Broken Arrows

12 | an independence day

"I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all."

—10 Things I Hate About You (1999)

☁☁☁☁

As soon as the clock hit a reasonable time the next morning, Sachi wandered into Hunter's room. He was still fast asleep, sprawled over the expanse of his mattress, various limbs hanging over the edge of the frame. His mouth was open, a sliver of drool hanging off. He looked at peace for once.

Sachi neared, noting how thick his lashes looked. How unfair, she thought, that boys were blessed with beautiful eyelashes and girls had to settle for other means. She braced herself on the frame with one foot lifted into the air, the other grazing the floor. He didn't even flinch as she lifted herself entirely into the air.

Then, as swift as she could manage, she hooked one leg on the other side of his body and sat down on his stomach. He grunted beneath her at the sudden weight, and she tried to hide her giggles to no real avail.

She knew she was straddling him, but she didn't think there was any better way to wake someone up on the Fourth of July. She leaned forward, so that her mouth was almost against his earlobe.

"Hunter," she cooed, a playful lilt to her voice, "wake up."

"No." The word was clipped, short. Tinged with sleep.

"Hunter. It's the fourth of July. C'mon. It's gonna be a great day."

"Not really." He tried rolling onto his side, but with the extra weight added onto his stomach, he found it difficult.

"Hunter. I'll drop water on you," she threatened.

Apparently, that wasn't in his best interests, because he opened one eye and peered up at her. "Will you really?" His voice was deeper than usual, and she had to admit it didn't suit him.

"Yup." She pointed at her snapback she'd donned for the day with the words 'Happy Fourth!' written in neat cursive surrounded by fireworks. "You're not going to kill my happy mood."

Groaning, he motioned for her to move, and he got up, stretching like a cat. He scratched idly at his head, only mussing his hair even more. "Is everyone else awake?"

"Not Elliot." She noticed him taking in her appearance: from the American flag jean shorts to the white V-neck.

"Let me guess," he said sardonically, "you picked your outfit because it's the fourth."

"Duh." Sachi, again, pointed at her hat.

"You're treating it like it's an actual holiday."

"It is, dipshit."

"I mean, you're treating it like it's fucking Christmas."

She was slightly offended at that, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "You love Christmas."

He huffed.