if he feels my traces in your hair, sorry love but i don't really care, a het huis anubis/house of anubis fanfic

title: if he feels my traces in your hair, sorry love but i don't really care

pairing: amber/mick

pov: second (yay! i've been waiting and waiting to write another fic in second ever since ttov because i love, love, love it more than anything when it's done well)

rating: t (cursing, cheating, brief mentions of sexual activity but not really)

a/n: i'm not sure where this even came from; i was in the middle of writing a different fic and then this idea popped into my head out of nowhere, and well, this almost 9k monster glob of madness was produced (which is stupid, because the hoa fandom - especially the mickber shipper side in the far corner - is so super dead nowadays, but oh well). this is kind of all over the place so it doesn't have a specific time frame, but technically, i suppose, it takes place from when they first met at thirteen to the beginning-ish of season two. and it isn't really in chronological order at all except for the very beginning and a couple parts near the end, so sorry for that.

in other news, i actually somehow wrote mara as nice, despite my hatred for her (i was rolling my eyes and cringing the whole time, though, so maybe it doesn't count), i used run-on sentences and the word and far too many times (again), and this isn't angst! (okay, so maybe it is a little bit, but i didn't kill anyone this time and the ending isn't sad!) and also i should probably let it be known that i absolutely, 10000% do not condone cheating, despite what you might think after reading this.

"this is a film about you."

Flash.

Play.

The first time you see him, you're thirteen and have never seen anything quite so beautiful.

He's bright and untouchable, laughing and drawing a crowd around him mere minutes after he stepped out of the town car.

You stare at him and he looks over for a split second and sees you submerged in your own circle of curious leeches and the smile freezes on his face because you, you are the loveliest thing he's ever seen and he doesn't want to stop looking at you ever.

You blink slowly, your long lashes brushing across your cheeks, and he blinks back and that's when you know.

You've never believed in love at first sight (despite what everyone might think about you) but you know that in that short minute, from the moment you laid eyes on one another, you've belonged to each other completely.

Mick storms in and he's angry, fuming, and it's aimed at you and you don't know why and then you realize.

You open your mouth, try to explain - you're forgetful and ditzy and so, so stupid - but as soon as you start backtracking and spilling out words, you see him looking at you with that face that he's only reserved for people he's despised, that you never could've imagined would've ever been directed at you, and you hear him harshly spit out, "We're done, Amber. And I hate it when you call me boo!"

And time shatters.

Mara is intelligent and good at everything and exotic and all that you're not.

You're loved for your beauty and your money and she's loved for her smarts and her talents and everything that really matters.

She doesn't love Mick, though.

You know that she's merely infatuated with him like everybody who meets him because the golden boy showed her some attention and made her feel like she was worth something.

And you hate her (but not really) because you know that she's everything for him that you never could be.

The room is dark and your long hair is spread across the pillow like a mermaid's and the moon is casting spiderwebs of shadows on his back as you move together to a rhythm that only the two of you can hear.

The walls are thin and Mara's in the next room and you want to scream his name at the top of your lungs to spite her, but you bite your lip so hard that you draw blood and he gnaws and breathes into your skin to suppress his moans because you both know that you have to be quiet.

When he gets up to go, with mussed up hair and a sheer coat of sweat lightly sticking to his skin, you have to stop yourself from reaching out to pull him back and whispering out a hoarse, "I love you", because you know that it would only burn your hand and your insides and that he would still walk away.

He reaches for the door handle and hesitates, looks back at you twisted in your sheets and opens his mouth like he's about to say something, but then looks down with a sad grimace and leaves instead.

You're used to it, though. He always does.

You know that he's going back to her.

He always does.

You start dating Alfie because you're upset and lonely and crave love and attention, and maybe you want to make Mick jealous and maybe it's a little fucked up, but then, so are you.

You play the game well - love is one of the only things you know how to do right, and you've always been a better liar and actress than you'd like to admit - but every time you're with him it all feels wrong and you're never all there, not really, because when Mick left, he took a part of you with him.

Alfie's telling a joke and you're pretending to laugh, but there's something missing in it and your eyes are glazed over and Mick glances over from the kitchen table, notices it all because he's always been able to read you like you're his favorite, worn copy of a book, and his breath catches in his throat.

You're walking down the hallway holding Alfie's hand, but it feels wrong - his hand is too small, too sweaty, too weak, too unfamiliar - and you pass Mick and Mara standing by her locker and you think Mick's gaze hardens when he sees the two of you, but you're too busy pushing down tears and swallowing misery to be sure.

You're in Alfie's room and he's kissing you and you're trying so hard to fall in love with him but his lips move against yours and under your ear and down your throat and you feel like you're dying.

You step foot into Anubis House for the first time and everything seems so foreign, so strange, so intimidating.

You stand under the big chandelier in the hall and spin around and around, trying to take it all in at once and you've never felt so small.

"Hey." A voice startles you mid-spin and you whip around towards the source and find yourself in front of the same blonde-haired boy you'd seen earlier and god, he's even more breathtaking up close.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he says, grinning, eyes crinkling. He extends an arm, continues, "Oh, 'm Mick, by the way."

You shake his hand and flash your teeth. "Amber."

And the world turns around you, but neither of you let go of the other until you hear the front door click open and a new girl strolls in (which, ironically, turns out to be Mara).

As you turn to start bringing your luggage upstairs, a hand brushes across yours, and when you glance up you see Mick walking down the hallway, bags in hand, and he turns around and shoots you a smirk and a wink, and then he's disappearing.

You bite your lip to stop your mouth from stretching into a wide, wide smile, and you think that maybe this school isn't going to be such shit after all.

You walk into Anubis House and you hate all of it and you want to burn it to the ground.

You stand deathly still under the big chandelier in the hall, looking up at it, and you've stopped appreciating its beauty, and you can't stop feeling so goddamn small anymore.

You faintly hear the front door handle being turned and pushed open and you hear his voice, his laugh, but it's mixed with Mara's and it sounds so wrong and you just want it to stop because it's driving you insane.

Mick halts abruptly when he sees you, narrows his eyebrows in confusion and asks, "What're you doing, Ambs?"

You don't take your eyes off of the chandelier - can't - and you shrug. Images of him lying next to you in the dark, him kissing you in the costume cupboard and empty classrooms, him stealing quick touches when no one else is paying attention, burst through your mind. You spit out, "What're you doing, Mick?" and you laugh, hollowly, because it came out sounding so cracked and bitter and ludicrous, and by the way his breathing shallows you know that he's caught the double meaning.

He huffs out something that sounds like it could be a harsh chuckle and hurries past you, pulling Mara down the hallway.

You finally glance his way, but he doesn't turn around, just shakes his head twice and disappears (again).

And you can't remember what it felt like to be happy.

You don't know how it all started, don't know how you let this whirlwind out of control and spiral into a destructive black hole that'll soon enough swallow you and him and everyone else and smash you all to smithereens.

You remember him yanking you into the coat closet one day and he was yelling at you in hushed tones and you didn't know why, and you were whispering back a collection of "what?" and "can you tell me what the hell is going on?" and "what are you going on about?".

And you thought you might've heard Alfie's name in there somewhere and maybe even Mara's, but you couldn't think straight because you were closer to him than you'd been in so long - if you just reached out a few inches, your fingertips could graze his arms that were gesturing about wildly in front of your face - and you stopped responding because you were so overwhelmed by his presence and proximity that you couldn't fucking breathe and he made an exasperated noise and you didn't know why.

And then suddenly he was grabbing your face and he was kissing you and you didn't know why.

And you let out a squeak of surprise and you knew it was wrong, knew you shouldn't be doing this to Alfie or even to Mara, but you disintegrated into him anyway because you were never really able to say no to Mick.

And from then on, it was all nasty secrets and hidden lovebites and internal destruction, and you still have Alfie who is so, so lovely to you, and Mick still has Mara who is so, so terrific with him, but you're still so, so in love with Mick, and Mick still says he's so, so in love with Mara, but he keeps coming back to you.

And you don't know why.

When you were nine, you walked in on your dad kissing a woman who was not your mother.

As soon as the door had opened, you squeaked and they jumped apart, their eyes wide with the fear of being caught, and your father looked at you with tight lips and rushed over to you, pulling you out of the room and down the hall.

He squatted down to your height and looked you in the eyes and you wanted to look away, wanted to to cry, wanted to get the hell away from him. But you didn't.

He sighed heavily and said, "Listen, Amber, I know that you're probably very confused right now and you may be a little angry, but you're very young and you don't understand everything yet. This doesn't make sense to you now, but when you're older, you might be able to comprehend it. And don't... don't think that I don't love your mum, because I do - very, very much."

You clenched your teeth and your fists and kept a blank expression on your face, even though it felt like someone had slit a knife across your throat and your lovely white dress that your lovely mother had bought you the day before was being stained crimson.

Your father continued, "And darling, sometimes... sometimes we don't tell the people we love certain things, so as not to hurt them. Sometimes things are better off left unsaid, because it wouldn't do anything but harm. Alright?"

You nodded and blood kept pouring out and pooled beneath you and your eyes were pale and dead and your father patted your head and stood up and went back to the woman who was not your mother.

And you never said anything, but it ate away inside of you for ages, and you never understood it, not really, and you always promised yourself that you would never do what your father did to your mother, because you never forgave him for it, not really.

And now you sit in the bathtub, water falling down in streams from the showerhead above you, and your soaked hair is in your face and you're suffocating and you're numb and the liquid sloshing its way down the drain should be clear, but it's scarlet, and you've never felt like such a shit person, because you're a goddamn hypocrite, and your nine year old self would loathe you, would be disgusted at what you've let yourself succumb to.

You're falling asleep and your mind is spinning - twirling about like a ballerina trapped inside of a dingy, plastic globe that some restless kid keeps winding the crank of - and all of the images and bits of memories flashing themselves into the backs of your eyes are fuzzy and hazy, like the old movies your dad watches or like you're underwater, where it seems like it takes ages for sounds to find your ears and voices are distorted and faraway.

Flash.

You and Mick have snuck off campus and you're in some club that smells like cheap perfume and cigarette smoke and liquor, and you've both downed five shots of something that burned your throat because no one there really gives a shit how old you are, and you have enough alcohol in your system where everything seems beautiful and you feel infinite, but not enough to not remember anything tomorrow. And a new song starts playing - some rock cover of Time After Time - and Mick grabs your hand, laces his fingers through yours, and pushes you both through the crowd of people on the dancefloor until you reach the center, and he wraps his arms around you and he can't dance for shit but you pull him closer anyway and sway with him while everyone around you blurs as they gyrate and jump and move their head to the beat.

"Hey," Mick says, nudging your head up with his nose. "Hey, I love you," he shouts into your ear over the music.

It's the first time he's said it and you're so surprised that you throw your head back and laugh and laugh and manage to get out, "Oh my god, I. I love you, too. So much."

And nothing is funny, but he starts laughing too, his eyes crinkling like they always do when he's really happy, and nobody is paying any attention to the two of you, too lost in their own little worlds, but so are you, and you can only see him, him, him, and the words, 'If you're lost, you can look, and you will find me', float through the air and you're holding each other like the sun is imploding and stars are raining down around you, and you're both still laughing, frozen in your own fantastical galaxy, and nothing can touch you.

Flash.

It's your birthday and the endless adoration and presents and celebrations have ended and everyone has gone to bed, but at 11:40 PM, you're still dressed up in your shiny gold dress, sitting on the counter in the kitchen with the lights off, the lone piece of leftover cake you'd denied earlier situated on a plate next to you with a single unlit bubblegum pink candle sticking out of it.

Your bare feet dangle high above the dirty floor and your legs are cold and covered in goosebumps and you're waiting for something but you don't know what - a phone call from your father, to feel like you're another year older, for Victor to come down and yell at you, to stop feeling so very alone even after being surrounded by loads of people all day? You're not sure. You stare at the cake - at the fuschia frosting and the smudged white letters spelling out Amb - and let out a shaky, quiet sob. (You're not quite sure why you're so sad, either.) (You do, really. You know it's because at this exact time last year, you were holding hands with Mick and running across the courtyard and it was pouring and he kept stopping to press his wet lips into your drenched hair and skin and you both kept slipping and falling into the mud and you'd never laughed more and your eyes had never shone so brilliantly.)

You hear footsteps approaching and you snap your head up, a single tear finding its way down your cheek. Your eyes find him (they always do) and he's standing in the archway leading to the boy's hallway in a pair of black joggers and a lilac jumper and he frowns when he looks back at you, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't question you, doesn't tell you why he's even awake.

He walks over to you, slowly, his black socks looking bright against the dim, weak moonlight bouncing across the room, and he takes his thumb and gently wipes the tear away.

He whispers, "Hey now, there's no crying on your birthday, love."

Afraid to break the stillness, because this moment in time, it feels delicate and fragile and intangible, you say quietly with a hint of a smile, "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to."

He lets out a huff of a laugh, but it gets cut off, mangled by the melancholy creeping its way up, up, up his throat like a vine wrapping itself around a tree and gradually killing it. It's a beautifully tragic noise and it gets stuck in your head long after time has whisked this brief moment away.

He looks at the clock and then glances down at the untouched pastry to the left of you, says, "It's not your birthday yet. Not for two more minutes, yeah?"

You blink, swallow too much air, open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat. You're not sure why you're surprised that he remembered that you were born at precisely 11:46 PM, but all that runs through your thoughts are he remembers he remembers he remembers.

You let out a hoarse, "Yeah," and he nods, quirks his lips up, and starts rummaging through drawers until he pulls a lighter out of one. He leans on the counter and his arm is pushing against your leg and he pulls the plate closer to him, cups a hand around the candle, and lights it.

He eyes the clock, waits and watches the glowing 45 turn to 46 and lowly says, "Go on then, make a wish."

You sigh through your nose, think, you you you you all I ever wanted was you, and you lean down slightly and blow. The flame flickers for a millisecond and then dies out, but you're not looking at it, you're looking at him and the way the moonlight is hitting his face in splotches, illuminating the color and cracks in his lips and the tiny freckles spattering his nose and the bright, electric blues of his eyes and the specks of dust floating in front of him like lifeless sparkles, and the way it's filtering through his eyelashes, causing them to create shadows under his eyes every time he blinks, making them look impossibly long.

He feels your stare and meets your gaze and he looks sad and you know that you do, too.

He squeezes your thigh lightly and then stands up straight, lets the sleeves of his sweaters fall over his hands, and he looks so lovely and so soft and you want to wrap your arms around him tight and breathe in his scent, but you can't, so you wring your hands together hard in your lap.

He leans in and your breath hitches and he breathes out, "Happy birthday, Ambs," and kisses your forehead gently, and then your nose, and then he's backing out of the room, evaporating into the obscured, ebony hallway.

And you look back at the stupid overly bright piece of cake again, swiping the A onto your finger, and you stare at it and suddenly realize that he was what you were waiting for.

Flash.

You're in the costume cupboard and it's stuffy and hot and claustrophobic.

You usually love being in there - love being fascinated by all the different fabrics and textures surrounding you and running your hand along each dress, working out the stitching and the layers and what could have been done better - but today you feel like all the costumes are closing in around you, like the masks are watching and judging you as Mick attaches his lips to yours and runs his hands down your body.

Inside you're screaming - you've been screaming for a long time, not that anyone's noticed, not that you've ever let on that something's wrong - and you feel the screeches and shrieks vibrating their way up into your heart and your lungs, twisting themselves into something nasty at the same time as they race up your spinal cord and reach your brain.

You're on fire and cathedrals and cities and planets and cosmos are burning down and exploding within you, ingraining their harrowing images into your retinas.

You pull away from Mick and turn around, grabbing and pulling fistfuls of your hair, and you crouch to the ground.

He takes a step forward and kneels down beside you, tentatively placing a hand on your shoulder. "What's the matter?"

You drop your hands to your sides, sink to your knees. "Mick, we. We can't keep doing this."

He doesn't say anything and you hesitantly turn to look at him. He has a mix of emotions splattered throughout his features and he looks conflicted, but even you don't know how to decipher it all.

He still doesn't respond and you suck in as much air as you can and everything inside of you is ablaze, and you continue, "It's not fair, to anyone. And eventually it's going to get out and everybody is going to get hurt and this is so slimy, like Jerome slimy, Mick, and-"

He crashes his lips onto yours and cuts you off mid-sentence. "Ambs, listen, everything is fine. This," he gestures to the both of you, "is nowhere near as low as the bloody awful things that cockroach does. It's all just... it's gonna be fine." He looks like he's trying to convince himself that his words are true, for both of your sakes.

You sigh and shake your head. "I still think we should talk about this, boo." You inhale a sharp breath, squeeze your eyes shut tight. You didn't mean for that to slip out at the end - you weren't thinking and it was a force of habit for so long - and it shouldn't be that big of a deal, but since this whole atrocious mess started, neither of you had ever once let one of those old terms of endearment fall past your lips.

But he doesn't yell at you or spit out something vile that he didn't mean like you thought that he would, he just puts his hands on your face, tilts himself closer to you, and kisses you deeply.

He murmurs into your mouth, "There's nothing to talk about babes," and slides his tongue past your lips, blocking you off and distracting you from questioning anything more.

Inside you, the scorching flames have been doused with water, leaving black, charred buildings that are eerily magnificent, and meteors shoot across the whites of your eyes, trailing stardust that floats into your veins and coats the cathedrals and the cities.

Flash.

You've spaced out again - you've been doing it far too often, lately - and Nina snaps her fingers in front of your face, says, "Hello? Earth to Amber!"

You blink a few times, look around, paste a barren smile on your face. "Oh, right, yeah, Sibuna!" you exclaim, throwing your right hand up in front of the corresponding part of your face.

Nina smiles and Fabian chuckles next to her. "We weren't even talking about Sibuna," she chortles, an eyebrow raised. "Are you okay?"

Fabian adds on, "You've been a little... off lately. We just, y'know, wanted to make sure nothing was wrong." He studies you, concerned, and you fidget, feeling scrutinized and trapped. "You look tired," he comments off-handedly a moment later, shrugging and looking back down at the big, dusty book he was reading before.

You sink your nails into the plush leather of the armchair and the room feels like it's running out of air and you're apprehensive of every move you make.

Have you been acting differently recently? You hadn't noticed. You try to wrack your mind, try to remember how you used to act, try to figure out what changed.

You flip your long, glossy hair (well, that's still the same, you think) over your shoulder and cluck, "You're never supposed to tell a woman she looks tired, Fabian. It's like, the number one rule boys are supposed to know." You nod to yourself and raise a perfectly arched eyebrow at him when he looks up at you, eyes wide. You shake your head and sigh, "Honestly, what would Victoria Beckham think?"

"She'd think you're mad. Like, absolutely bonkers, Millington," Jerome snorts as he strolls into the living room, chucking a pillow at your face.

"Oh, bugger off," you reply, rolling your eyes and throwing it back at him.

Nina starts giggling and you follow, your eyes sparkling, and Fabian starts laughing a beat later, and even Jerome lets out a snicker.

And everything seems right and scintillating and for a moment, you forget all the dreadful deceit swimming around your life and conscious.

And that's when you hear a distant, familiar voice and you look up in what feels like slow motion and you catch sight of Mick in the hallway talking to Alfie, whooping about something insignificant that Alfie's said with a grin on his face like he's not fucking his girlfriend behind his back.

The laughs die in your mouth and you feel sick, sick, sick, and the smile falls off of your face, slow and sluggishly like molasses, and your eyes are searing and all the noise - all the happiness - around you fades into white, crackling static, and no one notices, no one realizes that you've gone quiet and passive.

Someone's pressed pause on you and everything moves and flits around you - Nina and Fabian look at each other with such lovesick, smitten expressions on their faces and their fingers inch closer and closer and they don't realize how fortunate they are that life hasn't messed them up yet, Jerome throws his head back and continues letting out howls of amusement at the ceiling and his cheeks wrinkle and it's so ironic that even the most bitter person you know is more elated than you when you've always been the most optimistic person around, and Alfie continues excitedly exaggerating stories to Mick and he's so blissfully ignorant of all the wrongdoing the blonde boy has done to him - and all at once, everything crashes into you, and you can't do it anymore, can't keep contributing to the downfall of yourself and Mick and Alfie and Mara.

You've thought that you were dying before, but this - this feels like you're being sucked into the aftermath of a supernova, into a blackened, collapsed star, and being pulled and torn apart in all different directions; squashed into a single point of infinite destiny.

Flash.

You remember him as a time of day.

It's summertime; the blazing ball of fire above is lowering itself into the ground. A beautiful, blonde-haired boy with the most exquisite eyes and wonderful smile is looking at you and walking backwards through a field of wheat.

You're watching his mouth move and the words he's saying don't matter (and you're so in love).

You're young and the world seems enormous and the sky is splashed with shades of violet and cobalt and magenta and tangerine and coral (and you're so in love).

You remember this moment like old video footage, faded and flickering, or like an aged photograph, slightly overexposed and torn around the edges like someone looked at it often and held it close to their heart (and you're so in love).

He's still walking backwards and he's still smiling and there's a slight, warm breeze and the sun is almost down and the heavens look magnificent above him and you want to tattoo the image all over your skin (and you're so in love).

And if you could only keep one memory, it would be this one.

Flash.

You're on the phone with your mother and you're crying hot, overwhelming tears that make it hard to breathe.

"Mum," you sniff.

"Oh, poppet, what's got you so upset?" she prods gently, and you didn't know how much you missed her voice, missed her calling you that, until now.

"Mum, I have to tell you something," you say, and you don't want to say it, you don't want to tell her, but you feel like someone's kicked open a dam within you, and you need to get it all out before you drown. "Mum, it's." You exhale through your nose. "Dad, he... he cheated on you."

You hear a hitch in her breath and you squeeze your eyes shut. And then she sighs, "I know, love."

You nearly drop the phone and gawk, "What? What do you mean you know?"

She pensively replies, "You've still so much to learn, poppet. I've known for a long, long time. And I certainly don't condone what your father did, and a part of me will never forgive him for it, but it's over; it's in the past and I've let it go. And as much I know you don't want to, you should too, darling."

You sputter, "But... but how were you able to still be with him after finding out?"

She says, "Because sometimes we must put the best interests and happiness of others before our own. I would've rather pretended to be naive than put you and Louis in the middle of a nasty divorce and rip you away from the life you knew. And because, despite what he did, I knew your father still loved me. That the man I fell in love with when I was fifteen was still there. In a way, I understood why he did it - I was all he ever knew; he'd never had a chance to be with anyone else, to have his heart broken and to break the hearts of others, to come to an understanding of what love is. And because sometimes, two people must fall apart before they can fall back together."

You see a boy with blue eyes and soft pale hair and a freckle of a birthmark on his chin and neck and a too-loud laugh.

You see a girl with warm skin and a cleft in her chin and dark, cryptic eyes and more brains than anyone that you know.

You see a boy with chocolate eyes and self-doubt and a playful smirk and theories about things like aliens and zombies.

You sob, "I've done something really, really bad, mum."

"Oh?" she questions, and you wish she was here, wish you could soak her shirt with your tears while she runs her fingers through your hair and hushes you.

"I cheated on Alfie. With Mick. ...A lot," you barely whisper, ashamed and nauseated.

"Oh," she breathes, the phone line crackling. "Oh, poppet."

"I don't know what to do, mum, oh god, I've messed up so badly. I'm a terrible person," you wail.

"You are not a terrible person, Amber. I know you're not because I raised you to be better than that." She continues, "People, they make mistakes. They do awful, shitty things. They break promises. But that doesn't mean they're a bad person. What makes someone a bad person is when they don't admit that they've messed up, when they don't take responsibility for what they've done, when they don't fix it and learn from it."

"But mum, I. I love Alfie, and I- I don't want to hurt him, but I'm still in love with Mick and I don't know what to do," you blubber, your eyes rimmed red.

"I read something the other day, hold on, let me find it." You hear her shuffling papers and books. "Ah, there it is! 'Loving someone with your heart and loving someone with your mind are two very different kinds of love.' Follow your heart, pet. But you've got to fix this jumble you've gotten yourself into first. Everyone that's involved in any way, they deserve at least that."

"Should I tell Alfie about what I've done then, too?" you croak.

"Well that, my dear, is up to you," she replies. "Good luck, poppet, I love you."

"Love you too, mum," you murmur, and then the line goes dead.

You sit in silence for a moment, letting every emotion hit you at once. And you hear your parents' voices in your head, hear: sometimes we must put the best interests and happiness of others before our own and sometimes we don't tell the people we love certain things, so as not to hurt them.

Everyone is heading to lunch and you pull Mick into an empty science classroom, swallow the lump in your throat, and say firmly, "We can't do this anymore, Mick."

He comes closer to you, protests, "Come on, Ambs, we've been over this. Everything's good, remember?"

He starts to lean in, but you shove him back lightly. "No." You stare at him and you think, this is how it ends, and you wish one of the many beakers strewn around the room was filled with carbon monoxide that was slowly seeping out and silently, gracefully, tragically murdering you. "We're mates, not dates, remember?" you manage to get out, your bottom lip quivering.

He sighs through his nose and paces over to a table by the windows and sits down on it, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Yeah. Shit, yeah," he says, the words muffled.

You wordlessly walk over and sit down next to him. You look down at both of your legs barely touching the tiled floor. He looks too.

"How did we fuck up so badly, Ambs? I'm not... I've always despised cheaters, always wondered why someone would ever do that to someone they were supposed to love. And now I've become everything I've ever hated," Mick says, huffing out a sad laugh.

"I know. My dad cheated on my mum," you blurt out, and Mick snaps his head up to look at you incredulously. "When I was nine, I saw him with this stupid woman with hair too big for her head and she was wearing a plaid skirt and a zebra print top and like who even does that, that is a fashion felony," you exclaim and Mick barks out a laugh. You both look straight ahead and you continue, "And he told me not to tell and I didn't, and I hated him for what he did, and then I did the same thing."

"Do you think we're shitty people?" he asks after a few minutes.

"No. I think we're okay people who did a shitty thing. A shitty thing that we need to stop and we need to fix," you answer. He nods but doesn't say anything and then you bite your lip and say, "I love you, Mick. And it's... god, this is never how we were supposed to turn out, you know. We were supposed to be good together. We were good together." Your voice cracks. "We were supposed to be like Posh and Becks, y'know?"

Mick gives you a long look. "Ambs..." he trails off.

"No, I, uh. I suppose it doesn't matter, anymore." You wipe a tear away and stand up. You smile and its lost its flair, it's pathetic and somber. "Well, I'll see you around then, alright?"

You don't wait for his answer; you hastily grab your bag and something falls out but you don't care, you just need to get out of the room that's killing you, and you bolt, ignoring his shouts of, "Amber, wait!"

You lock yourself in one of the bathroom stalls for two periods and you try to cry, but nothing comes out and you scream, but no one's listening.

It's half past four and your heart is pounding in your ears as you knock on Jerome and Alfie's door.

Alfie opens the door, and cheerfully says, "Hey!" and kisses your cheek, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind you.

You start, "Alfie," and he looks at you with that chipper look again and the words we need to talk die in your throat because everyone always knows bad news is coming when they hear them. You think that maybe you should just come out with it and say it, rip it off like a plaster, and so you look down at your shoes and say instead, "Alfie, I think we should split up."

He freezes, his face dropping. "What?"

"I'm so sorry, I really am. And I promise you this is not your fault - you're so lovely, Alfie, really, you are - and I love you, I'm just not... in love with you," you ramble, and you can't tell him about Mick, you can't destroy someone as hopeful and remarkable as Alfie is - and you want him to hate you, you want him to yell at you or scream at you or hit you, because you deserve it, but he doesn't because he doesn't know.

He just says, "I need some time alone," and you all but run out, and you wish that you had left a piece of you in that room, that he had taken another part of you like Mick had, but you didn't, he didn't, and you feel detached from your body, like you're an exoskeleton of a human.

A week later, you see Mara crying in the bathroom after Maths and when you ask her if she's alright, she glares at you and storms out.

You know that she doesn't know - that Mick would never tell her, would never intentionally break her heart, especially not to her face - but you also know that Mara is incisive and perceptive and knows much more than just what she reads about in books.

It's two in the morning and you and Mick have snuck over the fence, into the school's pool, and you're wading around in the lukewarm water in just your undergarments.

You swim down, down, down, and he follows you (he always did) and you stop and turn around and you both just look at each other - the dim yellow-orange pool light the only thing illuminating you and him and the interstellar fragments and particles floating around you - and your hair is fanned out and floating behind you like it's weightless and the chlorine is burning your eyes something severe.

In the background of your vision, behind him, you see flowers - a deep purple dahlia and off-white baby's breath - and they're sinking deeper but for just one brief, stagnant second, they're paralyzed and vast and perpetual, halted forever in zero gravity, and you and Mick are the dahlia and the baby's breath.

You float closer and he lays his palms and his calloused fingers, now turned soft and pruny from the water, on your cheeks and he kisses you more softly and more tenderly than he ever has before, and it feels important, like he's trying to tell you something.

You both kick up to the surface to come up for air, spitting out chemical rain, and you hear a rumbling yell in the distance of, "I know that you miscreants are well aware that the pool is closed at this hour!" and you and him let out deep belly laughs and jump out of the water, grabbing your clothes and your shoes and clutching them to your chest. Mick boosts you up over the fence and then hops over after you, grabbing your hand and taking off running.

Victor squawks, "Get back here immediately or you will face dire consequences! Do you hear me?!" and he sounds closer, but the two of you are faster, more tireless, more alive.

You stubbornly keep running and don't look back; not once, not ever.

"I'm sorry," a voice says, and you glance up from this month's issue of Vogue you're reading in the student lounge to see Mara standing in front of you.

You narrow your eyes, suspicious and cautious, because even though you've forgiven her as much as you can for stabbing you in the back with the knife you all but gave her, you're still wary of her because you know what the brunette is capable of. "...For what?" you ask hesitantly.

She sighs and plops down next to you on the couch. "For being a shitty best friend."

You raise an eyebrow, urging her to continue. You don't know what exactly she's referring to, but you have a pretty good idea, and you want to hear her say it so that you can hate her just one more time, because a black, nasty part of your heart is still bitter.

She looks up at the ceiling and says, "You were right: I was trying to steal Mick from you. And even though you guys were split up and I technically didn't, I still shouldn't have gone out with him because you were my best friend and best friends don't do that to each other. So I'm sorry."

You press your lips together, lower your eyelids to look back down at your magazine. A glossy Kate Moss stares back at you, her iris' murky and dull and desolate, and hey, wow, flash, yours are, too.

"Okay," you reply simply, shrugging and turning the page, desperate to escape vacant, decaying retinas.

"Okay? That's... all? You're not going to gloat and and make me beg for forgiveness or something?" Mara asks, shooting you a confused stare.

"No?" You stand up, shoving the magazine in your bag and fixing your skirt, and then say, "Well, I've got to get to Drama. Cheerio, darling!" You waggle your fingers in a wave and click, clack, click, clack out of the room.

All you could think about was that you didn't deserve her apology anymore, not really, not at all, not after what you did to her and her relationship.

At lunch, you eat a raspberry and hope that maybe this time it'll kill you, but it doesn't, it just makes you itchy and splotchy and gross.

The first thing Mick says to you since that day in the science classroom is, "I've split up with Mara. Two days ago."

You're standing next to your open wardrobe, picking out what you're going to wear tomorrow, and when you hear him speak you jump and the sheer blush-colored shirt in your hands falls to the floor.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he chuckles.

You're thirteen and have your whole life in front of you and haven't screwed anything up yet and, "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Oh, 'm Mick, by the way."

Your face is glazed over and you snap out of your trance - you're being fast-forwarded - and you pick up the shirt, say, "Why would you break up with Mara?" while putting it back on its hanger.

He wipes his palms on his jeans - a nervous habit of his - and replies, "Dunno. Didn't think it was right to keep seeing her after..." The unspoken I cheated on her stuffs the room and dangles in the air between you.

"You shouldn't, um. You shouldn't let that stop you from being with the person you love. I won't tell her, ever; you know I wouldn't. You know I'm too much of a matchmaker and a hopeless romantic to do that," you encourage, snorting at the end.

"I know," he says quietly. "Only problem is," he takes a step nearer to you, "she's not the person I'm in love with."

Your lips part, your eyes widen, drum cymbals crash, the planets fall from their orbit and into celestial nebulas.

He steps closer, moves his hair out of his eyes, and you think of the moonlight glowing on his face, of when his eyes were electric, and the flecks of dust were raining down around him in the darkness.

You faintly ask, "She's not?" He jerks his head no, purses his lips. "Who uh, who is? I could help set you up or whatever, you know-"

He starts chuckling and incredulously says, "What? I love you, you muppet!"

"Ohhh," you drawl in realization. He shakes his head, looking at you fondly, and crosses the distance to you.

He says, "I was a complete git to ever think that I didn't, Ambs," and he pulls you so close so quick that your feet lift up off the wood floor and he proper snogs you - the kind you read about it books or see in movies - and he spins you round and round and round, his lips refusing to leave yours.

You hear a sharp gasp of, "Oh!" and a cough, and you break apart and look over to see Nina and Fabian in the doorway.

Fabian sucks his bottom lip in and amusedly asks, "Uh, is there something you forgot to tell me, mate?"

Mick lets you slide down until your shoes touch the ground, but he doesn't let go of you, and he grins, "I'll get back to you on that."

"...Yeah, I just remembered that we have to go, um, get some... milk," Nina declares, and she's never been good at lying, but she shoots you a look that says we'll talk later and drags Fabian out of the room as he opens his mouth to protest.

A beat later, you gesture at the two of you with your pointer finger and ask, "So what does this mean?"

"I don't know," he answers, letting out a heavy breath through his nose and resting his chin on top of your head. "But we'll figure it out, babes, yeah?"

You squeeze your arms tighter around him, breathe in every fibre of him, and he smells like blue cotton candy and an unfinished basement and summer. You murmur into his chest, "Yeah."

The credits roll and nothing's resolved, not really, you're still shit people after it all, but you think maybe you're not quite so sad anymore and maybe this time things will be different because you're both different now and because despite everything, you could never stop loving each other, not really.

The sun could swallow you whole and asteroids and the earth could collide and ancient Egyptian gods could demolish everything, and it wouldn't change anything, because sometimes you meet someone and something beyond your grasp happens - fate or destiny or God or Hathor - and you realize, after seconds or minutes or months or decades, that you are designed to be together (all the Allie and Noah's, and Rose and Jack's, and Becks and Posh's, and William and Kate's; they're all mere reincarnations of something bigger and more complex than all of you, and you and Mick are another metempsychosis in the massive galactic spectrum.)

It's two in the morning and he drags you under the cerulean-tinted water where the only lucent thing in the still darkness looks like dirty old headlights letting off a weak, amber glow, and he's golden and you're usually shadowy - have been ever since you lost him - but tonight, you're so very incandescently resplendent, and he kisses you like he has all the time in the world and like everything is fine and nothing can touch you.

(And you are so in love.)

Flash.

Rewind.