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You can’t take it sometimes, honestly. How she talks. Nasal, whiny, biting, presumptuous.

You know she watches you. Her eyes burn like chunks of steel into your back as you walk. Well, you wouldn’t complain except that she’s a bitch. An absolute one. Awful. Just awful.

Which explain why you two are best friends. Because, you know, you’re weird.

Terezi’s room is painted in eye-watering shades of primary colors, with clutter and hand-sewn dragon toys everywhere. When you go over to her house, sometimes when she leaves the room, you just stand there and smell the air. Chalk and deodorant and formaldehyde.

While you’re being a nosy bitch and staring at the mythology essay splayed on her messy desk, Terezi rounds the corner and blinks at you standing in the room. Your eyes land on her and widen—she’s not wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants like normal, but a crop top and gym shorts that show off the lumps of bone protruding from her hips and chest. Skinny, skinny, that’s Terezi Pyrope, thin like she’s going to shrink into herself and disappear any instant.

Her shirt is normal, of course, you don’t know why you’re staring. Of course she doesn’t wear sweat pants all the time. Of course it’s fine for you to see the sides of her bra as she lean forward on her toes. She only does that when she’s home alone. Like now. With you.

“Yo,” she says sardonically, drawing the word out for emphasis, and adding a drawl in mockery of a stereotypical teenager. “What’s up, fucker?”

When you don’t reply (her rude greetings are customary at this point), she not-so-gently shoves you out of the way and flops down on the teal bed, rubbing her temples and yawning widely. You follow her and thunk down on the side of the bed, throwing a pillow at her. She cackles and kicks you in the back with her toes, but her aim is pretty off--and luckily for you, because all her nails are sharp enough to cut skin.

It’s not weird that you and Terezi are hanging out alone in her room, alone in the house. You’ve known her for years. It’s not weird at all, the way she almost almost smells like the teenage boys in the hallways of school—stale sweat and Old Spice, which you pretend to be bothered by. When in reality, it doesn’t bother you remotely.

It’s not weird, then, when your head goes on her bony shoulder almost completely on instinct and she curls her arm around you. It doesn’t make your heart race. It doesn’t make you smile foolishly. You’re (y/n), famous for dating any girl or boy just to break their hearts. You don’t give two shits about Terezi’s thumb stroking your hand absentmindedly as she says something about her day but you kind of aren’t listening—

“Earth to (y/n)?” Her voice cuts into the fog in your mind, a note of embarrassment present underneath the irritation.

“Mmmmrghh,” you complain. Then you realize your head is pressed against Terezi’s side, your nose squashed to the pale of her skin like a cat.

Hastily, you sit up, feeling the blush start to creep up your neck. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

“Right,” she mutters. You can see the smile dimple her cheek. “Pretending not to notice how obviously thirsty you are.”

“Bitch,” you whine, but you’re grinning. “I wasn’t thinking that, and you know it.”

She leans into you, grinning widely. “You sure?”

You shove her away playfully as you blush and cross your arms in turn. “Looks like I’m not the only thirsty one here, Terezi.”

It surprises you to see her turn slightly pink, but she she says coyly, “If that’s the case, I should wear crop tops more.”

Her tone is so outright happy under the usual snide rancor that your stomach squirms. She can’t be implying that she likes all your stupid pointless physical affection. You’d never do it in public, you are far too aloof and cool for that. Like a cat, you are.

You smile back and hesitantly push your head into her chest. Terezi leans back and your head falls into her lap, and your heart speeds up as she runs a hand across your scalp and twists a strand of glossy (h/c) hair around her finger.

You want to believe that you’re just friends, but you both know that you aren’t, really, because you can feel her pulse thumping in her wrist and you know she can feel yours. You want to say something, but you also don’t want to ruin the moment, so you just lie there and take in the smell of Terezi’s room, and it’s almost like burying your face in one of her shirts.