Thankfully — blessedly — his mom left him alone after that.
He could've fallen to his knees and cried in relief if he was a weaker man.
Instead, he spent the rest of the night dealing with the dust-smelling suit and setting out everything he'd need for Saturday. After wrestling the thing on and fighting against the itchiness from how musty it was, he took a moment to move around in it. If the thing ripped while they were dancing, he would have to disappear off the face of the earth.
Somehow, the pants still fit him, if just a little tight and a smidge shorter than they were supposed to be. But that was okay since he was going to wear his boots since he didn't own dress shoes. Not that he minded. There was no way he wasn't putting his own spin on the damn suit.
Just a white button-up under the jacket, tucked into his pants. His usual studded belt. His pant chains. If he could get his cuffs on without fucking up the sleeves, he would. The only thing he wasn't sure about was his hair, but at least he had time to figure that out.
Once the suit was hung back up, and he begrudgingly decided to ask his mom the next day to wash and iron it because he was not talking to her again that night, he'd dropped into bed, exhausted.
The next day was mostly normal.
He woke up, got ready, went to school — same old, same old. But when Ash caught him fidgeting and asked what was up, he made the grave mistake of telling her he asked Penguin to prom.
And she, in turn, told everyone else.
What followed was a full-scale Let's-Pile-Up-On-Larry fest. Teasing, nudging, giggling — it was endless. He couldn't even look at Todd without seeing that knowing look, and Sal kept making a suspicious number of casual comments about prom-related stuff. The only saving grace was that they tried to tone it down when Penguin and Travis arrived, but even then, Larry was drowning in whispers and pointed looks.
For the first time in his life, he was grateful to go to class. At least it got him away from them. And, as a plus, he got to spend a little time with Penguin in English.
…Where she made him start writing part of their essay.
"Use your brain for a little bit," she'd said, sliding the notebook and their notes toward him.
He didn't complain too much, though. Not when she pulled out her sketchbook and immediately started fidgeting with the page, tapping her pencil like she couldn't settle. He'd rather take on a little extra work if it gave her something to focus on besides nerves.
Also, because she had angled herself just right so he couldn't see what she was drawing.
Even as he wrote, he caught glimpses of her from the corner of his eye — how she kept glancing up at him, quick and subtle, before ducking back down.
Which meant she was drawing him again.
Which meant he had to fight back a ridiculously giddy grin.
Even with them napping all tangled up together three times a week, the gifts were somehow still the highlight. His Gift Drawer kept getting fuller and fuller with every little thing she left for him. She'd made him so many bracelets that he was switching them out every morning, debating whether he should just start wearing one on each wrist. His folder of drawings was starting to gain some serious heft. And the pebbles — he had so many pebbles now. Some painted, some not. She'd started leaving more of the painted ones with his other gifts, like she was upgrading them.
And today, a Friday, she'd really gone all out.
When she met up with their group that morning, she was extra fidgety. He got that prom was nerve-wracking, but damn. It wasn't even prom day yet. But she was running through every nervous habit he'd ever seen her have. Fidgeting with her bag straps, popping her knuckles, tugging at her sleeves. Like her body couldn't decide which one to settle on, so it just cycled through all of them at once.
He found out why soon enough.
When he walked to his locker before going to the cafeteria, he almost dropped the notebook he was holding.
Because his locker — his usually dull, slightly dented, very normal locker — looked like it had exploded into a flower shop.
Blooms were everywhere, flooding through the vents and spilling out along the hinges, an explosion of pinks and purples and whites. For a split second, all he could do was stare, his brain refusing to catch up, before it clicked. Those were her flowers. The ones from in front of her house.
She had stuffed his locker with them.
As he stepped closer, he noticed a few were a little crushed, probably from getting shoved through the vents. Some had fallen loose, scattered on the floor at his feet. And for some stupid reason, that made his chest ache a little. Like they didn't belong there, like it was wrong for them to just be stepped on.
Did she spend all of fourth period doing this? Just standing at his locker, tucking and cramming flowers into every little gap she could find?
And— wait. If he squints, he can see a few that are actually taped onto the metal.
Jesus.
Is that why she was being weirdly careful with her backpack this morning? Was it because it was full of flowers?
He didn't have much time to sit there and melt about it, though, because Sally jabbed him in the side, snickering. Larry jolted, nearly crushing one of the flowers he'd picked up in his fist.
"Alright, Casanova, you gonna keep staring or you gonna clean this up?" Sal had teased.
And just for that, Sal got roped into helping, so joke's on him. Together, they carefully plucked the flowers from the vents and hinges, making sure not to crush the delicate petals as they stuffed them into their pockets.
When Larry finally opened his locker, he was met with a small pile of stray petals scattered across the bottom. Most of them were still soft and fresh, but a few looked a little worse for wear, probably from being stuffed into the vents. He brushed them aside carefully, and sure enough, beneath them was exactly what he'd been looking for — her drawing.
He didn't bother inspecting it just yet. Instead, he folded it up and tucked it safely into his pocket before Sal could get a good look, ignoring the way his friend tried to lean in curiously.
By the time they got to the cafeteria and started pulling the blooms from their pockets, Penguin looked seconds away from crawling under the table and disappearing. She was fidgeting like crazy, eyes subtly darting between the flowers and Larry like she was bracing for him to call her out. Like she knew there was no way he hadn't put the pieces together — he'd seen those flowers in front of her house a hundred times. Of course he knew.
Lucky for her, he was perfectly happy to keep playing dumb a little while longer, and she seemed to believe the act.
The whole group spent lunch eating and weaving flowers into each other's hair, passing them around like there were an endless supply. Not once did he insinuate that Penguin had anything to do with it. Everyone already knew, of course, but as long as he didn't say it outright, neither would they.
Ash was the first to reach for the flowers, immediately plucking a few and tucking them into Sal's pigtails. Maple followed suit, taking off Chug's hat and nestling a couple blooms into his hair, which sent everyone into a fit of giggles. With his green hair and the flowers dotting the top of his head, he kinda looked like a walking shrub.
Sal and Penguin wasted no time teaming up against Travis, bullying him into letting them put at least one flower in his hair. Despite his very vocal protests, he didn't stand a chance. Especially not when she was threatening to cover him in them. He begrudgingly allowed two.
For a second, Larry thought maybe she'd leave him alone this time, that maybe she wouldn't go for his hair the way she always did. But honestly, he should've known better.
As soon as she was done with Travis, she turned to him, gently working her fingers through his hair before braiding in some of the smaller flowers — mainly the azaleas and laurels, with the smaller lilac blooms tucked carefully after she picked them off the larger bunches. By the time she was done, he had his usual loose hair, only now it was threaded through with delicate little blossoms, trailing in lines down the strands.
The last thing she had done was tuck the final flower into his hair, fingers lingering for just a second before she pulled away.
Now, hours later, he still caught glimpses of them in the corner of his eye, little flashes of color standing out against his dark hair. Every time he shifted, every time he dipped his brush into the paint, the movement sent the small blooms swaying. He hadn't taken them out yet.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, hunched over painting the last details of their poster. Penguin was nearby at her desk, finishing up the final touches on their essay. They were nearly done — one last push, and they'd have everything ready to go.
Music played in the background again, but the air felt... heavier than usual. Not uncomfortable, but not entirely easy either. It was just the two of them, like always, but this time was different. This time, prom loomed over the horizon, lingering in the back of their minds even as they focused on their work.
He'd drifted off in thought more than once in the past hour, his brush moving on autopilot while his brain spun in circles. The suit. The prom. Everything. Should he wear a bowtie? What if he looked stupid? What if she didn't like his suit? For a split second, he even considered leaving his accessories at home — maybe looking a little more put-together for her — before he caught himself.
If she'd started liking him when he was just some scruffy-looking mess of a dude, a couple chains and bracelets weren't going to change that. She wouldn't give two fucks about whether he cleaned up nice. The only people who would care were the other students and the teachers, and he sure as hell wasn't dressing for them.
He knew she was nervous too. He could hear it. The rhythmic tapping of her pencil against the desk, a steady beat that faltered whenever she got too caught up in her thoughts. The sound of paper flipping — too much paper flipping, like she couldn't settle on one part of their analysis for long before second-guessing herself.
Her humming would start up, light and absentminded, only to trail off after a few notes before picking up again. And every now and then, when he glanced up, he'd catch her staring blankly at their work, her pencil tracing restless circles in the air.
At this rate, if they kept getting distracted, they'd end up stretching the project into Monday before it was due. Which… might not be the worst idea. Instead of forcing themselves to focus while prom loomed in their heads — making mistakes he already knew they were going to have to fix later — they could just wrap up for today. Finish the last bits on Monday. Maybe even tweak a few things before school on Tuesday, just to be safe.
'Hm…'
Larry straightened up, rolling his shoulders before stretching his arms high over his head with a quiet groan. When he dropped them back down, he glanced over at Penguin and called her name softly. She perked up a little, pushing her glasses up her nose as she turned to look at him.
"I was thinking," he started, watching as she swiveled her chair toward him, "that we should take a break. Or, y'know, just end for today. We're too distracted, man. We're never gonna get this shit done correctly."
Penguin let out a breath of laughter, nodding as she dropped her pencil into her cup. "I think that's a bit smart. Wow, would you look at that."
He gasped, clutching at his chest. "I can be smart," he squawked, twisting his face into the most offended look he could manage.
She only laughed harder.
He shook his head, laughing as he started putting his supplies away. Penguin was still giggling under her breath, but when she finally calmed down, she sighed and said, "Seriously though, I think it's better if we stop now. Yeah… I think I've read the same thing, like, four times."
He snorted, asking the obvious, "Nervous?"
She shot him a flat look, and he had to bite back a cackle.
"Of course," she huffed, flushing slightly as she turned away to start tidying up her desk. "Dude, you asked me so damn late. If you'd asked, like, I don't know, earlier, I wouldn't be as nervous 'cause I'd have more time to prepare. But, well…"
He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, okay, fair. I did ask you, like, two days ago…" He let out a breath, standing up and stretching before making his way over to her.
She didn't argue, just huffed again and kept straightening things on her desk. He watched her for a second before reaching up, fingers brushing lightly against her hair as he toyed with the flower still tucked behind her ear.
"I'm pretty nervous too, man," he admitted, giving a small shrug. "It's kinda why I wanted to stop. If I kept going like this, I would've fucked up the poster."
She stilled for a second, like she hadn't expected him to be so open about it, before her shoulders relaxed. Then, finally, she turned back to him, rolling her eyes but smiling a little. "Yeah," she murmured, reaching up to nudge his hand away from her hair so she could fix the flower herself. "I get that."
He watched as she adjusted the flower behind her ear, taking her time like it was the most important thing in the world. Once she was satisfied, her hand moved toward him, fingers grabbing the end of one of the small braids she'd put in his hair earlier.
He raised a brow, but didn't stop her as she toyed with it, curling it around her fingers before letting it go, only to grab it again and give it a small tug. She did it absentmindedly, like it was second nature, but he could see the way her brows pinched slightly in concentration, like she was making sure not to mess up the flowers she'd carefully tucked into his hair.
A huff of laughter left him before he could help it. "You love my hair a lot, huh?"
She blinked up at him, eyes widening slightly behind her lenses before her face scrunched into a pout. Instead of answering, she just yanked at the braid again — not hard enough to hurt, but enough to get a reaction.
Larry felt the smirk tug at his lips before he even had the thought fully formed.
Would it be okay to say? Probably. They'd been friends long enough for him to know where the line was. They snuggled up to each other all the time, she was the one always playing with his hair, and when they were with the group, she was usually the first one to crack up at a dirty joke. And, well… she flustered so easily when he was the one messing with her.
Would it be too much?
Nah.
She liked teasing him all the damn time — he was just playing the game.
His smirk widened. "If you wanted to yank my hair so badly you should've just told me to get on my knees."
That did it. She sputtered immediately, her hand shooting away like his hair had burned her. A mess of denials, questions, and spanish words he didn't recognize tumbled out of her mouth in a flustered jumble, and he couldn't help it — he burst out laughing.
He cackled as she groaned and kicked off from the floor, rolling her chair right into him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and she stuffed her face against his stomach, muffling some kind of dramatic noise into his shirt.
He grinned, shaking his head as he brought a hand down to the back of her head, scratching lightly at her scalp. She just burrowed further into him, her glasses pressing uncomfortably into his stomach like she was trying to merge into his body to escape her embarrassment.
She's so cute.
As he stood there waiting for her to calm down, he could just barely feel her brows furrowing through his shirt. That was his first warning. The second came when she tilted her head slightly, peeking up at him with a look that had his grin faltering — not fully, but enough that he noticed.
Something about the way she was staring at him felt… dangerous.
And then she lidded her eyes.
Oh. Oh no.
His brain short-circuited so violently that he almost forgot how to stand. The heavy-lidded gaze behind her lenses, her nose pressing into his stomach, the way her fingers slid up to his hips, slipping under his shirt—
A strangled noise clawed its way out of his throat as he leaped back like a startled animal. He wasn't sure what sound he just made, but it had the distinct tone of a dog getting its tail stepped on. His whole body felt like it was on fire, and the worst part? She looked so smug.
"You can dish it but you can't take it?" she teased, her voice light, triumphant.
He gawked at her, mouth opening and closing uselessly.
What the fuck.
While he was still trying to get his brain back online, she stood up, dusted off her lap, and strolled over like she hadn't just flipped his entire world upside down.
She patted his chest, looking far too pleased with herself. "Don't play those games with me, Johnson," she said, laughing as she turned toward the door. "You won't win."
He let out another strangled sound — something between a laugh and a wheeze — and blindly stumbled back, dropping heavily onto the corner of her bed.
The second the door clicked shut behind her, he collapsed forward, elbows bracing against his knees as he shoved his face into his hands.
What the fuck was that? What the fuck?
Yeah, she teased him sometimes — like that time in his truck — but holy shit that was nothing compared to what just happened. It was one thing for her to whisper and ask him about how she'd look with something as simple as a piercing on. It was a whole other thing for her to look up at him like that and slip her fingers into the hem of his pants like she was about to—
Nope. No. Absolutely not.
He sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut as his palms dug into his face.
'Do not pop a boner. Do not pop a boner.'
Breathe, Johnson. You're stronger than the flesh.
You've survived worse. You've survived weeks of napping with her curled into your side, her breath warm against your neck. You've survived her draping herself across you like a goddamn weighted blanket. You've survived her literally getting on top of you, even if it was only your back.
You have trained for this.
You have discipline.
You are a man, not some weak-willed animal at the mercy of instinct.
He dragged his hands down his face, inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly.
Okay. He was fine. He could do this. He could handle this.
And then his brain oh-so-helpfully replayed the look she gave him — the way she stared up, all smug and heavy-lidded, her fingers curling into his pants—
Not fine! Not fucking fine!
'New plan: think about the most unsexy thing imaginable! Go!'
Uh! Meatloaf. The kind from school. That weird green goop overflowing the sinks back at the apartments. That one time he walked in on Todd's parents—
Oh, thank god, crisis averted.
He groaned, flopping back onto the bed and throwing an arm over his face.
Tomorrow was going to kill him.