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This is a terrible idea.
Obviously, it's too late to back out now—the Pack is already here, inside his bunker, talking and laughing and singing—and it's too late to get lost in all the maybes, all the what-ifs and should-haves, like if I hadn't let Poppy talk me into this, if I hadn't cracked and said okay, fine, if she hadn't turned her stupid pretty eyes and stupid pretty smile on me until I folded like a damn party chair, I wouldn't be in this mess.
But he is in this mess, because Poppy turned her stupid pretty eyes and stupid pretty smile on him until he folded like a damn party chair, because she can apparently turn his iron will to jelly with just a look.
It's humiliating.
But, for better or for worse, he folded like a damn party chair. He said okay, fine. He told Poppy she and her friends (his friends too, now, and it's so stupid, how happy that makes him) could come into the bunker and make a big mess of tinsel and garland and glitter—or, as Poppy put it, "spread a little Christmas cheer" and "brighten up that gloomy hole".
At least the Pack did promise that they would stop to run the bigger things past him, that they wouldn't do anything major before they got his say-so, that they wouldn't push him into anything he didn't want, that they would listen to him even if he said no.
But the Pack doesn't seem to think "a hundred paper stars swinging from the ceiling" falls under "anything major".
"Poppy!" He almost drops the box of pinecones in his hands. "What are you doing?"
"Oh!" Poppy spins around to toss him a bright smile. "Do you like it? Is your mind totally blown? Your mind is totally blown, isn't it!"
"That's one word for it," Branch mutters, swatting the stars out of his way to get to her.
"Okay," Poppy holds up her hands, where she clutches even more paper stars, "okay, just hang on, Branch, picture this. Hundreds of beautiful, shining stars, hanging whimsically over your head."
"Picture this," Branch puts the pinecones on the floor at his feet. "Me, violently ripping them all to shreds."
"Oh, come on!" Poppy plucks a single gold star from her fingers and throws it at him. "You let Biggie get away with the garland over the door!"
"She has got you there," Guy Diamond tosses out, dancing past with a heap of shiny silver tinsel piled in his arms and a candy cane hanging half out of his open mouth.
"Okay, first off," Branch throws the star back at her, "I let Biggie get away with the garland because the garland is stuck to the wall. It's not going to hover over my head like a swarm of wasps whenever I walk past. And I can already tell you those things are going to get tangled in my hair every ten seconds."
"No, no!" Poppy snatches the star out of the air before it can hit her and waves her hands at him. "That's not gonna happen! That's not gonna happen, Branch, it's gonna be great! Promise! Cross my hair and hope to never hug again!"
"Look," he runs a hand down the side of his face, the leftover glitter off the star scraping and scratching at his cheek, "I can't have those things up there. It's just not practical."
Poppy throws back her head and heaves a deep sigh. "You really don't like 'em?"
"I don't like them there," Branch tells her, and he means it. "Not on the ceiling."
Poppy perks back up. "Sooo, does that mean we can put 'em somewhere else?"
"Not over the door, either."
"Oh, you are no fun, Branch," she says, but she leans up on her toes to snatch a star off the ceiling, her quick, thin fingers deftly undoing the tight knot in the glittery white twine.
Branch should probably just leave her to it—he still has to string the pinecones with DJ Suki, but she was still happily munching her candy cane when he left her, and it's safe to say she's probably dead asleep now, passed out in the nearest empty chair, so he reaches up to untie the glittery silver star right over his head—
—but a sudden, sharp tug at his hair pulls him to a stop.
He glances up to see a dozen paper stars twinkling merrily in his thick blue hair. Yeah. Called it. He looks over at Poppy, too, and—
"Hey, Poppy," he says, seriously, "you've got something in your hair."
"What?" Poppy frowns at him, running a hand through her bubblegum-pink locks—he can see it on her face, the second she feels the crinkled cardboard lodged in her ponytail— "Branch!" she tosses a scowl at him before she tugs at one of the many stars tangled in her hair.
"You know," Branch plucks gingerly at one of his stars, too, but it doesn't come out, "I hate to say I told you so—"
"No, you don't."
"—but I told you so."
"See? You loved that. You loved that so much. Too much."
"You're right, I did. Every second."
"Okay, okay," Poppy drops her hands back to her sides with a little huff, "this is silly, Branch! I can't even see what I'm doing, and you obviously can't see what you're doing, either, so why don't we just help each other instead?" She tips her head at him, her tangled hair spilling out, in a bright, gleaming pink river, in front of him.
"Uh," Branch says. His mouth feels too dry all of a sudden.
Because.
See.
Here's the thing.
Trolls don't just touch each other's hair.
Not unless they're—and his whole face burns with a furious blue blush just to think the word—lovers.
Not unless they're lovers.
Because this is a lovers thing.
Which means this is not a thing he and Poppy should do. This is not a thing he and Poppy should ever, ever do, but—but she's right, she can't see what she's doing, and he can't see what he's doing, so it isn't practical to turn her down on this, not when she's got such a good point, and—
"Um," Branch squeaks. "Okay. Yeah. Okay. Fine. We can try that."
He reaches out and he pulls a small gold star out of her hair—with the tips of his fingers, so he doesn't actually touch, because this is a lovers thing, not a friends thing, and if he touches her hair, it will mean things that this obviously doesn't mean, things that she obviously doesn't want this to mean, things that she'll never want this to mean, and—
Branch plucks a second star out of her ponytail, but when he reaches for the third, he misses, and his hands are in her hair, and the bright pink locks are so soft under his fingers, and this close, he can smell her favorite strawberry shampoo and if he dies in the next ten seconds, at least he can say he died a happy man because holy Troll Tree, he is touching Poppy's hair—
To get out the stars.
He's touching Poppy's hair to get out the stars, and that's it, that's all, and it isn't making his stomach do flips and it isn't making his heart pound and it isn't making his hands shake, because it doesn't mean a thing, so he would have to be pretty pathetic to get nervous about touching her hair when it doesn't mean anything.
Which means he's just invented an entirely new level of pathetic.
He takes out the rest of the stars and he doesn't touch her hair again.
"Thanks!" Poppy looks up to beam at him. "Your turn, buddy!"
"Right," Branch rasps, and it's good that he has to duck his head down now, because he's flushed all the way to the pointed tips of his ears, and if Poppy sees what a nervous wreck he is, he's going to have to lock himself away down here for another ten years until she forgets about it.
Poppy threads her small, pink fingers in his hair.
Holy hell.
He was wrong before, wasn't he, because this is the second where he can die happy, this second with Poppy's hands tangled up in his hair, nowhere near the quick, light, chaste touches he did to her—it's almost like she wants to touch him, but that's—that's crazy. That's insane.
That's not true.
Is it?
"It wouldn't kill you to relax a little, you know," Poppy laughs. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
"I-I know," Branch says, and he does—he trusts Poppy more than he's ever trusted anyone before, and that scares the hell out of him—but he's pretty sure if he doesn't hold himself still and stiff as a board, he's going to melt right down into a puddle under her hands.
"You know, I'm thinkin' you should keep this look," she tugs a star out of his hair and tosses it to the floor. "It's festive."
Branch huffs out a small, breathless laugh—he can't tell if that's actually a funny thing she just said, or if he's just a complete basket-case right now. "How long would it take Chenille to call me a 'crime against fashion'?"
"She already calls you that. Like, every day."
"Oh. Great. Just what I needed to hear."
Poppy giggles and pulls another star out of his hair in a shower of silver glitter. "Well, it looks like I got 'em all! You're lucky. I musta had way more in mine."
Branch is lucky, because he didn't pass out with her hands on his head, which he really thought he might do. And he might still do it, actually, because when he looks up, she's so close, he can still smell her shampoo and he can count every freckle on her face.
And her fingers are still tangled in his hair.
This isn't making his stomach do flips. This isn't making his heart pound. This isn't making his hands shake.
He's not staring at her mouth, at the faint shine of pink gloss on her soft lips and he's not thinking about that light, quick, split-second kiss she dropped on his cheek under the mistletoe last week, when she smiled and said maybe next time, and is this next time—?
She drops her hand back to her side. Her eyes flick down to his mouth.
He thinks this might be next time.
She leans in, and he leans in, too, and his heart pounds and his hands shake but maybe next time, and this is next time—
"Branch! Poppy!" Biggie hurries over with a steaming cup clutched in his hands. "There you are!"
Branch scrambles away from Poppy so fast, the whole room spins and he stumbles over his own feet, almost falling to the floor.
"Come on!" Biggie beams at the both of them. "Where have you two been? Come on into the kitchen, we're having a hot cocoa break!"
"Oh," Poppy says, almost breathlessly, and she tugs sharply on the fur trim on her skirt to straighten it. "Oh, yeah, that—that sounds great. Doesn't that sound great, Branch?"
"Yeah," Branch blurts, a flush burning in his face, his heart still pounding and his hands still shaking, and he doesn't know what they're talking about, he doesn't know anything except that he can still feel her hands in his hair. "Yeah. Sounds great."
"Yeah. Great."
"Great."