Iris was bored, and a little irritated. She lay on her back on Barry's bed, legs propped up against the wall and crossed at the ankle. She leafed through her library copy of Emma, which she had to present to her AP English Lit class in a couple weeks, and played with the end of one of her braids. Her Grandma Esther had just left after a week-long visit, during which she'd insisted on combing her granddaughter's hair into thick, long cornrows.

Iris was in the thick of Emma's schemes for Harriet's love life and she bristled, more annoyed with the book now than she'd ever been the several times she'd read it before. She flipped it closed, and looked at Barry instead.

He was in something of a frenzy. He pulled one plaid shirt after another out of his closet and held each in front of him with the handle of the hanger poking his face. He stood in front of his mirror, staring at himself for minutes on end, frowning, squinting, and letting out a stream of unintelligible noises, before abandoning the shirts on a chair or on his bed or on the floor and rooting through his closet again.

Iris liked watching Barry. He had long limbs that he didn't quite yet know how to control, and little ticks and mannerisms that told a whole story of their own, alongside whatever he was saying. Like when he was talking about his independent study, which he was doing at the local branch of the state college because they didn't have the equipment he needed at their school, and his hands would flail about delightedly in front of him. Or when he'd done something to upset her, and he wanted to get back on her good side, and he would clasp his hands together and give a determined smile, his eyes wide and face totally open, as if he were saying, "Just tell me what I can do to make it better."

He'd changed so much in that last few years. He'd grown taller, and now she had to look up at him when they were standing face to face. He wasn't as angry as he used to be anymore, and didn't yell or slam doors behind him. He didn't try to bottle up his affection anymore, and hugged her dad for the simplest things, like making his favorite dinner. Her room was full of gifts from him, things he'd gotten her "Cause it reminded me of you," or "Cause I thought you'd like it," or "Just because."

He was…exactly what a boy should be. Kind, dependable, and not given to playing any of the bizarre games boys usually used to let a girl know they liked her. If she let herself, Iris knew, she could want something from Barry that would change everything they were to each other. But she wouldn't let herself. Iris had lots of friends, but very few confidants, and Barry was her closest, very best friend. She didn't want to have something that she couldn't tell him. If she could, she would take their friendship and stow it away in the small box full of her mother's jewelry she kept hidden in the desk of her bedside table, and take it out only to admire how it filled her up with joy. What they had was good, better than anything else she'd ever had, and she wasn't going to mess it up, the way she messed up so many things. She wasn't going to lose him.

Barry turned from the mirror to face her. "What about this?" he asked. He was holding up a shirt of almost neon blues and purples. Iris didn't remember letting him pick that out on any of their trips to the mall. "I don't know," she said, "it's a little, um, bright?"

Barry's shoulders slumped. "You don't think she'll like it?"

Iris made a face.

"Oh, don't do that," Barry said.

"Do what?" she asked innocently.

"That—that thing."

"What 'thing'?"

"That thing you do," Barry said, waving a hand in her direction, "whenever I talk about Becky."

Iris pouted and looked down at her nails. "I don't 'do' anything."

Barry sighed. "Iris, please, ok? Could you just—I don't know, support me in this? Please?"

Iris paused. She'd never thought of him and "Becky" as something to be supported. In the last few weeks, when Barry had started eating lunch with Becky instead of her, and when Iris would come home from basketball practice to find him sitting at the kitchen table finishing his homework with her, and when Iris had wanted to go shopping for a present for her dad's anniversary of making detective but Barry had been busy on the phone with Becky, Iris hadn't once thought that there was a "this" there.

She picked her words carefully, because she wasn't sure what she wanted to know. "Why do you like her?"

Barry twisted his fingers together and knitted his brow. He took a while to answer her. "She's pretty."

Iris snorted.

"That's not all!" Barry rushed to add. "She and I are both in astronomy club."

"So is Brock Macnamara!" Iris cried.

"And she likes me!"

"Lots of people like you, Barry!"

"No!" and he sounded so wounded that Iris sat up in his bed.

Barry shook his head at her. He turned to his side so he wasn't facing her and wrung his hands together.

"She isn't, like, freaked out by me," he said.

"What do you mean?" Iris asked quietly.

His voice was very soft as he answered her. "I mean besides you, there aren't that many people who talk to me. And she does. I—it's hard for me. To make friends, I mean. And she doesn't think I'm a—a freak."

Iris felt wretched. She frowned down at her lap. She didn't know if it was upcoming finals, or that she hadn't gotten her acceptance letter to her first choice college yet, or that she already missed having another woman in the house with her, but she couldn't understand why this was so hard for her. She'd never begrudged Barry anything before. She'd always wanted to give and share everything with him—her home, her family her friends. She didn't want to be the reason Barry's life was any smaller. She thought everyone should know how good he was, how kind and thoughtful and even funny, a lot of the time. She only wanted him to be happy.

Iris asked carefully, "You really like her, then?"

"I…do," Barry said, but it came out sounding like a question. Iris raised her brows at him. "I like her," he said with more conviction.

"And she makes you happy?"

"You make me happy, Iris. I just like spending time with her."

What? "What?" Iris said sharply.

Barry's hand flew to the back of his neck. "I just mean, I don't want you to make a big deal out of it or anything. I just don't want you…to…not like her…so obviously…" he trailed off.

"So then why are you so nervous, if it's not a big deal?"

"I've never been out on a date before. I don't know what to do!"

"Barry, if she likes you she won't care what you guys do."

"No, Iris, I know her, she has, like, standards."

Iris suppressed a grumble. How was she supposed to like this girl when she made Barry say things like that? Iris tried not to repeat to him what he'd told her when Evan Peters had asked her once why she wore sweats out to the movies, that she shouldn't be with someone who made her feel like she wasn't good enough for them as she was.

Instead she said, "Ok, tell me what specifically you're nervous about."

Barry opened his arms wide, gesturing at his room, and then let his arms drop down to his sides in defeat. Iris looked at the piles of clothes everywhere and giggled.

"Ok, that I can help you with." She marched over to his closet. "What are you guys doing?"

"Dinner and a movie," Barry said.

"A classic. Very nice, Allen." Barry beamed at her, and Iris suddenly felt a rush of giddiness.

"What are you going to see?" As she spoke to him she poked through his closet and walked about his room, picking up what he'd thrown on the floor, examining each item with a twist to her lips, and finally letting it drop back to its pile.

"The Horseman on the Roof. It's this old French movie that's playing at Indie House on Saturday. It's like a French Titanic, I think?"

Iris glanced at Barry. "French? So, with subtitles?"

"She can read, Iris," he said, exasperated. "She's the one who picked it out!"

"I'm worried about you!" Iris said with mocking indignation, and she threw a pair of socks at him. "You're the one who isn't taking a language."

Barry made a face at her and she stuck her tongue out at him.

"All right," Iris said. She'd finally put together an outfit out of the mess Barry had made. She pushed her copy of Emma to the side and laid out what she'd chosen on his bed.

"You really think she'll like this?" Iris had chosen what she liked best on Barry: one of the few shirts he had that actually fit him, and so brought out how wide his shoulders had become, and the pair of jeans he hadn't ever spilled anything on.

"If she has any taste—"

"Iris—"

"—and she does, since she's going on a date with you, then she will." She smiled triumphantly at Barry. "Ok, so what else?" She was determined to do everything she could to make sure Barry's date with…with this girl went well.

"Uh, I think, uh, that's it, actually."

Iris put her hands on her hips. "You're a terrible liar Barry."

He looked at her through his lashes, the way he did sometimes, the way that made Iris notice how long they were, and she realized that he was blushing. It made all the freckles on his face and neck stand out.

"I've," Barry cleared his throat, "I've never kissed anyone before."

What? But Iris didn't say it aloud. She frowned. How was that possible? Even if he'd never dated anyone before, and even if he was shy and bright and thoughtful, and so many of the things other boys weren't, there was no way he hadn't kissed anyone yet. And he was so cute, sometimes, most of the time, really. How could no one have kissed him yet?

Iris took in the way his blush had spread to the very tips of his ears, the way he kept his head down and fiddled with his fingers. He wasn't lying. A strange medley of feelings came over Iris then. She wanted to protect him, let him know there was no reason to feel embarrassed. But there was also something else in her, something harsher, darker, that struck her somewhere in her gut. She felt a possessiveness, and it mixed with a with a fluttering hope that bloomed in her. She thought, Mine, but she immediately stamped it out.

"…I…I could help you," Iris offered.

Barry chanced another look at her. "How?"

"Well…I could kiss you."

It took him a full minute to speak. "Oh, oh no, no no, that's not what I meant. I mean—no, I don't mean no as in 'no,' I mean 'no' as in 'you don't have to do that.'"

But Iris was already stepping up to him. She stood so close that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, and she saw him gulp. But he didn't step back. Instead his eyes travelled down her face and back up to her eyes, like he was taking her in. The way she sometimes did with him, when she was sure no one was looking.

"I'm ok with it," Iris said, "if you're ok with it. It's just a kiss. And it'll help you with…"

"…Becky," Barry breathed out.

"Yeah."

He was wearing the glasses he used whenever he was reading one of the thick scifi paperbacks he liked, the ones with really small type. Iris knew he was almost done with Dune. He only ever wore them at home. They were almost at the tip of his nose, and with her finger Iris pushed them up. Barry blinked at her. He was looking at her lips. His own were parted. Iris let herself have just one small, indulgent thought: he's perfect for kissing.

"Just imagine I'm her for a second," Iris said. She could say it at almost a whisper because they were standing so close.

"Becky, right," Barry said.

"And then," Iris lightly took his hands, "just put your hands on my—on her hips," and she placed them there.

"And then she'll probably—" Iris brought her arms up around Barry's shoulders. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach, which made her lean flush against him. And without her telling him, Barry did exactly what she wanted. He brought his arms around her waist to hold her against him, so they were embracing.

"And then.." Iris said, and she kissed him.

Kissing Barry was like everything else with Barry. He opened up a big, wide space inside of her, and it scared her, even as she took pleasure in the total freedom it afforded her. It was like she was hurtling headlong into something, and she didn't know what that something was.

Barry didn't kiss her like it was an experiment, or a trial run for someone else. He kissed her like he wanted to kiss her, kissed her like he wanted—her. He was all warm and solid against her, and he nipped at her bottom lip, then sucked the little pain away. He was just the right amount of greedy, leaning over her like he wanted more of her, like he wanted to give her all of himself, and he splayed a hand against her back to help hold her up. Iris thrust her hands in his hair and held him there.

She made a sound into his mouth and that's when she knew she had to pull away. His eyes were still closed when she did. He arced after her, bending to reach her, and his lips were wet and parted. His eyes fluttered open and there was a tender, keening look in them. If Iris listened to that look she'd kiss him again, and more. She'd take all of Barry for herself and there wouldn't be any left for anyone else. She scared herself with that thought.

Iris pulled herself out of their embrace, and Barry's arms hovered open in the air where she'd just been, as if he wanted to reach out for her. His glasses were just a bit askew. He looked drunk and pleased. Had she done that? Could she make him look like that?

Iris gulped down a breath. "You're good," she stammered out, "I mean you're fine. You can kiss. Stefanie, I mean Britney, I mean Becky, fuck—" Iris took another deep breath, "Becky won't have any complaints."

She stumbled out of Barry's room, forgetting her book and her notes and why she would make such a silly proposal in the first place. She rushed to her room and closed the door with a snap—to Barry Allen and all the things she didn't let herself want from him.