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nirvana (I was there with crooked teeth)

Summary:

“Let me enjoy it while I can.”

“‘While you can’?” He questions, which she nods at.

She says, “Before you get a girlfriend.” and after some thought, “Or I get a boyfriend.”

That burns, but still, he says, “Yeah, sure.” even though he should probably say no, even though being close to her is the first problem to how he feels about her — it’s like tending to a cut with a spear. He must like being a scapegoat.

Fezco's emotionally charged friendship with Lexi deepens after a practice make out session.

Notes:

another one shot that's too long, prolly too indulgent, but u know. that's me.

<3

(Also, think this is my first fezco POV fic? wow!!)

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Lexi’s his best friend and, perhaps, that’s his most harrowing realization. 

He could handle that type of awareness- survive it even though It’s sort of like pencil swirls being drawn underneath his skin every time he takes a glance at her. 

It all has him questioning the ethics of the world and if he’d necessarily be mad if it were to ever ignite, end in smoke and dust, the same way it must’ve started: with a lonely big bang, though not much of a sound, not if no one is there to hear it (He asks himself, 'so does it exist?'). 

Beside him, with the yellow cast of a dimming refrigerator light, he hears her giggle, thinks to himself: there, that’s the big bang, but goes without a glance to it, gazes deep into the fridge instead because that’s survival. 

Eventually, like there was a frog in the middle of his throat, he asks, “What’s up?”

“The book reminds me of you.” 

“Really?”

”Yeah, a lot.” She says, “This one line.”

He waits for her to continue and when she doesn’t, as if to enjoy smite, he peers over his shoulder and she’s where he left her: propped up on his kitchen counter, staring into a book so casually divine at a forlorn hour, hair tousled into a shitty bun that he made for her and wearing his shirt. Worst of all, she wears a small grin that could catch the air on fire and kill the sun. 

He’s trying to find her something to chew on but an image like that is all consuming so he halts and ganders at her, mostly her hands; it’s fine and wispy looking but it has a grip, a slight clench on a book like it were a bible but it’s only some romance novel that he bought for her. 

Lexi doesn’t resume. She’s waiting for his response and to that realization, he reels a tired sigh, then, “What line, Lex?”

Her grin grows; better than the sun, he thinks, the sun gonna kill you. 

She clears her throat, flits her eyes back down and shifts herself into exaggerated poshness, reads aloud, I trust you, more than I’ve ever trusted anyone .”

Fezco waits but nothing comes of it. 

He expected a monologue because Lexi always picked monologues to read outloud and when the silence devours his head space and she looks up from her book, again, as if to want to create a martyr out of him, Fezco snorts and looks back at the refrigerator in false distraction. 

“That’s us.” She insists.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“You or me, though?”

Lexi eyes him. Then, prudently, “Don’t be petty.”

“M’not.” he mutters, flat and irrevocably serious. 

There’s a few short beats of silence- probably of Lexi examining him in suspicion but Fezco’s too fearful to confirm that. He thinks one glance and she’ll take his most prized organ; squeeze it bare right in front of him (without malice, which somehow makes it worse).

Being gutless is better than heartless, he decides. 

“Then both,” She says, eventually and the air between them starts to fold. She stares into her book like an addict, seemingly distracted before, “More so me, though.”

Beneath his breath, he goes, “What?”

“More so me.” She repeats, louder, even though he means it as in what world?

He snorts. No way in hell.”

“Way in hell.”

“Damn, Lexi-” He mutters, mostly in reference to a forgotten Greek strawberry yogurt at the back of the fridge. It’s Lexi’s favorite and, like a complete idiot, he’s stretching out an arm trying to receive it as he says in slight restriction, “That’s foreal the shittiest take you’ve had yet, gotta hand it to ya-”

“- Excuse me?” Lexi lets the book fall to her lap and with a humorous scoff, “Fez, I totally trust you more than anyone.”

“Word,” He agrees only to dismantle it with, “Sayin’ I trust you more, s’all.”

Lexi rolls her eyes, then, “See?”

“What the fuck we seein’?”

“You’re turning this into a competition.”

He grabs at the yogurt, finally, and while looking at the expiration date, he shrugs and grumbles, “Thought that’s what it was-”

“It’s a comparison.”

“Shit- m’winnin the comparison, then.” Before Lexi could retort, he goes, “Catch.” And chucks the yogurt at her. She catches it gawky, book nearly slipping off her lap but she’s fast enough to slam her arms down to stop it. 

Confused, Lexi twists her hands to look. She quickly recognizes it. 

“Hey!” Her entire body perks up. Through a toothy grin, she glimpses at him, “When did you get th-”

“-You left it here.” The fridge closes and he decides to prop his hip to it, crosses his arms in examination of her swinging legs; callow but sweet. “We gonna head back to my room or what?”

“After this.” 

“You killin’ me.”

“You could go to bed without me.”

Silence. 

Lexi looks up in response to the dull quiet and he’s gawking at her, arms drifting down from a cross.

“What?”

“Yo, do you think m’like some fuckin’ asshole or somethin?” Fezco squints an eye at her and the back of his brain boggles. “Why’d I ever do that?”

She hums to that, taking it as a victory as she pops the yogurt to an open and grabs at a newly dried up spoon. Lexi goes on gandering at her book, balancing her pen in one hand and spoon of yogurt in the other. 

Fezco tips his head on the fridge and watches her lick the spoon. There’s a tightness in her brows, her thighs spill on his counter and the fabric of his shirt is rolling up the widest part. 

His eyes tend there and a feeling in his hands grows along his veins, weeds and weeds of prepubscent type of desire to grab on her skin and tug her to his core, kiss along her throat, say against plush and sour skin, “ fuck the book, Lexi” and push his fingers to her inner thigh- drag up, put his touch to honest use. 

She’s scribbling into it enthusiastically and averting from the fantasy, he says with some chipped pride, “Man, you really like that book.”

It was an off the wall purchase. He figured she’d go rabid because it was Emily Henry and Emily Henry is Lexi’s version of Jesus Christ; she said so herself and her words impulsively canopy his mind. It’s more compelling than scripture so he’s indoctrinated to feel the same way. 

She doesn’t look up. “How’d you know?” 

“Keep writing in it.” He’s watching her hand; all jittery but never does he question that. “And coloring in it and shit.”

She hums, says, "Well, I like it." 

“Oh.” Silence trickles and Fezco misses the buzz of her voice so he presses, “Well, why you like it?”

“Because it’s from you, Fez.” She speaks, simply and without a glimpse, like it wasn’t the sweetest of answers and, despite her being a heathen, he decides to burrow that into his mental Garden of Eden . Lexi hastens to add, “And it’s-”

“- That Emily chick.” Fezco resolves for her lamely but he smiles and it makes her think he’s saying it more adoringly than annoyed. He continues, “Yeah, you been in, like, some fuckin’ trance wit it.”

“It’s just romantic.” She’s not looking at him, choosing herself to focus on the page. Her volume starts to narrow to a coy mumble, “I needed, like, more romance, I guess.”

“You missin’ Tucker?” He assumes. 

Tucker and Lexi never actually dated.

However, they were chemistry partners, funny enough, and Lexi had a running crush for the past year. She’d update Fezco every week after any new information that came up, things like ‘he touched my hand’ or ‘I caught him looking at me from across the hall’ or, devastatingly, ‘he asked me out’-  until, just a month ago, when she had ran up to Fezco’s car, bucked the bison colored belt and said, plain and flat,  ‘I don’t think I like Tucker’ but never explained the reasons as to why; just that she knew. 

Fezco was too ecstatic to even ask. 

“Ha ha.” Lexi deadpans. “Missing romance , not Tucker.”

Fezco nods tonelessly. There’s a short breath of relief and he feels slightly selfish for it. She waves a hand toward her chest, fanning herself. It catches his eye.

“I just want, like, the feeling.” She continued off handedly, once the air had thinned out. She sticks the spoon in her mouth to flip the page but speaks despite it, muffled and all, “Like knowing that someone would, like, fuck you.”

“Think that’s bein horny, Lex.”

“Then I'm horny.” She grins amusingly (to which he burns to, to which he dies to), then, taking the spoon out of her mouth, “ Kidding .”

He huffs.

“Yeah, okay.”

“I am.” She giggles and the fuse in his head then explodes too. “I just like being liked .”

“Shit.” 

“What?”

“I mean,” He shrugs again. “I like you.” 

It doesn’t sound strange, it’s more mutual than anything — I like you in the way someone likes the sun — so indescribably natural. It’s part of his entire being to like the sun, but not more than Lexi. Not ever.

“That’s true,” She says cathartically. “You’re the only one.”

“It’s somethin’.” He says it softly, afraid to go on but he pushes along the threshold of his stomach muscles anyway. “Not enough though, right?”

“That’s everything to me, Fez.” She doesn’t elaborate on that, good or bad, and he thinks it’s for the best because her voice goes uncharacteristically heavy, thick tongued when it’s usually loose.

He doesn’t respond, the will is practically gone and his mouth must be wired to a shut. Instead, he watches her hands again because she goes frantically writing, slating the page with underlines and sketching small hearts near passages that made her chest feel pompous. It's a feeble grip to her pen but it pulls out the rousing imagery of her hand over his throat, tugging and squeezing. 

Feeling gutter headed, he shifts his eyes to the ground and decides to live there.

Still, the image flutters mechanically: he’d kiss her all over, every section and lapse with a soft tongue, like a poet who knows only of one love and that one love had died. It isn’t fair to be burdened with a desire so godforsaken, he tends to think.

It is the most vexing and promising thing: Lexi is his best friend, nothing less or more. Just right.   

It pokes at his brain like an old stinging bruise that won’t go away and for whatever reason, he keeps punishing the same spot, hoping for a different outcome; clearer skin.

“Hey, Fez?”

Unaware that he was zoned into the floor, brain wrecked from the rumination of her, he flutters a couple blinks and darts his eyes back up, only having the muscle in his throat to, “Hm?”

“Hi,” She gives a lenient grin, “You blanked.” 

“Hey, yeah-” He swallows, nods vehemently. “S’all good.”

Lexi examines him closely and If he were crestfallen he didn't show it so she goes with the next obvious assumption, “Are you sleepy, angel?” 

He likes when she calls him things like that, her voice wanes and soils into his bloodstream but sometimes he wishes she wouldn’t; it makes his entire brain go bleary and bleak with rusty blood. 

“My bad.” He keeps himself casual and clears his throat. His head motions to the yogurt in her hand, “You almost done?”

He feels caught in a short ficker of a shared gaze but Lexi eventually eases her eyes off of him and asks, “Want the last bite?”

It lightens the mood, enough to brace him with a small growing smile as he slowly lifts himself off the fridge to grab the yogurt from her, spoon plopped into the last bit of yogurt left. 

He scoops it up and wiggles it at her, “On god?”

“Positive.” She giggles, eyes darting along his face; it almost unnerves him. “Take it.”

He pauses, gives her a moment to change her mind and when she doesn’t, he takes the last bit of strawberry and tries not to think about her tongue and lips, goes to swallow with a slight thickness as he throws the spoon to the sink. 

While closing the book and using her forefinger as a bookmark, she asks, “Can I sleep on you?” and slides off the counter, knee briefly hitting his thigh, erupting his skin with goosebumps she can’t see.

“Why?”

She jerks a brow, “Cause I want to?” and a smile induces itself as she explains, “You’re comfy, Fez. You’re better than those, like, tempurpedic pillows.”

He snorts unconvincingly. 

“Seriously,” she locks her arms around his and rests a temple to his bicep. She squeezes him and it’s a bit torturous. “Let me enjoy it while I can.”

“‘While you can’?” He questions, which she nods at. 

She says, “Before you get a girlfriend.” and after some thought, “Or I get a boyfriend.”

That burns, but still, he says, “Yeah, sure.” even though he should probably say no, even though being close to her is the first problem to how he feels about her — it’s like tending to a cut with a spear. He must like being a scapegoat because he goes on with, “Lets sleep.” And, so, they do. 

Lexi falls asleep on his chest like she lived in the sieve of it. And when it isn’t too heavy, the weight of his heart, so does he. 

 




Like any other day, she comes over and, depending on what he’s doing, will take over his streaming services and DJ movies for herself. If she were feeling more sentimental then she’d claw at a book from a small library of books he kept for her, all types of things, not much, but her eyes would light up like it were a candy store and she was a new found owner of it. 

Today, he isn’t busy so he lounges around with her and they combine the two. The air is serene and through it, inspite of it, he can hear the chatter of the TV, it’s muffled at first; New Girl, the first kiss episode that Lexi always pines after, droughts over. 

After a couple minutes of silence, halfway through the episode, right when he hears Jess admit that Nick is cooler but only about 70% of the time, Lexi slowly rises herself up. 

“Hey, Fez?”

He hums, more focused on the graphic novel in front him than her at the other end of his couch, back slumped at the arm of it. 

When she doesn’t answer, he lets the book descend and peeks over it: she’s watching him intently and in response to the abrupt movement, she darts an eye to meet his.

Once she has his attention, treating it like jewels that are constantly being sought for, she's quick to ask: “Remember your last girlfriend?”

“Ava.” He recalls, then, while picking his graphic novel back up in disinterest, eyeing the next page, “Yeah, sure, why?”

She continues anyway, “How did you, like… did you kiss her first?”

He flips the page, scans it and answers, a beat too late, “Yeah. At New Years.”

“Oh.” she murmurs and the silence lengthens, kind of snakes between their limbs like an anaconda and it full-bore squeezes, pinches every crook. 

Something vital spirals in the air between them. He can feel it lodge up his jugular and he tries to swallow it but it doesn’t help. Scathing to it, he prompts, “Why? What’s up?” 

As if to stir whatever lingers, she asks, “How did you know she, like, wanted to kiss you?”

“I didn’t.” He answers, sincerely. “Just hoped for the best and went for it.” 

“Did you ask?”

“Nope, just did it, Lex.” 

“Was it good?”

Another page flip. It's silent, only brief; outrageously heavy.

Finally, he shrugs, then, “Ion remember, was drunk.”

“You don’t drink.” She narrates. 

“Nah but I needed somethin’ to do that shit.”

She nods, breathless as she asks, “But it was fine?”

“But it was fine.” Everything goes silent and the noise that does exist, the muffled TV static and disembodied voices, sound clearer than before. Hearing it, the book goes back down to his chest and he’s peers over at her. Her pointed eyes stick to the tv and there's line forming between her brows; he goes cotton picking at the reasons for it. Leaning over to sit the novel at the table, he repeats it softer: “What's up?”

She blinks rapidly, shakes her head into nothing. She wasn’t actually staring into the TV, he realizes. Rather, she was staring into a void, a mental portal she conjured herself. He doesn't stop looking at her and, as if to feel it, she peeks at him.

He says, "Tell me."

"It's weird."

"I like weird." Then, "Tell me, baby."

He figured the pet name would soothe her but if anything, it fazed him enough to pause and go witless. That feels so natural for him to say, like his tongue knows it, as if it had always made the vowels for her. 

Lexi flits a gaze to him and grazes her sight along the slope of his face and cheeks; it’s more tender than he’s used to. It must sound seamless to her too. 

One of them clears their throat; breaks the silence with a bang.

“I don’t know if this is, like, totally weird but…” Lexi scrunches her nose, face blossoming. “Um..”

“Um…?” He gives her an encouraging smile, meaning to be kind but she looks to her clamped hands and chuckles blankly, flustered, even. He sits up and waits patiently, knowing that her mind was always pinwheeling and she was trying not to spin out of it. 

“Can we.. is it okay if you kiss me?” 

The smile on his face seems to defrost, melt slowly as his eyes flutter. Maybe he wouldn’t be mad if the world ended. For all he cares, it could combust and make a crippled kablooey! sound. 

Just as he opens his mouth, red cheeked, she spews, “Like, I mean- not like that-”

“-Right, fuck,” He says, then, “Shit- Lex, why you wanna-”

“- Not to sound like a loser but I never really, like, kissed a guy before and- I mean, Rue was fine but she’s not a guy , you know?- So, I figured-”

"-What?" 

They blink at each other. 

Reluctantly, Lexi starts with, "Yeah, I never kissed a guy, really, so, I thought-"

His hand shoots up and he erratic shakes it, “-Nah,” he says, clearing all her words like an Etch A Sketch. His eyes narrow in on her. “You kissed Rue?”

“I just wanted to know how it felt and-”

“So you kissed Rue.” He emphasizes, again, rattled. She doesn’t answer and he goes tunneling into his mind about it, blinking into a void and licking his lips before asking,  “Like, pre-drugs Rue or on-drugs Rue?”

Lexi sighs. “On drugs.”

Fezco pauses and after a short study, once the image fully landscapes, “Lexi Howard, you fuckin’ dog-”

“Am not.”

He hums from the very back of his throat, still gazing; so vehemently that she can only raise a taut smile. Then, tilting his head at her, “She even remember that?”

“No,” Lexi halts, says, “Well, I don’t think so.”

Fezco emits a little laugh. “You was that bad?”

She defends herself with, “She said I was good-”

“Oh you was?” His eyebrows shoot up, “Forreal?”

“At the time.” She assures. Then, she goes limp, "Fez, I just wanted to know what it was like and Rue was the only option-”

“- You shoulda found me.”

The room goes silent; atoms buzzing and tension matting between the wordless gaze they give each other. 

"Yeah." She says belatedly. Swallowing, "I would've had you kiss me first, if that helps."

That catches him off guard. If anything, it excites his entire soul.

“Look at you.” he marvels, but then he looks away. To his hands. “You ask every friend to kiss you?”

"You're, like, the only friend I would willingly kiss."

“Good.” He answers, too confident and boastfully, not careful in the slightest bit but he can’t rewind and, at the sound of her words getting tangled, the way her chest seems to jump, he goes for the full punch. “You just wanna know what it feels like wit a dude?”

“I want you to do it.” She whispers, a moment too late but it seems to be purgative for her to admit this. 

He bites on the corner of his cheek, eyes seemingly scraping her away and after her breath deepens to the sight, he sits upright and clears his throat, says, “C’mere then, Lexi.” while crooking his hand toward himself. 

“Really?”

“I’ll kiss you.”

She’s hesitant at first, body sort of glitching before she gives a sharp nod back to him, pressing her lips together. Then, she crawls along the length of the couch, slowly until her knees bump into his thigh and she sits on her calves, propped up to be a bit taller than his sitting body. 

He veers up at her, cast ironing the image of her looking down at him to his memory for later; for nights when everything feels snappy and vitriolic. 

Fezco’s gentle, sedating his own heart by keeping a breath inside as his hand raises up to her. Before it could even touch her, he suddenly stalls.

“M’gonna touch your cheek, okay?” He warns and she sounds winded as she says, ‘okay, okay’. 

Once he’s sure, he goes back to reaching up to her cheek, edge of his finger hitting the keen of her jaw and there’s a slight sting, raw enough to make him exhale slowly. Right as she inhales a bit of courage. 

He smooths his hand over her cheek, thumb prodding over the skin briefly. Scooting closer to her, he’s not vexed about her knee jabbing right into his thigh; not caring, at all, for how everything seems to numb and he therozies that this is what dying could feel like and if there were to be a grave to be buried into, he hopes it looks like her. 

“Gonna pull you in, now.” He murmurs and he can feel her breath flatline, floor across his face as she nods, eager- so much so that his head drones. He tugs her a bit closer, their breaths grapple and scuffle.

Their nose prod along each other and he can feel her mouth, it’s so close. So close he could feel the tap of her tremble, right at the tip of his.

“You’re fine, Lexi?”

“I’m fine, Fezco.” She assures, though he can hear her vocal cords topple and break in half. 

“Okay,” he breathes, “I’m- im gonna kiss you, now.”

”Okay.” 

And when she doesn’t part her mouth, “Follow me, alright?”

“Okay.” 

Her lips part, mirroring his; skin grazes, she’s meek so he kisses lightly on her bottom lip, incredibly light. She doesn’t register it until it stings to be parted and dips her mouth for a fuller kiss.

It’s a short, fleeting kiss that they never completely part from. They stay hushed, agape mouths resting along each other as it processes, it detains their senses and the stillness of their bodies feel verbose in the sentiment alone of ‘ kiss me’ and ‘i'll kiss you.’

Tired, hungry and caught in her riptide, he kisses her again and swallows, goes to part from her with a face that is now bright and hot but she leans forward to firmly press her mouth to his, receiving his kiss back; slow building, crackling like a blown fire.

She seems to like that feeling because she leans a bit closer, enough to make him instinctively grab at her waist; still so gentle that it doesn’t reach either mind. His kisses are slow and soft, wet and warm, engulfing her mouth and she tries, to his surprise, to sink her tongue between his lips and all he could do is let her. 

Slightly pulling away, she asks, heavy breaths, “That’s how you make out with someone, right?”

“I- yeah-” He mumbles, brain clouded and limbs feeling limp and jaded, with just enough ache to press his mouth to hers again, a thicker kiss that she shudders over. Lexi parts for a second, that’s all, to pull herself over his lap and he doesn’t stop her- only quickly connects their mouths like it were something ruinous. She rocks, slightly but enough to choke him; low and raspy, “Fuck,” and she slowly reels closer to catch his mouth again when he tries to part away to ask, “I- you wanna stop?”

“No.” She insists and must mean it because her arms wrap over his neck and her kiss grows erratic, nose smashing and blood curdling. Against his mouth, just as he follows her reeling away from him, “Do you?”

He shakes his head, “No.” and his hand tightens on her hip, sinks her down to press his pelvis. Lexi can feel him, he can feel her but he dismissed it, dips his mouth right back to her and sucks lightly at her bottom lips, enraptured with his name slipping out of her mouth like it’s all she knows, and maybe it is.

The movement of their mouths fastened, a sound comes from the back of her throat and he goes delirious to it, threading his fingers through her hair to plant his palm to the back of her head, press her closer to his lips, close and yet its never enough but at least he can feel every fiber of her as their heads move through the gulp they take of each other in some mission to overwrought the feeling on their tongues, feelings that she gives to him by shoving her tongue through the crack of his mouth again. 

He widens his jaw for her, briefly touching her tongue with his before closing their mouths and places his hand to the crook of her neck, squeezes lightly to a sloppy kiss; her lips are plush and lashing, smiting any other thought with a rhythmic flow that feels more cathartic than anything.

She moves again, a small grind that yanks a groan from him and, when she pulls away, like it startled her, he’s on the way to apologize but she only pecks at him a few times, rests a closed fist to his shoulder with her nails sinking into her palm; like she’s resisting. 

They slowly part and their faces look the same: meshed with red, raw and maimed at the mouth. 

He licks his lips as if to try and taste her again but it only nips to not taste anything at all, and then, he says, arduously, “Now you know.”

Something wild stains the glass of her eye; though he isn’t sure what it is and he can’t tell the shade. Just retain that it’s there. Wild. 

“Now I know.” She mumbles, grabbing feebly at his cheek in some type of astonishment, eyes darting from his eyes to his mouth, thumb pulling at the corner of his lips and it’s all bidding at once so he leans into her again. 

That is until the front door slams to an open and they both jolt away from each other like skittish pigeons- just as Ash calls out, sounding burly and harsh, “Yo, we gotta stock on some shit-”

“Oh, forreal?” Fezco yells out, trying to sound normal but his voice withers and cracks as he goes palming at the graphic novel forgotten on the table. As Ash walks forward, he shoves that in front of his burning face, at some random page, upside down book covering the obvious as he sharply clears his throat. “Stock on what?”

“That stuff Lexi likes-” There’s a pause; then, “Yo, when the fuck you get here?”

"Like, three hours ago.”

“Damn, you ain't gotta home or what?”

Ash .” Fezco scolds, dropping the book down to diminish that question with a look of a thousand daggers, “She allowed here all she want.”

“What he said.” Lexi pipes up, not daring to look at him- thank god, he’ll puke out a lung or two. Then, “You guys don’t have any more Snapple ?”

“Nah,” Ash answers to then conspire, tin hat and all, “You probably drank it all- for free too.”

Fezco snorts. “Nah, man, that shit popular or somethin’.”

“Yeah” He replies, “you sayin’ that cause it’s Lexi.”

“S’nuff reason to me.” settles Fezco. 

Ash opens his mouth in retaliation but suddenly pauses at him. After a short wander, “You red as hell, bro.”

And Fezco torches completely, not daring to look at Lexi and, instead, tolerating the loss by shoving his book back up to his face and leaning into the couch, muttering, “Whatever, mind yo fuckin’ business and stock the shelf if you mad about it.”

It’s quiet for a second, and just as Fezco’s calming down, Ash goes, “Lex, you too- the fuck ya’ll doing?”

Neither one answers. Their throats get caught on something; a rope ties between them and it tightens whenever the other breathes. 

Liability, he thinks.  

But nothing really changes after that. Lexi’s still his best friend and they joke about kissing each other every now and then. Still, never vividly do they talk about the feeling of wanting to split each other; with what feels like crooked teeth to straight pearly whites, like a muzzle to the truth, like a catch to a deal. 

So, he’s sure. 

Liability , he thinks, again, but this time there isn’t a stain of her mouth to his, just a bruise to his brain as he stares up the ceiling and thinks of her in the dark, into nothing: gotta be liability.  




 

 

“This one?”

“Nah.”

“This?”

“Wack.”

Ash - don’t be rude-”

“You asked for an opinion, like, how you gonna be mad at an opinion- Shit, bro, an opinion you asked for?” There’s a pause, then, “Yeah, ion like that pic either. Fuck.”

“What? How? It’s, like, the best pic I have.”

“Damn, condolences.”

A sigh brews out of Lexi’s throat and as Fezco rounds the corner and meets their backs, he can see, even at that angle, Ash grimacing into her phone. 

Then, he automatically darts an eye to Lexi; her hair is braided and she’s wearing a stolen sweater, one he had been looking for months ago but it seemed to fit her better so he’ll pretend not to notice and keep it as some personal innuendo of his affection.

Fezco dumps his bag to the dining room table and Lexi’s the first to jerk to it, snapping her head to the side and a grin braces over her otherwise solemn face. She turns her body, props her arms up on the edge of the couch arm as she says, “You’re home.” Like he hasn’t noticed. 

Fezco exhales a gravelly ‘hey’, one that sounds more like relief than he had meant. Then, to cover it, he asks, “When you get here?” and tips his head to Ash, who doesn’t notice him, still nose deep into Lexi’s photo album. “Yo, be nice- every pic of her s'good.”

Ash grumbles something inaudible and Lexi ignores his last sentiment, goes to say, “An hour ago. Where were you?”

“Doin’ what I do.” He says, simply because anything more complicated and he might be embarrassed for it. Rounding around the coffee table to flop beside her, “Why you lettin him bully you?”

“I’m not,” She nudges Ash’s shoulder. “He’s helping me pick a profile picture.”

Fezco waits for her to continue, and when she doesn’t and he’s merely staring, “For?”

“Tinder.”

“Tinder.” He mouths silently to himself, eyes darting along her face; viscous and clabbered in attention. There’s a growing red to the tip of her nose and her lip quivers; it’s not cold, it’s not too warm either, he thinks, so it doesn’t make sense. He swallows, tries to appear unaffected by leaning to grab the remote on her thigh, “Why?”

“What do you mean why?” She asks, a bit uneasy. Then, stuttering out a laugh just as he leans away, “To find somebody?”

“Ion think people look for romance on that shit.”

She squints at him, then, with a scoff, “Okay, then for experience.”

Fezco bites his tongue to that and it tastes tart; everything suddenly sour and sullen. 

“If you want.”

“You don’t care?” She asks though it’s more of a statement than question; more of a revelation.

“No.” He flicks his attention elsewhere and stares off into the Tv, flicking through the channels as he defends, delayed, “S’just a pool of horn dogs, Lex. Careful.”

“S’what I told her.” Ash mutters, automatically going off track once he hits one picture and perks up, turns to Lexi with something close to excitement; though not much, “This one hella pretty.”

“Really?” She scrunches her nose, disbelieving. “That’s the one?”

“Yeah, bro, this one chill- you ain’t a try hard wit this one-”

“I’m not being a ‘try hard’.”

“Whatever,” Ash mumbles, then, “Look, L, you just take shitty pics but this one? I like this.”

Fezco doesn’t look but could hear the two quarrel over it: Lexi thinks it’s plain but Ash is insistent that it’s not only pretty but doesn’t subject her to an automatic dick pic. 

It’s only brought to his attention moments later when Ash suddenly flounders out, “Yo, Fez,” And he jerks his head habitually to his name, quickly met with the phone facing him. “Don’t Lexi look pretty in this?” 

He blinks; something concaves in his stomach and the root of his neck feels stiff and unusable. It’s true: the world, really, probably has exploded because she’s more than pretty. 

In the photo, she’s grinning vivaciously, lips painted carmine and cherry skin that furnish the high cheekbones on her face, eyes so doe and blameless, demure in combination with the loose curls and thin strapped dress that peaks just beneath. 

Fezco briefly flickers through a mental diary of synonyms, ones he had read from books, circled lazily and wrote a small ‘L’ to the margin, no matter how small or big: alluring, catching, cute, angelic, divine, bewitching- Fezco blinks again because yes, that’s the one, she’s bewitching

“Yeah…” Fezco murmurs, a bit transfixed, taken somewhere else because he’s not thinking when he says, “Shit, beyond just pretty.”

He tastes the statement at the very end of his mouth and, startled, jerks to look at her.

The heater could be too high because there’s a slight tinge of rouge to her cheeks. It shrouds her skin, drippy looking, crawling to her jaw so he thinks to turn it down for a split second. A good 68 degrees would do.

“Yeah, see?” Ash motions to a churning Fezco though Lexi doesn’t even look at him. “Even Fez likes this pic and dude don’t even look at girls.” There’s a pause and, without a glance, he could hear the gears in Ash’s head turn before he peers over to Fezco and says, “You know I ain’t gotta issue if you gay, man-”

“-M’not gay, Ash.” Fezco mutters (and he knows this for sure. Lexi’s the only one who knows but he’s made out with a guy before, got on top of him and tried to enjoy a dude wrapping a hand over him but it didn’t sit well. Nonetheless, it was a cool experience). Then, bumping his shoulder to hers, so soft in tone that it has his mouth feeling pliable, “He’s right, though, s’good pic to use.”

Without a glimpse and grabbing back at her phone to tilt the photo to herself, she asks, “You like it?”

“I love it.” 

She nods once but it’s heavy, says, “Guess so.” and he feels compliant in her silence. Her brown eyes watch the screen as he flicks through random movies; none really screaming at him. Eventually, she tilts her head and rests her temple on his shoulder, quiet like her throat was welting. 

Ash snorts and jokes, “Yo, put that dumb ass movie-”

Dirty Dancing ?” Fezco guesses without inflection. It’s the one movie Ash can’t seem to stop watching despite always having something biting to say about it. He claims it’s the storyline he hates but Fezco thinks the kid is too embarrassed to admit actually liking the material.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Forreal?”

“On grandma.”

With a disbelieving look, he says, “Man, stop saying that.” 

"Anyway," Ash ignores him, says, "Put that shit on." Just as he sinks into the couch and kicks his feet on the table, right next to Lexi who sinks herself into Fezco shoulder like it were quicksand though without fear, no struggle. 

He would usually reject that idea, not wanting to hear the whining, but he decides to do so because Lexi’s horribly quiet and it makes him feel like a snowball in her swollen flame. It’s selfish and maybe a bit vain, but he thinks Lexi wanted him to say something about an online dating profile. 

“Hey, you,” Fezco tips his shoulder and she finally peers at him, “S’all up to you, Goofy.”

Her eyes dart to his mouth but it’s so brief, merely a flicker, that he forgets it as soon as she looks back to him. 

She says, “Sounds good.” and to his relief, the corner of her lip flicks up.

 

 


 

 

She texts him randomly one day. 

It’s sometime in the middle of the week while he’s just finishing up with sending off an order, slumped in his car and White Ferrari by Frank Ocean had just summoned itself on the radio, barely above a listening notch but he hears; ‘you say we're small and not worth the mention’’ by chance and he turns it up because it speaks and he knows exactly what that means. 

He looks down and the picture gleams at him, kind of like a light at the end of a long and deafening tunnel that feels more like a loop than a way out. It’s medicine so he takes his time in studying at the picture she texts to him. 

He compares it to the sun and thinks the same way he had always: the sun would kill her, want to cannibalize her smile and all the brown pigment to her eyes, lips so wholesome in the way that gives him this feeling of gentle melancholy in his chest; a weird mix of hope but blistering grief. 

Beneath the pic, she writes: this one isn’t for tinder :)

And he smirks a little, texts back: naahhhhh really?

Imagining her nodding, grinning as she texts back, just you as the sun falls and the song ends too quick .

Fezco puts his phone down and something billows and surges through every creak of his body: it aches and it’s tired for reasons he can't fathom.

He wonders if she knows what the lyric means too, if she’d feel it to the bone like him. And, for every reason in the universe, for whatever it is worth, he hopes she doesn’t. 

 

Yeah?



Yup! Just you.



You the prettiest girl fr

I love it



<3.

 


 

 

Whenever things get bad or worse than bad (and bad is bad enough) Lexi goes ‘home’ to respire as she calls it but, really, she means his home or, interchangeably: their home.

He’s busy counting money, running it through the machine and lounging a blunt to his mouth, not really thinking of anything but there is a slight thump to his head to the sound of an operating machine. 

At the knock of his door, it’s light and fluttery, he instantly looks to his phone and finds that she must’ve found her way home because she texts, ‘it’s me!’ and something crawls in the cavity of his chest, probably to steal the entirety of his blood and wrap his arteries into a bowed knot. 

He gets up slowly like it were a chore even though he’s actually buzzing, and makes his way to the door to open it. 

She perks up just as it opens and goes, “I’m home!” with the tail end of her sentence falling backwards and sounding deflated. 

“School night.” He reminds her but, still, she tries a hopeful smile despite something neurotic in her eyes. 

“Right, I know.” She presses her lips together, straightening the curve and gives her shoes a glance. To the untied lace, she worries, “Is this a bad time?”

“Nah, was just counting. Nothin' goin on, you can come in.” But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t even breathe. Leery of it, he bends to the side to look over her shoulder and she momentarily blurs in his vision; her bike lays horizontal on his driveway, lonely and dipped in yellow porch lights. Blinking back to examine her, he asks, "You alright?"

"It's for sure okay to come in?”

"Yeah, Lex."

She takes a step forward only to wind herself back.

“Can you drive me to school tomorrow?”

His eyebrows slowly pinch together through the nod he makes and, a bit disquieted that she’d ever question it, he scoffs a small chuckle. “Course I can.”

“Then I could sleep over?” She leads up and he nods again at her, steps aside for her to walk through and she does, sluggish and sheepish but he ignores it. The door squeaks to an almost close when she abruptly spins to face him and, as if he could take it back now, “Unless you rather me go, that’s okay too, I don’t want to, like, suffocate you-”

“Huh?" He blinks, "What you say to me?

“Yeah, I-” She pauses at the gape, then, “I can go home if you want, that’s all.”

“You are home.” He says, a bit vigorous. His tone goes stale, even treading somewhere close to annoyance but that’s not quite the word for it. “And you ain’t ‘suffocating’ nobody, Lexi. C’mon. Ash just playin when he says shit like that.” 

“I know,” she says, and then, “I know, I'm sorry.” as she pales and shifts her feet closer together. He feels a bit bad but he means it- she isn’t that; she’s what makes life not suffocating, what reminds him of air. Gathering a breath, the rest of her sentence comes out. “I just don’t want you to be tired of me.”

Fezco sighs, eyes going droopy at the concept alone. Somehow, that’s worse.

Simply, he tells her, “That ain’t even possible. Swear to you.” and goes shutting the door before she could leave with the idea. "Actin' goofy as fuck right now."

He turns back to her and in the dim light, just two lamps from the very corner being lit and flickering a muted yellow around the room, looking like the inside of peach, they stare with zipping gazes, eyes darting along each other like they were mused; like they were in a museum and the Mona Lisa had moved and smiled at them. 

Clearing his throat and ripping his attention away, stuffing it to the floor, he nods his head to the hallway. “You hungry?”

“Tired.” She corrects, all wary and he gets the memo and goes to turn off the lights, decides that the money could be counted tomorrow morning while Lexi and Ash eat breakfast- lucky charms, he’s sure he has enough of that for both of them. That’s something they’ve done countless times before and it sort of kills to think it could ever end. 

She corners one side of his room and, because she knows the ins and outs of his routine, she slides into bed while he wardens the house once more, closing blinds and clicking locks- pining money in a bag, concealing it inside.

He comes back and pulls at the sheets, veiled in the dark but she finds him through the obscurity and palms at his bicep. 

“Yeah?” He inquires.

He hears her head shake, then, it’s accompanied by, “Nothing.” and he’s pulled to her circuit, mouth hitting the skin to his shoulder as she admits, “I, like, missed you.”

“Missed you.” Fezco hums, low and rumbly. After a beat of fixing himself underneath the sheets, “Somethin’ wrong, though?”

“Just missed you.” She repeats and he thinks she’s telling the truth because her hand has diffused in tension and the squeeze at his forearm is facile- it’s a friendly touch, he knows it, but still- the planet stirs and flips. Just as he closes his eyes to it, “Are you tired?”

He thinks of the song again. Then, “Mhm.”

Lexi could know the meaning, or maybe she’s just incredibly good at reading his tone and feeling his skin because, as if to know he doesn’t mean ‘sleepy’ tired, she goes, “Of?”

“Everythin’.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” He breathes, sniffing once before saying, “But, you know. Just tired.”

“What can I do?” She asks. 

“Sleep better wit you. Ion know how I slept before you.” he says and it sounds random but, really, it isn’t. It’s like the secret to the universe, the lost and forgotten 8th wonder of the world.

“Really?”

“M’glad you came.” He admits. Then, “What’s on your mind?”

“Usual.” She says and he thinks he knows what she means: probably something to do with home, her compulsive mom or erratic sister, or even Rue or school or maybe everything at once, it all spins so fast it’s creates a tornado of worries but he can tell she doesn’t necessarily care to speak all about it cause she goes, all meek and partly sunny, “But i’m happy here.”

He turns to kiss the warm skin that tips right on his shoulder — her temple. “Good.”

“Yeah, good.” she breathes, settles and exist. 

There’s an interlude of soft breathing and silence that feels more explosive and rugged than it should. 

Like it was too much, “Fez?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I read?”

He catches on. “You wanna turn yo lamp on?”

“If it doesn’t bother you.”

“Never does.” he shifts to his side, faces away from her, “Got your book on my table.”

He hears the click of the lamp and through the shades of his eyelids, there’s a glow of muted blonde that prisons his vision. Shuffling closer to the pillow, he allows his arm to sandwich the pillow with his head and he goes off thinking, listening to the sound of page flips and her breathing; nothing and everything at the same time, really. 

Just as he’s starting to fall asleep, his memory wallows up and he tugs himself awake. 

A bit groggily, he abruptly says, “Wait.” and shoots a hand to grab the handle to his drawer, yanking it open. 

And it seems to have startled Lexi because she jolts and a breath shot out like a riccochet while his hand catalogs through the receipts, photographs, random pens and old handmade presents Ash had given him as a younger boy. 

Just as she’s about to ask, he finds it. 

“Don’t laugh.” He tells her and she can’t help but grin anyway just as he turns to face her, bed squeaking and mattress making a ruffling noise as he turns to her. Catching the smirk on her face, he snickers, then, “Told you not to laugh.”

“I’m smiling.

“Stop doin’ that too.” He jokes only to quickly regret it when she tries to press her lips together and straighten them out.  He briefly pinches her chin, “Fuckin' wit you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, smile and I’mma show you.”

She tries to conceal the smile out of spite but it only widens through a small laugh and he’s dazed at the width of her lips. His finger briefly swipes over it and he kicks himself for the mess it makes of his chest, cleaning it by dropping his hand and peering away from her. 

“So, uh.. you know, s’lame as fuck but-”

“-Ash made fun of you.” She assumes, “Didn’t he?”

Chuckling, he confirms, “Hell yeah but, you know.” Maybe she doesn’t because she jerks a brow at him and the book, the one he had bought her, goes sliding down her waist as she studies him, trying to guage where his emotions landed. After a moment, fiddling with his closed palm, “Anyway.. yeah, so… I made this since you always, like, usin’ your thumb and bendin’ the edge of the paper.”

Blinking at him, Fezco slowly opens his hand and she peers down to his palm. He glimpses up at her and the light behind her is giving her a halo, something similar to the Virgin Mary, flaxen light outlining her body while it only splashes over his face; like drips of heaven, trickles of her. 

It’s simple. 

An origami heart. Red. Made of paper, meant to sleeve the edge of the page like a bookmark. Lexi written right on the front. 

“Fezco.” She murmurs, all benevolent and grainy. “I love it.” Then, resolutely, like it were everything, “God, I love it.”

She grabs at it, peering up to meet his eyes and they idled on her mouth, jerked to meet hers. 

“Thank you.” She says before glimpsing at it and bubbling out a giggle, like it was something grand and irreplaceable. 

While watching her place it to the edge of her page and getting excited, exclaiming, “Fez, look, look!” as he masked a nonchalant laugh, there was something mauling at his sternum, pulling and twining it like it were dry play doh that was no longer fun because it asked for genuine effort in molding the cracks away. 

Fezco presses a hand to his chest and gives it a small rub, tries to smooth the cracks, perplexed at first by it because all that really happened was nothing but he’s talented at making something insignificant be more swallowing than it is. 

Though it feels nice, he believes it might kill him because it only happens when he’s with her. 

And it keeps on strengthening. He thinks it’ll crush him someday. 

 

 


 

 

 

She wears his polo to school, tries to make herself look presentable with two fastened braids that he helps her with, tightens with a light hand and even lighter breath. 

"Is it dumb looking?" She asks.

"No, I like this." He tells her, only flattening his hand over the style, with something rickety in his chest. "Fits you." and he thinks, shit, you'd fit me too. 

She's crimson; she must believe him.  

When he drops her off at school, she doesn’t automatically get out. Sitting, it’s like she’s waiting for something. 

“Somethin’ wrong?”

”Yes.”

”What?”

He blinks, and the sound of his eyelashes is the only noise. She doesn’t answer and a bubble forms in his chest, wallowing.

”What’s wrong?”

Lexi looks at him and it’s kind of cruel. It’s unfulfilling, too little. He wants to reach forward; he wants to jerk away.

but then she slowly reaches, touches his jaw. He doesn’t say anything, or move, terrified that she’d move too. She asks, “Can I kiss you?” And the blood drains down, puddles at his fingertips. 

”Why?”

She tips his jaw up.

“Practice.” She says, sounding fake. Rubbery. It all seems to gouge her confidence, when he doesn’t speak. “I… or never-“

Fezco closes the gap and presses his mouth to hers before she could puke the words out, rough and fast; she lets out something like a moan, something that gets him grabbing at her jaw, tugging her into a swollen kiss that feels frenzied.

Her lips fall to his jaw and he claws at her hair, threads through them and a moan flickers out. A hand falls to his lap and he spasms just a bit, brief but apparent enough for her to pull away.

Then, “I’m- I’m sorry, I don’t know why-“

“-it’s fine, Lex, it’s- it’s fine.”

It’s quiet; he’s trying not to ache.

“I should go to, um, class.”

”Okay,” he murmurs. “Pick you up.”

”Okay.” She halts and, like he could bite her, gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and it's something she never does- something that burns the moment it ends and he's unable to react to it, to even savor it so the car door slams shut and he's already missing her. 

He waits for her to get inside and once she's near the doors, he goes to take the car off park only to catch something at the floor of the car, seemingly slipped out of her bag on accident. 

The book- he can see the red heart stuck to one page and he goes, "Shit." and peers over to the doors to yell out for her but they're wiggling to a close. 

He sighs. 

It's nothing but spilled milk. He'll give it back to her later and, for now, he'll just put it back into her mini library. 

 

 


 

 

Later, he plays a movie and they go into some compulsive rhythmic routine: All three settle in the living room, Lexi and Fezco always sit near eachother but, eventually, she slouches on Fezco’s arm and he lets her sink there, link a flaccid arm around his, play with the ring on his finger as he lights a blunt or joint- whatever he had on him -and Ash goes in his own world, slings over the couch or sits on the floor and sticks his back there while he pops chips into his mouth. 

Blue Valentine. They’re at the part where it gets remarkably tragic. Maybe that’s why he tunes it off his mind, he doesn’t like the idea of it: ‘remarkably tragic’ .

He’s not really aiding the movie, his eyes merely idle on the screen; he’s focused on her tiny fingers playing with his ring, twirling it over like a ballerina in some broken, fucked up music box. Then, she stops and it’s like he needs to mechanically pull the drawstring for another 30 seconds of twining.

“Do you not like the movie?” He snaps his eyes to the corner and she’s already staring up at him, set on his mouth. She flicks to seek him and goes on, “We can change it, Ash fell asleep.”

He peers over and she’s right; the boy is toppled over, eyes shut and looking his age, ripely young. 

“No, s’good.” He says, eyeing Ash and not daring to look at her, he can feel her staring at his mouth and he will kiss her again if that’s the case. Then, as he starts to shuffle up, “I’mma put him in his room, come back for you.”

“Okay.” She says, or croons or muses- it’s all sensitive sounding. He pats her lap and maybe she doesn’t mean to but she grabs his hand briefly, lightly squeezes and when she lets go and he gets up from the couch, lifts his brother up like he had years prior (all nostalgically sad because Ash is way heavier now and he momentarily has to hike him up to stop the kid from falling), he finds that his hand feels infected. 

He ignores the weeping under his muscle and lays Ash on his bed, smooths the sheets over the brother and stands there for a second because he’s terrified and, now, every end of his limb is feeling septic. 

His skin pulses, has a drumming buzz that zips up his arm and catches a vein to a fire- so his chest slightly pinkens and he finds, a few seconds later, that his cheeks are just as scorching and every crook of his body feels emptier than before. 

Once he finally gathers the courage, he goes back to the living room to find her already drifting off into some sleep and the heat loots his blood and his heart goes in this inbetween of wanting to wake her up and wanting to go back into his room, close his eyes for a different feeling because this one rakes and raids him. 

She suddenly flutters her eyes to an open and turns her head to look at him and, there, in muted light, she gives him a small smile and he realizes then: oh god, I love her. 

But he doesn’t kiss her, nor does he let her know. She grabs his hand again, the moment he sits back down, and goes winding his ring like a ballerina and, somehow, that’s enough.

If longing has felt like anything, it must be that: like dire, all consuming and enslaving heat that doesn’t blast at you- it crawls. It whispers and afflicts with words or touches that come like scraps to a starved dog, cheap residue of want and yet, in spite of that, you’re helplessly hopeful for more of it. 

Hopeful that they give you just a bone of affection to chew on; to live for. 

And that was enough. Just the touch of her hand.

God must be laughing at him because, out of the blue, at the part of the movie where Dean and Cindy ponder divorce, she says, "I think I have a date soon." and it encompasses all of what happens when you accompany longing out of fear for what comes after.

"Oh." He says. 

 

Oh.

 

 





The date happens on a Saturday night and Lexi doesn’t speak of it. 

Fezco figures it’s because he’s a guy and she assumes he wouldn’t want to know the details and string all the pros and cons with her; but that doesn’t make sense because she always told him about crushes and guys she thought were hot. 

To be fair, he can’t necessarily find it in himself to ask how the date went. 

He doesn’t think he could inhabit the details but he does anyway and accepts that it must’ve went well because she’s on her phone a lot more often and she doesn’t visit as often or dares to sleep over (and she stopped laying her head on his shoulder and she stopped calling him that sweet name and she stopped letting him come near her; the world must’ve ended, kablooey! ). 

A week or two passes and he doesn’t hear from her. 

 


 

 

“I just need space.” She tells him when he does ask.

it sounds foreign, like a spoon with a bunch of forks, like the sun had died or something profound like that.

”You need space?”

The phone line goes dead for a moment, he almost peers to make sure she hasn’t hung up but then she says, just as he raises it away from his ear, “Yes.”

He mutters, “If you need it.”

”A break.” She offers. 

“From what?” 

She doesn’t answer.

Kablooey! He thinks, again and again, but this time it’s louder.

 

He can hear it.

 

So, it must exist. 



 


 

 

He misses her. 

And he doesn't mean to but a book falls from his table side and its hers, the one he bought and shoved to her like an offering to a deity (it couldn't have been worth much, though, because she still doesn't talk to him and he can't understand why). 

He sits at the edge of his bed and fiddles with the book, peers into it and, again, he doesn't mean to but her annotations are her tangible thoughts and he misses hearing her voice so he figures this is the next best thing. 

The annotations are wild and erratic; her handwriting is lanky and swirly, small hearts next to underline sentences and exclamation marks at page numbers she especially loved. He smirks at it and runs a thumb down the lines, feeling the indentation of each red pen marking. 

He goes to the page she marked with the heart. And, strange, it’s blank for all but one passage and he recognizes it because she had read it to him- the very first line, at least. 

It reads:

 

 

I trust you, more than I've ever trusted anyone - The world looks different than I ever thought it could be, and I don't want to look for what's broken or what could go wrong. I don't want to brace myself for the worst and miss out on being with you. I want to be the one who gives you what you deserve - and I don't think I ever could deserve any of that, and I know this thing between us isn't a sure thing, but that's what I want  to aim for with you.Because I know no matter how long I get to love you, it will be worth whatever comes after.

 

The monologue is highlighted and underlined, hearts and exclamation marks embroidered the passage, normal, but just beneath the margin, in the smallest of fonts, fickle looking but like she had almost torn the page accidentally with the sharp of her pen tip- she wrote: Fezco .

Fezco falters at this and flutters away a film of blur to his eyes, a couple of fast blinks in an attempt to get rid of the fog because he must be seeing things in some vile masochism. 

He presses his finger to his own name as if to stamp some type of approval and the indentation of the mark pricks his finger, it’s rough and deep; curdling like it came from the back of her throat, from the very bottom pit of her stomach. 

Putting the book down slowly, stuck on the sight of the empty side of his bed- he thinks only to call her, beg for her time and ask for an expiration date on the silence (hope that tonight is the last of it. That the idea spoils and she talks to him irrevocably). He doesn’t do that, any of it. 

He remembered one thing: when things got bad, she came home. And then he figured, for what it’s worth, she’d return back home; to him. 

She’d crawl to his lap, chill this heat on his chest and smother it with her mouth; little licks and halting touches.

He keeps thinking of it. 

He keeps hoping.

 

 




While glaring at the full stock of stupid fucking snapple, he thinks about everything at once: the ‘while I can’ and the ‘you think we’re small and not worth the mention’ and a pit grows in his stomach and becomes a tree of everything he should’ve done. 

He thinks he wants to sever longing, now. He wants to puncture it with grit and cleave it to two, then wheel it to the air and make it nothing but a wisp of smoke to forget. 

The snapple, for once, is fully stock and has been but it’s a joke that Ash doesn’t dare make. 

He zones out to it, deems karma and just as he’s about to turn around to fiddle with the cash register, he hears, “Fez?”

Kablooey! He thinks. 

Turning around to the voice, the sweet melody that prances right to the drum of his ear, Lexi stares right at him with that look again; neurotic eyes, hopeful but devastatingly confused. 

There’s a breakage to his voice as he says, “Lexi, hey.” 

“Hey.” She mimics the stir in his voice; or maybe that’s her own casualty. 

“How you been?”

“Good, fine .” Then, walking closer to him, “Have you been good?”

“Yeah,” He tries to convince himself at the same time, “Yeah, been good, Lex.”

“Great.”

“Yeah.”

They both don’t speak for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s not even intimidating. Just incredibly thinning; demanding. 

Tired of it, he asks,“You here for something?”

“I- kind of, I just- well,” She stutters, clamps her mouth to a shut to rework the thought. “Yeah, Fez. I’m here for something.”

“We got snapple.” he offers. 

That seems to ease her the slightest bit. She suddenly softens, brisk faint laugh coming out; it’s better than nothing. 

“I didn’t come for snapple.”

He nods in sense, asks, “What for?”

Lexi stalls and it feels as if everything else had followed suit and braked into a standstill. The only movement he could see off of her is the fiddling with the end of her skirt, the movement of her eyes, rapid like REM. She stares at him with some type of ample purpose; like she had been wracking her brain in how she would do this, like she were grievous of something that hadn’t even happened. 

It startles him. 

“Lexi?” 

It shakes her out of the trance and he could hear her gulp, even hear the jitter to her skin so he glances at her hand and it’s trembling. 

He begins to ask, “What’s-”

“-Can I see something?” she blurts, cutting the line of his words, voice sounding disoriented. Then, as if to get a grip, “Please?”

Fezco doesn’t understand but because he craves anything that looks like her, he nods out of habit.

“Yeah, I- Ion get what you…” He blinks, knowing what's coming because she’s walking to him, making him take a step back only to hit the counter (not meaning to, just happens to). His heart starts throbbing, making colossal ‘thuds’ in his ears as she stands closer; something catches his throat and kills him.

With a hand that is slowly raising to his jaw, her hip pining him to the counter like a frame, he’s absolute in the idea of being a sinner right now, for allowing himself to pine and perish for it; for how she slowly closes up on him.

Afraid she’d stop, he lets his palm slide to her hip, pressing her closer and there’s a small hitch to her throat, viscous and her head askews.   

She leans forward, tips the button of her nose to his and presses it to one side, asking him to tilt down so he does and their lips graze briefly- with erratic hands, gripping and grappling,  both their mouths stay in some type of jaw slack open, soft brushing, like the other was scared to press into it and sink a taste. 

And then, ploddingly and gentle- so gentle it was angering, she kisses his bottom lip. His mouth closes a bit to it, and in sorrow of the lost contact, he tips his head to catch her into another kiss, slow and wet. 

She palms his cheek, finding it in herself to kiss him again and he finds something screwed into his heart just from the severity of the touch, how openly yearning it felt over his. 

Parting away from him, she barely moves and keeps her eyes closed, skin to her lip still slightly clinging to his mouth like loose fabric. They stay there for a second, chests weaving and breaths going heavy. 

The yearning feels to his chest like aggravated welts, but he still says, “We can stop-” while it contrasts his actions because he raises a hand to grab at her jaw in an attempt to get her to kiss him again. “Do you wanna stop?”

“No.”

“Then kiss me.”

Her mouth smashes into his mouth and it’s rougher- firm enough to evoke a small noise from the back of his throat, cologne stinging her nose and pitching itself to the back of her mind. He goes pinching her chin, dragging it slightly open so he can kiss her unwittingly- with wreckage and prolonged care. 

But then there’s a wet trickle, it slips between their mouths, rips him from where they were. Pulling away from her, his hands cup her cheeks like he had slashed her on accident, tilts her to face him.

He exhales and she stares right into him, through his soul like it were thin white nylon, only to blink away, stray tears falling and he keeps wiping them. 

“Lexi,” he whispers, like it was a secret, her name, like it was his. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I keep thinking about you.”

Everything pauses.

He doesn’t take the bait automatically. Fezco merely cocks a brow, asks, “What you mean?”

And Lexi does it again: study him like there was ruinage, like there was something to be missed. It’s so vicariously that when he opens his mouth to speak again, the words get caught in his teeth and his tongue doesn’t move forward. 

Then, at last, “Is that why you, like, been ignoring me?”

She blinks away, again, strays from looking at his eyes and squeezes at his skin with feeble fingers, plows a puff of air out to say, “I’m not ignoring you, I was never ignoring you, Fez, I’m just scared.”

“For what?”

She swipes her tongue over her teeth, as if to prime it for what she’s about to ask. Then, “Remember when you first kissed me?”

He has a flash of it, quick and zipping: her hands on him, lips warm and wet, her face was vermillion, her skin was just a seething belt around his neck, the sound of his name from her mouth; like he was something. 

Injected with the imagery, he swallows. 

“Yeah,” he says but it sounds chalky so he clears his throat to try again, “Course I do.”

“Maybe that was a mistake.”

He doesn’t speak. The blood drains from his face- cool heat that puddles at his feet and lurks. He’ll die with a whimper. 

His mouth opens but nothing comes out of it so he shakes his head, muted and mangled. 

“Fez, I already compared Tucker to you but- like,” she starts, chuckling tonelessly; just loud noise that covers the frigidity of her throat, “Ever since I kissed you, I compare it to everything.”

“I- you and yo date…?”

“Kissed.” She confirms. “Like, a lot. And I compared it, like, instantly.”

He nods, not getting the point because the prick of insanity for having caught jealousy is much stronger and, consequently, humiliating. 

Dryily, he manages a, “Alright..”

“Alright.” She echoes, though it’s far from alright because she swallows a nerve and says, “...and it all doesn’t feel the same. And i’m angry at you for it because- and I know I haven’t kissed a lot of guys or whatever, but, like, fuck it, im sure- it will never compare.”

He could die. He knows it, he’s setting up a casket and writing a will in his head because he hadn’t even considered what he’d do if he were the worst kisser, if the next guy was better and that stings.

But then she admits: “And I want to kiss you all the time.” 

He only blinks at her, chest starting to increase in breaths but it’s so subtle; she doesn’t even notice it. She’s too strung out, wired. 

As if to come to a conclusion at this moment, she blows every shot of air in her body to mumble, “ And, I want you to kiss me back.

His hand judders to her cheek, “Lexi, I-”

“I really like you.” 

Everything seems to go numb: wind and every atom within a breeze, the sun fell out of the sky and the earth crust must’ve cracked, must’ve dried up. 

Like an idiot, because there’s a feeling of cotton in his mouth and his heart just lurched up, somewhere in the foyer of his throat, “You- what?”

Lexi only nods harrowingly because exactly; ‘ what’?

Then, he doesn’t respond and she chuckles tonelessly again, says, “So, if you don’t want to see me again, if I messed things up and you want me to, like, pretend that I never knew you or if you aren’t hating me right now for messing up- if we can be friends anyway- I- god , I mean- I hope, right?“ she halts, chokes on something- pride, feeble bits of it, then, resolutely, “I’m so, so sorry, Fezco, but I know I like you.” She swallows and it’s more of a whisper but it’s a bang to his ears, “And it’s been fucking horrible pretending I don’t.”

He’s shaking his head at her, more like a ‘please don’t’ to the water that brings her eyes but she takes it cruelly as a please don’t

With her mouth smashing to a thin line, water pouring, it sounds wet and like a plea, like she killed Jesus herself, “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” he’s careful as he stretches a hand to her, “For what? Why’re you sorry, baby?” 

“I’m sorry.” She repeats. "I messed us up."

“You didn't- pretend I know what to say, Lex, but that ain’t somethin to be sorry for.”

“I’m fucking scared.”

“Don’t be.”

“But I am.”

“Alright, okay, s’fine, Lexi,” he coos, fingers wiping away the pour, smearing it but it’s effort nonetheless, “Be scared with me, then. ‘ Fucking scared’ , Lexi, listen, I’m scared too.” And when the tears keep spilling, he can only think to close the gap between them, her mouth to his, smash between the static in her mind and mesh his love to her like it’s the forgotten but amorous 9th wonder of the world. 

After an interlude of complete quiet, she kisses him back, fervent, bringing her hand to grab at his forearm and she squeezes him. She leans closer to him, following a gaping mouth with a locking kiss, closing the opening and pressing her tongue through the slit of his lip and he loves that feeling.

“I like you more.” He mumbles to her mouth, just as she calms, eye of the hurricane, and he goes squeezing her waist, pinching the edge of it. “I’ll prove it, Lex, I swear.”

Pressing her so close that it’s like she’d be mending to him, mouth pressure so thick and sticky that she holds onto the crook of his neck, he fingers curl at the beginning to his nape. 

His kisses go sloppy, not making sense because he kisses every section of her: the curve to her damp jaw, slide of her cheeks, flutter of her eyelids and drops down to kiss her jaw again, nipping with gentle teeth as he switches for her to be pressed against the counter. 

He hikes her up on the counter, places himself between her thighs because he lives there- at least he should- and rolling his hand up her thigh, he pulls at her skirt’s hem, tug for a question and she breathes out, “ Please-”

Understanding her immediately, feeling her hands tug at his belt, “You forreal not ready for that, Lex-”

“But I can be.” 

“You was askin’ me if we were making out couple weeks ago, M’not gonna-“

“I want to.” She presses, tipping her mouth back to his, skimming the bottom of his lip and squirming to him sucking her lip in, biting it lightly, so kindly that she can’t breath and merely rests her hand to his wrist instead, rolling his hand up her thigh; it’s warm, fleshy. 

His mouth lapses over her neck and he squeezes at the thick of her thigh, breathes, “Calm down.” And before she could ask him how?, his hand slides up her thigh and goes between her legs, the pad of his finger tapping at her panties and she automatically melts to it. 

She lets out a small breath, his name fluttering out as he rubs at her clit. He’s holding in a pant but it comes out nonetheless to the widening of her legs, her nails scraping his skin. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, pupil blown to her swirling her hips on his hand; like she had done it before, “How often you touch yoself, Lexi?”

“A lot.”

His fingers peek under her panties, slide along her slit with his middle finger; she jerks and leaning into her to kiss her neck, scrap her skin with teeth that suddenly feel crooked, “You ever think of me?”

He’s pressing his mouth to her neck, tip of his finger just merely in. 

“Yes.” She admits, then, “A lot.”

He bums and his finger sinks, the first two digits, she tries to wiggle him into her deeper, only to feel him pull back. 

“Wanna let me fuck you?” 

“Please.”

His finger pad tips in her again, and while it’s sinking into her, “Say it.” 

“I want to let you fuck me.” 

“Why?” He asks, lips pressing beneath her jaw, soft licks. 

And she knows what he wants, “Because i like you.” 

He’s quick to pull from her neck and steady his eyes to hers, just as each digit to his finger sinks down into her. 

She goes slack, eyebrows pinching through the first small pulse, torso tilting over and elbow hitting the cash register. 

He’s trying to read her body, trying to focus on curling his fingers and pressing his thumb to her clit, but his mouth goes kissing her chest, free hand tugging her shirt lower to lightly kiss her chest, suck between her breast as he tangles cords inside of her, rising jolts. 

She starts to fasten the thrusts into herself, his hand going slack and, enamored by her, he mutters, “That’s it, come on, baby.”

He deepens the touch into her, thumb rolling her clit and her heels digs right into his waist, hand flying to grab at his wrist as if to ask for something; mercy. 

Which he must’ve misread or, rather, he read it clearly but was still pissed about the whole ‘I need space’ ordeal and suddenly drops to his knees, trail of kisses following him as he pushes her skirt back and rests his hand to her hip.

“Fez-“

His mouth presses over her clit before she could say more and goes completely mute to his eyes pointing into hers, slightly half lidded as he swirls his tongue on her, tending and killing the desire, rising something else; her orgasm and his cock, at this point, is leaking, basically juddering. 

Her hand pulls at his jaw through sloppy kisses to her cunt, sucking the swollen bud as he pumps his hands into her, wilting to her hand cupping his nape and pulling him inward. 

“Don’t-“ she pauses- his tongue flicks and it’s almost obscured when she says, “Don’t stop.” And he shakes his head on her, furrows his brows in response to the idea of stopping. 

Gripping her hip, he helps her grind onto his tongue and his name keeps slipping out, heat crawling up her chest and she looks at him like he’s something so it compels him to quicken his pace- shove in another finger. 

She’s starting to weaken on him, he can feel her muscles go pliable and he molds her into a couple more thrusts, mouth suctioning her clit and twirling it like she had to his ring, like it were some type of revenge for the thorn she threw in the hatchet of his chest whenever she did that, and she stalls- completely, fingers scraping and then hand pushing him to get off of her. 

He pulls himself up, takes his finger out of her to kiss her messy and she takes it openly, mouth gaping to the hard on he has so she kisses him back, quick, a mere peck, before asking, “Can I just try something?”

Fezco hesitates but when she kisses him again, “Whatever you want.” 

She undoes his pants and with the fabric of his boxers still covering him, she presses her clothed, damp cunt to the pulsating cock. 

He owns her name, and so it sounds like it: “Lexi- god, Lexi-“ 

“Whatever I want.” She repeats and rolls her hips, slightly- like she were coy even though he’s never even thought about thinking of that. He can feel his cock start to shudder to the lapse her cunt makes on him, like she were jerking him off with her clit and that’s his ticket to sin-ville.

It's only a few strokes on him, with her mouth kissing at his crook, his hand creating marks on her hips as he helps her until it starts to blur and his moan gets stuffed into her crook: jaw slacked but also strengthened in some way. 

He taps her when it hits him the hardest as she stops her hips, pulls him by the jaw to a kiss that doesn't really match the image of their bodies combined, shitty store lights that pour a neon red to her cheeks and makes everything look kind of like a movie; but it isn't one. 

Still, it feels like one when she pulls his zipper up and tries not to be flustered for when she says, like it were ordinary, "I like you, so, can I come home with you?"

yeah.

She's staring at him and the sun explodes.

Realizing he hadn't said it out loud, "Yeah," and when his heart swells, "I like you."

 

 

 


 

 

Later, whether they were incredibly obvious or not, and they're both not sure, Ash passes by the living room where Fezco is changed and Lexi does what she always had: sinks into his arm, cheek smashed to his shoulder. 

Ash scoffs, says, "Fuckin' bone heads." like he knew something and Lexi and Fezco think, guess we don't have to say anything.

 

 

 


 

 

 

She finds his annotations in her book while he’s laying on the other end of the couch, same graphic novel, same muffled TV static and brewing heat. 

It’s at the same page. 

Lexi knows it’s him; it’s in lazy circles and she pieces his message together like delicate puzzles that have the ability to rip and tear. 

 

It reads like this:

 

“(I trust you, more than I've ever trusted anyone - The world looks different) (and I) (look for) (you. I want to be the one who gives you what you deserve - and I) (think I) (could deserve) (that)(I know this thing between us is)(a sure thing)(That's what I)(aim for)(Because I know no matter how long I get to love you, it will be worth whatever comes after.)

 

At the very bottom, right next to her scribble of his name, written like the page could be ripped in two: Lexi.

She presses her fingers to it and just as her heart does a flutter, just as there's a sound in the back of her mind (faint and quiet but it rumbles- kablooey!) she hears the crinkle of his book and his voice is raspy and vivid.

"You okay?"

She peers up and he's no longer looking at the book but, hiding half of his face behind it, she can see it: he's smirking, all knowing. 

She puts the bookmark on the page, where it belongs, and starts to crawl because she's longing; she climbs on top of him and he's already pushing the book away, hand cupping her jaw, blue eyes softening.

"I'm okay." She murmurs, tipping her nose to his and he follows the direction, presses his mouth to hers. 

and then he says it, "I love you." between soft meshes; tangled lips.

 

kablooey!

 

 

"I love you."

 

 

kablooey!

 

Notes:

thank u for reading the mess; sorry to upload another one shot when I have wips, just felt a certain way.

take care of your mental. love u.