iFML

1.

You are Sam Puckett, the scourge of Ridgeway High, and you are getting bored.

Never one to leave such a thought unexpressed, you say so out loud in sing-song fashion as the boy standing in front of you goes through his strutting performance, rolling his sleeves, cricking his neck and flexing his shoulders in a laughably transparent attempt to psych you out. You've seen all this before. Freddie Benson, technical producer of iCarly, Galaxy Wars enthusiast and nubbiest of all nubs, is about to take you on in an arm-wrestling match and as is typical of him, he is making preparations. He is all about the preparation. You are certain he's done research into form and technique, perhaps even studied footage of others, and in fact, you wouldn't put it past him to have read a book on arm-wrestling. He seems to take comfort in these routines; you think it makes him feel like he's doing something without actually having to make a decision.

Finally, he takes a seat across the table, clasps your smaller hand in his and stares into your eyes.

He's going to lose.

You know it, and what's more, he knows it. The arm-wrestling challenge is simply the latest round in what has become a war of pretense. He is many things, but these days, a weakling isn't one of them, and he has weight and upper body strength on his side. You know he could best you if he wanted to; maybe not every time, but some. Clearly, he thinks you haven't noticed that he's been throwing the fight, and you can't bring yourself to tell him how frustrated you are. After all these years, having taken every measure of him, does he think you can't tell when he's holding back on you? He's been strong enough to win for a while and these days, you find yourself willing him to for his own sake as much as yours. He has always favored the path of least resistance, and it makes you want to scream at him sometimes. When the object of his affections was in danger of moving to Yakima with her grandfather, he was pathetic, falling to his knees and begging him not to take her away. In moments like those, you were disgusted by him. Too often, he needed a shove into action; otherwise he'd wait forever for the world to come to him. You draw him out of his corner, make him come out fighting, and if you're honest, you've become addicted to these glimpses of the man he could be. He has no idea, but he's a different person when he's in battle with you, fierce and alive. You really do like seeing him all feisty.

Carly Shay, your best friend and his aforementioned object, places her hand over yours, and it strikes you that this would make a perfect snapshot of your whole relationship, you and he pushing against each other in intimate conflict, but still hanging on to each other tightly while your mutual friend plays the referee. He would fake shock to learn you even had a thought that wasn't about food or violence. You would hit back by asking if he could tell what you were thinking now, then straight dead-arming him with a single punch. This was how the war went on.

"You ready?" Carly asks him.

"Ready."

His defiant smirk irritates and invites you equally, and you know he is deliberately trying your notoriously short temper. It was one of the unspoken secrets between you; he would warn you not to clobber him over the head again or lick his phone again and of course, you did it anyway because you both know perfectly well that he was daring you. He can deny it until the cows come home, but even as far back as the swing set incident, he was daring you. It's ironic that you've always been the engine of this war. If it were left up to him, you are certain the two of you would barely speak.

You notice the small bump on the inside of the top knuckle of his middle finger, a writer's callus, and his nails are slightly chipped; the show demands of him a surprising amount of manual work, maintaining the studio's lighting and sound rig and often building the props on his own, save the occasional helping hand from Spencer. His hand is warm and dry, the palm tightly wrapped around the ball of your thumb and his fingertips whitening against the back of your hand. It feels as though you could be lovers holding hands over a coffee table, the crowd watching in envy because he can't take his eyes off you.

Carly gives the word, and it's on. You think for a moment that perhaps this time, this time he will resist. Today is the day he will beat you. He's already shown signs of the man he is growing into. When you and Carly outvoted him and took on the good-looking yet comically stupid Cort for their useless intern, he retaliated by hiring a ringer, Ashley, to play pretty-dumb. He refused to back down, and wouldn't get rid of the 'feminidiot' until they ditched their 'himbecile.' You could have protested more firmly, to be sure, but for the most part, you remained quiet. You played at outrage right alongside Carly but inside, you were delighted; you were so proud of him for standing his ground.

But you already know how this will go down. He's convinced himself that it's the victory that makes you happy, not the battle, and he can't bring himself to take it away from you. Freddie never was vicious enough to draw blood, while you, on the other hand, don't quite know when to stop. You would casually gouge some thoughtless wound aimed to make him feel unloved and unlovable, watch his shoulders slump and his eyes go blank for maybe half a second before he put on his game face and grasped for a feeble comeback. It's at times like those that you hate this whole show, hate that squirming feeling in your stomach that comes when you cut into him carelessly deep.

You wonder briefly what would happen if you were to surrender. After all, you've had chances to end the war in the past. When he found out that Valerie, his first girlfriend (technically), had been using him, he came back to the studio trying to hide his first broken heart. You couldn't help but ache a little for him, and the hug you shared then was not given grudgingly.

Neither was the wedgie that followed. You have never done well with serious moments.

You could do it now, though. It would be simple just to let him pin your hand to the desk, to stop resisting him and let go. Maybe then you and he could just talk without playing games.

But you are Sam and Freddie, the barely-friends. You only speak to each other to trade insults, and you only touch each other in combat. Somewhere along the way, the war had become your one and only line of communication, and you think neither of you are quite ready to give it up. Although you would sooner die than admit it, you are quietly anxious that there might be nothing more. So you push down, bitterly force his arm back a little harder than you need to and let him lose.

3.2 seconds.

He whoops it up at his broken record for holding out against you, putting on a gun show and bumping Gibby with an exploding fist. You want to smile, knowing he's playing for laughs a little bit, but you're disappointed, so you keep the poker face you wear as old habit.

"Congratulations," you say, folding your arms and trying to sound indifferent, but you can still hear the keen edge of spite in your voice. You meant what you said; you are getting bored.