared ace players! We got this!"

They're not a dynamic anything. And Sanders really really doubts there's anything to fear about him (much less Rosen), but he sighs begrudgingly and bends his knees and prays their opponents don't think they're fucking weird.

(They almost lose, but they don't. Rosen doesn't allow it.)

As soon as he gets rid of Rosen, who scrambles off to find Adan, Sanders lies down on the lounge bed beside Becks and groans in relief. "Finally. Some peace and quiet."

His best friend snorts. "You almost lost out there."

Sanders opens one eye and turns his head to look at her. Becks is lying down, a pair of shades over her eyes, and her curls are all over her face and she has her AirPods plugged in with her hands laying flat on her bare stomach. Sanders keeps his eyes strictly on her face. "You were watching?"

"For a bit. Then I realized you guys were being losers."

"We won."

"You should've left Rosen all alone if he's going to drag you into volleyball during vacation."

Sanders tries. He really, really tries to contain his smile. He clears his throat and leans back, closes his eyes, too. "We should go surfing in a bit. Like last year. Where are the others?"

Becks hums. "Maxon is making a sandcastle. Suho and Siam went off somewhere to buy ice cream."

Sanders doesn't want to ask. He bites his tongue and listens to the sound of the waves.

"You can ask."

Shit. Sometimes, it's easy to forget how Becks knows him so well. Sanders sighs. "How're you feeling with Maxon?"

Becks doesn't pause for a second. "I feel lighter. Better. Like I'm not itching to be around him all the time."

It's been obvious, but hearing those words from Becks—in her voice, beside him—it's like his shoulders drop down from the obvious weight of the uncertainty that her feelings might not have changed at all.

But they have. Sanders grins. "Good."

"Mm. Good," Becks repeats sleepily.

(Sanders will worry about his well-being later at the sight of Becks in a green bikini—the top is high neck and halter and the bottoms are high-waisted, but God. His fingers are itching and her skin is a beautiful color in the sun.)

(Her bracelet is beautiful on her skin. Sanders is wearing his, too.)

*

Sanders is pretty sure it's not his fault he's attractive.

Fine. He's also a little tipsy, too. A little in need of touch. Let's blame it on that.

After spending the afternoon at the beach, surfing with Becks, destroying Maxon's sandcastle and getting shit for it, and then being dragged over to a jewelry-making workshop Suho wanted to try—they finally get a feel of the town by walking in its moonlight, sitting outside with a view of the sky for dinner, and then heading to a noisy but unfilled bar for drinks to end their first night.

It's not his fault he's attractive. He was half-naked all day and now he's just in a tank top and shorts, and the cute girl who approached him said she's been eyeing him all day, too shy to give her number, and now, in front of his friends, she wants to buy him a drink.

It's not his fault his friends cheered for him and pushed him away. It's not his fault the conversation they brought outside, sitting on the sand, became less of a conversation and more of a making out session.

But Sanders doesn't want any strings here. He apologizes, leaves the girl alone, and heads back to the house—his friends left an hour ago.

It's quiet in the house, and most of the lights are out now—they must have washed up and crashed, it was an exhausting day. There's only one yellow light switched on in the kitchen, but as Sanders is about to head to the hallway, yawning on his way in, to take a shower and brush his teeth, he notices that the French doors are open, and Becks is sitting outside on an adirondack patio chair, with a bottle of beer next to her.

Sanders sighs. He drops his phone and wallet on the couch and steps out. "Hey. You're still up."

Becks looks at him. Her eyes are droopy, half-open. She's still wearing his polo and her jean shorts, and her lips curve up into a silly smile. "Oh. It's Sanders," she mutters.

Sanders sits down on the chair next to her. The bottle is half-empty. "You've had three of these at the club already."

"Needed one more," she answers, leaning her head back and stretching her legs. Sanders stretches his legs across the wooden deck, too, and closes his eyes.

The sound of the water below them is calming, and the breeze feels nice. He lets Becks drink—they're in the house, after all, and her room is just a few doors away.

But she's out of it after another one she asked Sanders to get in the fridge, and her eyes are shut, and she's smiling dazedly. Her cheeks are flushed and Sanders sighs.

"Becks."

She hums. Says something incoherent.

Sanders sighs. "Idiot. Why'd you drink so much if you can't even take it?"

Suddenly, she raises her head. Eyes half-closed, swaying in her seat, strands of hair falling messily across her forehead. She looks at him, fucking drunk, and Sanders raises an eyebrow, chewing on a piece of dried squid he found in the cupboards earlier. "What?"

"Sanders."

She's been mumbling his name over and over. He groans quietly. "Yes?"

"Mm." Becks huffs out a laugh. Once. Twice. And then she's sighing. "Sanders."

"What?" he snaps, irritated, biting another fried squid into his mouth.

"I like Sanders so much."

He bends forward and chokes. Spits out the squid and everything, it lands on the floor with his saliva, and he pounds a fist into his chest as he struggles to breathe.

"Shh!" Becks hisses, pushing a finger to her lips, and she's leaning forward, pushing her other index finger towards his direction, like she's about to zip his mouth, too. "Shh! Don't tell him!"

She's so fucking out of it. She's spewing nonsense. Jesus Christ, Sanders wipes his mouth with his sleeve and stands up, he'll clean up the squid later. First order of priority is the drunk. "Okay, time to go to bed, you need to sleep this off."

The moment he gets his arms around her shoulders to help her up, Becks swats his hands away, furrowing her eyebrows angrily. "I said, don't tell him!"

Sanders raises both his palms in the air. "Fine, fuck, I won't. Now, come on." He bends down again, ready to grab her, carry her over his shoulder like a sack of rice or something, anything to get her to her room, when she suddenly throws her hands around his neck, and for a second, Sanders thinks she's grabbing him into a chokehold, like they always do with each other, get on the other's nerves, be as annoying as possible—but Becks's hold is loose. Her hands rest around his shoulders, and her head slumps in his neck, breath fanning his skin.

"Mm." Becks breathes in. Sanders feels her chest rise against him. "Smells nice."

Sanders hooks his hands under her knees. Ignores his heart. "Okay, come on."

"Wait!" She pulls back, frowning. Her eyes are half-closed, losing focus, skin flushed red. Her face is in that...that half-scowl, half-pouty look, and it's—it's so like Becks, there's nothing more like Becks except when she's half-asleep, too, and—and Sanders has always chased that look. He's—he's been chasing that look since the insides of his heart shuffled around to make space, make room for her. Since she made him breakfast for the first time and burnt the toast, but still waited eagerly for his reaction—since she lost for the first time to him in a video game they both loved and she sulked and he bought her pizza to make her feel better. Since...since he started doing his six things before breakfast. "Wait, don't tell Sanders. Don't tell him, but I like him so much."

Sanders stares at her. She's so drunk. "Sanders Rush. Your best friend? You like him?Romantically?"

Becks nods, head bobbing up and down like a ragdoll. Her hands lay loosely on his shoulders, fingers splayed across his skin. "Don't tell him."

"Okay." He knows he asked this already, but..."What about Maxon?"

She makes a grunting noise. And then her head falls on his shoulder, a staggering breath tickling his neck. "I told him already. No more," she mutters quietly.

Sanders keeps his hands around her chair. He's unmoving. Frozen. Swallowing thickly, he says, "Maybe you're just jealous. Of Charlotte and my other date and the girl I—Sanders just made out with."

"Fuck all of them."

"Fuc—okay," Sanders breathes out, scoffing incredulously. "So it is jealousy?"

Becks shakes her head furiously.

Sander sighs. "Okay. Fine. What do you like about Sanders?"

"Mm." Becks buries her head deeper into his skin. Sanders shivers, feeling her lips brush against the curve of his neck. "He's...warm. He's always there when I'm cold. Like my warmth."

Sanders holds his breath. "And?"

"And he's so kind," she continues quietly. Her voice is loud against his ear. "He's so...selfless. Takes care of everyone but himself. He takes care of me all the time."

He closes his eyes.

"I want to take care of him," Becks says. "I want to protect him, I don't want him to get hurt...and he's so accepting. Never wants me to change for anyone else, and he...he always tells me I'm pretty even though I'm not."

"Becks."

"And I get butterflies around him," she continues, ignoring him, taking a shaky breath. "When I'm with him. So many...so many butterflies. And I want to be with him. I was..." Becks inhales a deep breath. "I was so sad when he...he went home with someone. Just now, when he kissed someone else. Smiled at her and everything."

Sanders stiffens.

"But it's not my business," Becks says. "And I thought. Ah. That's what he felt like when I was busy chasing after Maxon. It really hurts."

Sanders sighs. "Becks, I—"

"I thought I would be fine," she continues, stumbling over her words. "I don't want to be selfish. I've been so selfish before. He loved me a lot, and I...I took advantage of that. Hurt him so much."

Sanders grabs her. Carefully places her on his back, making sure she's steady, before he brings her inside.

"Don't tell him," Becks says against his ear, nose brushing his cheek. "Don't tell Sanders."

Sanders nods. Keeps walking. "Okay. I won't."

(He'll tell him.)

*

:D