Andrew felt a smile tug at his lips and let it happen. It fell away quickly. A fringe benefit of taking his meds before the plane—he crashed during the flight and typically got a few sober hours after they arrived, depending on where they were going.

His psycho pills were a 12-hour release. They remained active for six hours and took another six to fully leave his system. Withdrawals didn’t hit until the last two hours, sometimes later, but he couldn’t go far past that window without fucking his entire week. He’d crash during classes. He’d need to double dose, leaving him feeling high for days at a time. He’d miss practices, for once involuntarily. And while Andrew didn’t mind watching Kevin clutch his pearls, it lost its appeal when it was out of his control.

Andrew only bypassed the 12-hour window on a few occasions. Once during a game for a bottle of liquor, twice for his family, and four times to keep himself alive when the meds pushed him too far. He let Kevin keep track of them for a reason. At least one person would know when he was about to fall off the edge.

He and Bee had it down to a science. Bee knew the meds were wrong. Anyone who really knew Andrew—Kevin, Bee, Wymack, and Neil, once upon a time—saw it plain as day. He and Bee spent weeks crafting and fine-tuning a schedule that kept him high at practice and during classes, crashing late afternoon, and sober late at night.

It wasn’t perfect, but Andrew knew he would’ve been dead by now without it. The thought wasn’t upsetting. It was simple. Factual. Andrew had stopped being a stranger to himself the minute his bedroom door cracked open in Cass’s house.

Andrew took another drag and let the thought go. He wasn’t surprised at the turn his mind took. After all, he was in California, and there were some things his body remembered and his mind couldn’t forget.

He didn’t hate the state. On the contrary, Andrew preferred it to the east coast. He thought about getting in the rental and going to Santa Monica. Andrew loved beaches. SoCal beaches were too crowded for his taste, unless he went in the mornings with the stoned surfers, but there was sand and an ocean. That was all Andrew needed. The thought of driving away was appealing, but Andrew had a reason to stay at the Gold Court.

His current sobriety was not a part of his and Bee’s schedule. He was required to be high during all exy-related activities. He was near a court, courts meant exy, and exy meant happy pills. And unfortunately, this was public knowledge, because Andrew must’ve kicked a puppy or spat on homeless children in another life.

But similar to bending rules in juvie, his sobriety was only an issue if someone noticed. Particularly someone who’d report it. Andrew, however, had no intention of coming into contact with more than four people this trip: Wymack, Kevin, Moreau, Knox.

He could workshop this.

Wymack could tell he was sober, clearly, but he didn’t ask. He never inquired when Andrew strayed from his psycho schedule unless it became a team liability. Coach claimed he didn’t work above his pay grade, but Andrew knew better. He prioritized Andrew’s health over NCAA regulations. Wymack even ran interference with the press when Andrew stayed sober to help Kevin.

Kevin wasn’t much of an issue, either. Disregarding the fact that he’d be the last person to sell Andrew out, he preferred sober Andrew. Kevin treated Andrew the same whether he was sober or medicated, which few did. Kevin wouldn’t let medication get in the way of exy and hearing himself talk about exy. Kevin was simple.

Moreau had a stick up his ass, but he had bigger problems to deal with than Andrew’s meds. Moreau hadn’t acknowledged his meds since the night after he left the crow cult. It was the first time he’d seen Andrew sober, apart from their ten minute rendezvous in the car before Andrew crashed.

“You are not medicated.” Andrew looked over his shoulder from where he sat on the porch swing. He wasn’t surprised to find Moreau awake at this hour.

Andrew looked back at the sunrise, not bothering with a response. Andrew had barely slept. Partially because he was off schedule with his meds, partially because of a blue-eyed redhead, and partially because he was a world class insomniac.

“Can I?” Moreau asked, gesturing to the other end of the swing. Andrew took a minute to check-in with himself before shrugging. There was a beat of silence before Moreau spoke again. “Is that a yes or no?”

That made Andrew pause. It was enough for Andrew to toss him an answer.

“I don’t care,” he said. Moreau seemed to accept that for what it was and sat down.

They stayed in not-uncomfortable stillness for a while. Andrew let his mind wander. He brought his focus back to the sunrise whenever it started to dig too deep. He wasn’t particularly interested in what his mind was doing. Andrew was tired. He watched his thoughts pass like cars on a highway, not bothering to get in any of them but occasionally noting the color or type.

“Neither do I,” Moreau said, soft enough to not shatter the silence, simply bend it.

Andrew glanced over when Moreau didn’t continue. He seemed more lost in thought than Andrew ever willingly allowed himself to be.

“Care, that is,” Moreau said. “About the medication.”

Andrew hummed and debated if he was curious enough to continue the conversation.

“No?” he eventually asked, an eyebrow raised.

His voice was enough to pull Moreau from his thoughts. And for the first time since they’d arrived at Abby’s a few hours ago, Moreau truly looked at him. Andrew didn’t know what he saw, nor did he care. Genuinely. He didn’t have many fucks to give, and Moreau’s opinion of him definitely didn’t garner one.

However, Andrew had a feeling Moreau knew this. Despite the fact that Andrew wasn’t exactly subtle with his feelings, Moreau seemed to have a pretty high level of emotional disconnect. It didn’t rival Kevin’s, but it was up there. So Andrew was intrigued as to why Moreau was entertaining this conversation at all.

Moreau eventually shrugged as if he decided to jump ship and abandon the entire exchange.

“Haven’t you heard?” Andrew asked. “Andrew Minyard is a resident Class 1 crazy.”

Moreau dismissed it with a flick of his fingers.

“You are not the monster they say you are,” he said. “The average intelligence of human beings is appalling.”

Andrew snorted.

“Even if you were,” Moreau continued, “you like Kevin. Or care about him, at the very least.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. He tried to find the connection between that comment and what they were talking about. Andrew’s mind came up with a few options—one of them being that had Andrew been a monster, but he liked Kevin, Moreau would let it go—and he didn’t like any of them.

“Let’s say I do,” Andrew said, locking eyes with Moreau. “My liking of Kevin says nothing about me as a person.”

“Day is single-minded, not oblivious,” Moreau responded.

“Even then,” Andrew pushed. “He is under no obligation to me, regardless of what he knows. It’d be my problem, and mine only.”

“Not everyone thinks that way.”

“But I do,” Andrew said. He wasn’t interested in Moreau’s opinion of his happy pills anymore. Andrew didn’t understand Kevin’s relationship with Moreau, and he doubted he ever would, but he wanted to know what Moreau thought of Kevin now. That was Andrew’s problem.

Moreau was right. Andrew did care about Kevin, and he was ready to gut Moreau right then if he said anything that’d put Kevin in harm’s way.

“Kevin is not helpless,” Moreau said. “If he did not want you to like him, you would not.”

Moreau said this as if it weren’t up for debate. It was a fact, and one Moreau didn’t seem too pleased with.

“Kevin is insufferable as it is,” Moreau muttered. “Anyone who likes him should be clinically studied.”

“And?” Andrew asked. Moreau sighed, like talking about Kevin was a major inconvenience. Andrew thought that was reasonable.

“I like to think Kevin would not stand beside a monster,” he said, looking back out towards the sky.

“He fell beside Riko,” Andrew tossed back.

“Oui,” Moreau said. “He fell beside Riko. He never willingly stood beside him.”

Moreau looked at him.

“I trust his judgement,” Moreau said softly. “The Master taught Kevin to walk with Riko. He was not allowed to step out of line. God knows what Riko did to him in private.”

Andrew hummed in response.

“This you know,” Moreau said. “You know more than I ever will.”

Andrew shrugged. It was true, but this conversation was over.

That covered almost everyone who could have an issue with Andrew being unmedicated.

Almost.

Andrew heard someone approach and took another drag of his cigarette.

He moved his sunglasses up to his hair before turning his attention to the man approaching. Andrew hadn’t seen him since the end-of-season all-conference banquet last year. He still had that body Greek gods would’ve been jealous of, if not a little more tan.

Jeremy Knox was made for California.

Andrew then heard the flip flops. Knox was still searching for his nonexistent fashion sense, it seemed, but he managed to scrounge up an outfit that showed off everything it needed to. It was insulting to look that good in jorts, a muscle tank, and flops. Andrew resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Moreau had been right.

Jeremy Knox, golden boy and one of the most respected captains in Class 1 exy, looked like a Phi Beta Bimbo frat boy.

Andrew leaned against the court wall and waited for Jeremy to meet his gaze. Jeremy’s eyes were slowly raking up and down Andrew’s body. He wasn’t wearing anything impressive, by his personal standards, but Andrew knew how to make a simple outfit look good.

After Moreau and Kevin got out of the car, Andrew made a quick change. The black pants, tank, and Tims he wore were from the plane. He’d thrown on a short sleeve black button-down he left open. It had a faint leopard print if someone were close enough. He’d added a gold ring or two and a chain. Andrew’s armbands and knives were securely in place, as always.

He felt a faint smirk on his lips once Jeremy’s eyes finally met his.

Jeremy stopped in front of Andrew, just out of reach for them to accidentally touch. He felt Jeremy’s presence like a physical weight—the poorly concealed desire behind Jeremy’s gaze certainly helped.

“You know this isn’t a smoking zone, right?” Jeremy asked.

“You have those on campus?” Andrew gazed at him as he blew smoke away from his face.

“No,” Jeremy hedged, “but I’m happy to take you by my dorm to double-check.” Andrew snorted.

“When did you come up with that one?” Andrew asked.

“A few days ago,” Jeremy said. Andrew hummed.

“Ambitious,” Andrew said. “You were that confident you’d get lucky?”

Jeremy paused and looked at him calmly.

“You don’t do luck.”

“No, I don’t,” Andrew responded.

This wasn’t their first song and dance. They’d first hooked up during an all-conference banquet Andrew’s freshman year. Considering they were on opposite sides of the country and the Foxes’ abysmal track record, they didn’t see each other often, but they found time where they could.

Andrew rarely—never, actually—had a consistent hook-up until Jeremy. He was attentive. He was kind. He respected Andrew’s boundaries. Jeremy was exactly what Andrew needed, and Andrew, apparently, was exactly what he needed.

It helped that Jeremy was pure sex walking.

Andrew eventually sighed and nodded. Jeremy opened his mouth but Andrew nodded again before he could ask if he was sure.

“Lead the way,” Andrew said. Jeremy rolled his eyes but started walking away from the court.

“As if you don’t remember,” he said. Andrew shrugged.

“Maybe I like watching you walk.”

Jeremy snorted but they set off towards his dorm together. It took a few steps for Jeremy to launch into conversation. Andrew wouldn’t mind speaking, but he was content with listening and throwing in a few comments.

They’d learned things about each other over the years. It initially started very clinical where they’d told each other what they needed to have a good time. Jeremy knew how important consent was for Andrew and that he needed to be on top. Andrew knew anything rough was strictly off the table for Jeremy.

They were both extremely observational people, and very blunt (though Andrew had a feeling Jeremy adapted to that for his sake). Jeremy always asked where he could put his hands because he’d noticed Andrew’s tolerance depended on the day. Andrew had realized that Jeremy didn’t need to be in control, but he liked to know what’s going on. Some days Jeremy wouldn’t touch him at all, and some days Andrew would narrate everything like an audio book.

They were weird, but effective. It took almost the full two years for them to start trusting each other beyond sex. Sometimes Jeremy talked and Andrew listened. Rarely Andrew talked and Jeremy always listened. Sometimes Jeremy would sit on the floor and insist they watch a movie when Andrew’s bad days aligned with their visits.

There was not a shred of romance between them, they talked about this too, and neither felt the need to try. Andrew knew, unfortunately, where his romantic attraction lay and it wasn’t with Jeremy. The golden boy himself had no interest in any kind of emotional relationship, romantic or not. After Jeremy told him a bit about his mother, Andrew figured that was reasonable.

Jeremy only recently started sharing about his life outside of college. Andrew knew what bruises from physical abuse looked like, and Jeremy confirmed it when he’d asked a few months ago.

Sometime along the way, Jeremy put together that Andrew had experienced some form of sexual abuse. Andrew wasn’t surprised as they’d been hooking up for almost two years. Jeremy knew not to explicitly ask, whether out of courtesy or because he knew Andrew wouldn’t answer.

Andrew knew he knew. There was a slight shift in their relationship last time they were together—the type of shift that only came about when one partner did research on a topic they didn’t understand to make the other partner more comfortable.

Jeremy’s voice petered once they got closer to the dorm. By the time they were in the elevator heading up to Jeremy’s floor, neither man had much else to say. Once they arrived and Jeremy started unlocking his dorm, Andrew finally let himself relax. All in all, Kevin was safe, Andrew was sober, and California was about to take another step in his good graces.

And as for Knox’s viewpoint on Andrew being unmedicated…

Well, Andrew thought as he gripped Jeremy’s hair and pressed him against the door, let’s just say they both wanted him sober for this.

—

Ichirou Moriyama knew the moment the man died. He knew before the body went slack. Ichirou felt the minute shift in his neck muscles before they finally surrendered beneath his hands.

Time paused, warping, and Ichirou slipped alongside it. He locked eyes with the devil over the dead man’s shoulder and watched his grin widen. Ichirou felt God enter the space, take the man’s soul, and leave without glancing his way. Ichirou wasn’t surprised. He was a religious man, but he’d stopped praying to God the day he realized family loyalty answered first.

Time resumed, pulling, snapping into place. Ichirou felt the man’s skin under his fingers, he heard one of his security answer a phone call, he saw his reflection in the man’s blank eyes. Ichirou knew his own didn’t look much better.

He let go and stepped back.

Though Ichirou couldn’t see him anymore, he knew the devil remained in the space. Watching. Waiting. Wanting. The devil had plans for him. Ichirou accepted this; maybe even relished in it.

Ichirou wasn’t ready to meet him just yet. They say no one can outrun the devil, and Ichirou agreed. He found outrunning the devil a tedious, fruitless process, and he cared far too much about his Louis Vuitton’s to ruin them.

His shoes, however, were perfect for dancing. Ichirou danced with the devil, and he was grounded enough in his masculinity to say he was good at it. He toyed with the devil. And Ichirou knew with absolute certainty that the devil enjoyed playing with him in return.

At least Ichirou’s feet won’t get cold in the afterlife.

Ichirou spun on his heel and stalked off the plastic sheet, shoes squeaking on the blood. He felt out of control. The kill left him feeling more grounded, but it simply made him notice the tide of emotions gathering at his feet. It didn’t take it away.

Ichirou could tell that the water was rising. It didn’t scare him. Despite the rumors, Ichirou did feel emotions. He wasn’t biologically wired like Katsu, who saw his emotions instead of feeling them. Ichirou, however, became the next best thing by teaching himself how to respond to his emotions without reacting to them.

His current emotional state was a rarity. Ichirou needed to respond to his emotions, and he needed to respond now.

One of his security inclined her head as he walked past. Ichirou dismissed her with a shake of his own and kept walking. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the clean clothes she offered—he hated feeling dirty—but he was running out of time.

By the time he made it out of the large shipping container, clean up was well underway.

Ichirou’s steps quickened once he was completely out of sight. He owned the whole port of shipping containers, so he wasn’t worried about exactly where he was headed.

He kept walking. Ichirou ran his bloody fingers through his hair when his hands started to shake. He kept walking.

Ichirou’s steps faltered. He felt the deep water pulling him under. He was moving too fast to constitute walking so he ran. He knew what was happening. He knew this type of mental battle.

Ichirou could lose or surrender, but he’d drown either way.

He felt the memories envelop his surroundings. Ichirou had maybe a minute before he’d be completely submerged, his view of the present ripped away like a comfort he never should’ve gotten used to. This was why he had to be away from his security. It wasn’t the safest for Ichirou, but the safest option and the right choice rarely aligned.

Ichirou’s vision slipped until the sound of his shoes hitting the concrete became his only tie to reality.

He remembered. He remembered. He remembered. He remembered until he forgot.

“Promise me,” his dad said. Ichirou looked up at him. “If you’re ever abducted by another family—the Diaz, the Vitales—without a plausible way of escaping, surrender to God and take yourself out.” He didn’t understand what his dad was saying. How could there be something worse than death? Ichirou didn’t want to talk about this. It made him notice how he was younger than Dad, which meant death was closer to Dad than it was to him.

He forgot. He forgot. He forgot until his past and present connected and he relieved his memories like it was the first time.

Ichirou was staring at the wall. He didn’t remember closing his eyes but felt like he’s woken up anyways. He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He couldn’t keep his promise if he did.

It’s too late, he thought. And it was. Ichirou should’ve found a way the day before. It was too late.

The Vitales got what they wanted. They’d hold this over Ichirou’s family for as long as it benefited them. They’d probably describe what they did to him in detail to his parents until they folded.

Ichirou had never seen his father surrender. The thought disgusted him., and having it be because of Ichirou made him sick to his stomach.

There was one thing Ichirou could do. If the Vitales didn’t have him alive, his father could focus on the family. They’d have little to lose and a lot to gain at taking the Vitales down. Any information the Vitales had about what they’d done to him—videos and audio recordings, if they were smart—would die if the sources were put in the ground.

The solution to this problem was one Ichirou already knew.

Ichirou focused back on his surroundings. He couldn’t remember exactly how the previous day ended. He slowly picked his head off the table, visually confirming he was alone in the room. His range of motion told him his upper body wasn’t tied down to anything. The way his shoulders convulsed in pain and the red stripes around his wrists told him that hadn’t always been the case. Maybe they were from his initial abduction.

Ichirou pulled his hands beside him and pushed up. His vision went white as pain laced across his back. Ichirou’s right arm collapsed under him. His chest collided with the table and knocked the breath from his lungs, thankful making his scream inaudible.

When Ichirou’s eyes opened again, he had no idea if seconds or hours passed. A quick inventory of his surroundings told him the room was still empty.

He was smarter with his movements this time around and managed to get to his elbows.

Kengo Moriyama didn’t condone unnecessary suffering. That was why the plan he’d laid for Ichirou had a quick turn around. His father, back then, knew better than anyone how sick most of the powerful families were. And because Ichirou already fucked up the plan—he was supposed to have killed himself yesterday—he’d dethroned his father from that position.

His father wouldn’t want him to stay alive on a feeble chance of surviving. He needed a plan that’d work beyond reasonable doubt. His father also, however, didn’t condone idiocy. If Kengo discovered Ichirou dead with all his limbs untied and bones unbroken, he’d bring Ichirou back from the dead just to lay into him. Satan would recoil in fear of the things his father would do to him.

Ichirou knew he had to try and move his legs, even though he didn’t want to. Without a plausible way of escaping, his father had said. When the time came for Ichirou’s father to meet him in Hell, Ichirou wouldn’t be able to look at him and say with complete conviction that he’d tried.

Ichirou had a logical explanation for hesitation. At this moment, he couldn’t gauge his mental state. He didn’t know how easy it’d be for his mind to slip away. If Ichirou ended up lost in his memories, there was no saying when, or if, he’d come back. There was always the chance he wouldn’t. Without his father or Katsu to keep him from going too far under, this was a legitimate concern. Ichirou knew his mind well, but as much as he’d dealt with throughout life, what happened here was in an entirely different realm.

Ichirou pulled morbid resignation over himself like a weighted blanket. He put his shaking hand towards his mouth and bit down. Ichirou felt each individual muscle in his right leg engage as he tried to take a step back. When the pain hit, Ichirou let his mind detach.

He felt a rope around his right ankle.

He felt a rope around his left.

He felt tears streak down his face and fall off his face.

He felt the back of his hand wipe the blood from his lips.

Ichirou took a stuttering breath and didn’t bother acknowledging the part of him that was relieved. His ankles were still tied to the legs of the table.

Ichirou had no means to escape.

He wouldn’t be alive for much longer.

Ichirou quickly glanced around the table he was bent over. His vision swam as his eyes passed over various personal items: multiple leather wallets, a couple lights, a belt, a few switchblades, some jackets. His mind was a little slow to catalogue anything he saw. Ichirou remembered the sounds more than he remembered seeing any of this. He remembered the noise each object made as it clattered on the surface, dropped carelessly by Vitale family security.

He also remembered feeling a couple heavy ‘thunks’ reverberate through the table yesterday made by things much heavier than a lighter or a switchblade. That was how Ichirou first put together that there had, at some point, been guns on this table. What mattered now was whether they were stupid enough to leave them in the room. And because Ichirou regarded any person inclined to the sick perversions that the Vitales were so fond of as stupid, odds were in his favor.

Ichirou built the strength to glance back up. Now that he had a goal in mind, Ichirou’s eyes found the guns relatively quickly. They had clearly assumed Ichirou wouldn’t kill himself. Idiots. Katsu would’ve appreciated a ‘How many Vitales does it take to screw in a light bulb?’ joke if he were here.

Ichirou grabbed a gun, not registering the sounds of gunshots over the pain ringing in his ears. He didn’t know what his back looked like, but he could guess. Call him crazy, but Ichirou knew most belt buckles were silver or black, not caked in blood and flecks of skin like the one in front of him.

He wasn’t keen on the idea of lifting his arm, so he slipped the cold barrel between his teeth. A loud crash rattled the door on its hinges and Ichirou flinched. The gun hit the roof of his mouth.

Ichirou’s body was reacting before his mind. By the time he mentally registered that a crash against the outside of the door was out of place for the situation he was in, he’d already wrapped a steady finger around the trigger.

Then Ichirou hesitated.

One second.

He thought about how satisfying it’d be to stare into Carlo Vitale’s eyes as he took away the only leverage his scum of a family would ever have over Ichirou’s. How it’d remind him that he couldn’t match the Moriyamas by legal means—buisness deals, contracts, connections—nor illegal ones—drugs, clubs, human trafficking.

That they’d had to snoop so low as to kidnap someone from Ichirou’s family. And it couldn’t have been just anyone from the Moriyama family. No. The Vitales were far too weak for that. It had to be the heir to the Moriyama empire to make Kengo deign to look in their direction.

And with Ichirou gone? His father could wipe them from the eastern seaboard without fanfare. His father might not kill them all. Maybe, maybe not. He might simply make them so unbelievably inconsequential, so humiliating to be associated with, that the other families would do the job for him.

Ichirou had already tainted the family name enough. He wasn’t a martyr. He was pragmatic. Killing himself was always part of the plan.

For the first time since Ichirou had been abducted, he felt calm. Nearly serene. He had a plan. He had a purpose. He had a way to send one last message to his dad: I heard you, I kept our promise, I love you.

Ichirou didn’t flinch as the door came flying off its hinges. He tightened his hand as he sought Carlo Vitales’ gaze and finally locked eyes with—

His dad.

His… his dad. Was there.

His dad was there.

And… and there was regret in his eyes. Ichirou hadn’t known his father was capable of regret.

It was gone in an instant, and Ichirou watched his face return to the familiar, hardened resolve he always wore.

Ichirou couldn’t believe it.

Kengo Moriyama was looking at his son—at him—like he was the most important thing in the world.

Ichirou couldn’t believe it.

Then Ichirou witnessed a second emotion that he’d never seen on his father’s face.

Rage.

Ichirou’s knees hit the ground. It was a fucked juxtaposition to feel the ground biting into his knees when all he could see was that room the Vitales put him in.

Every person who had seen Ichirou that day was dead—except two.

And as of today, one.

One.

Ichirou pitched forward until his palms hit the ground. He saw water pool around his wrists. Waves crashed around his arms as the tide rose and rose and rose. Ichirou felt it pour into his mouth and infiltrate his lungs.

It looked thick with blood. His blood, Katsu’s, his father’s. And it all came full circle, didn’t it? The blood was no longer pumping through his dad’s veins, so it had no reason to not be here. It all made perfect sense. Because Kengo Moriyama was dead.

Dead.

Gone.

Simple.

Doorknobs, as in dead as.

Ichirou’s father was dead. The one person that shaped Ichirou’s life from the very start.

And Ichirou could taste him. Ichirou was drowning in an ocean of his dad’s blood that only he could see, that only he could feel. Dear God, Ichirou hated this. He hated whatever chemicals in brain allowed him to see this, feel this, taste this, touch this. Ichirou hated being infected with a disease he’d never heal from.

An illness only two people had known about.

Now one.

Something landed on the concrete next to him. It was far too quiet for someone else to have dropped something. Ichirou felt around his empty pockets. His phone. Ichirou found it and thanked his muscle memory when he managed to dial out.

“‘For there is no folly of the beast of the Earth–’”

“‘–which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men,’” Katsu responded. “Stay with me, Ichi. I’m on my way.”

Katsu didn’t ask if Ichirou needed him. Katsu didn’t ask where he was. Katsu didn’t reassure Ichirou that he’d be alright, just that he’d get to him. Ichirou knew that. At this point in their relationship, he had more trust in Katsu than he did in the sun’s ability to rise.

Ichirou felt himself slipping. And now that he’d contacted Katsu, he was inclined to let it happen. There was, however, one more thing he needed.

“Nathaniel–”

“Is asleep in the tower,” Katsu said, voice echoing like it always did when he took calls in his car.

Ichirou dropped his phone.

There were two ways to stop drowning: get to shore or let the current pull you under.

Ichirou knew that trying to stay afloat in a storm like this was a form of voluntary suffering. It had been necessary up until now. Once Ichirou had recognized that this wasn’t a storm he could get through by himself, he’d had to reach Katsu.

Now he had.

Ichirou let go of whatever was keeping him above the breakers.

There was a difference between drowning and being underwater. A difference that kept Ichirou alive whenever this tide came crashing through.

Ichirou almost smiled as the water filled his lungs.

—

“Two players,” Jeremy mumbled. He was sitting on his bed with the sheets tangled around his legs.

Andrew glanced at him from where he sat on the windowsill, one leg outside and the other propped against his chest. The protective screen required in all college dorm towers laid on the floor.

Temperatures were comfortable enough in February to have the window open, and Andrew claimed that California was wasted on the indoors. He said it was insulting to be in this state and not be outside.

When Andrew continued to stare at him, Jeremy realized he’d gotten distracted and never finished his thought.

“Two of the best collegiate athletes defected from the same team within a year,” Jeremy said.

Andrew didn’t answer, but Jeremy knew he was listening. Andrew typically walked out of the room if Jeremy started talking when he wasn’t in a space to hear it.

“One player leaving a program is a big deal,” Jeremy said, dropping his head against the wall. “It usually comes with multiple interviews and an in-depth, mildly invasive expose on why the player left.”

“Do you always think this deeply after sex?” Andrew asked. Jeremy tossed him a sly grin.

“A clear mind is a side effect of mind-blowing sex,” Jeremy said. It might’ve come across like a joke, but he wasn’t lying. Andrew was some of the best sex he’d had in college. Part of it was probably because he knew Jeremy better than the typical one night stand did.

Andrew hummed. Jeremy picked his head off the wall to get a better look at him. Most people had a challenging time reading Andrew, Jeremy included, but he’d learned to notice slight mood shifts from a young age. Now Jeremy just had to figure out what the shift was.

Andrew didn’t look away as Jeremy stared at him, which meant he was searching for his own answer in Jeremy’s gaze. Andrew was questioning something. And Andrew cared enough about the answer to not look away like he typically did when he was bored.

It was an answer Andrew thought Jeremy had. Jeremy noted the mood shift within the past few minutes, so it had to do with something Jeremy said–

Oh.

“Andrew,” Jeremy said calmly, looking right at him. “I wasn’t kidding.”

Jeremy didn’t need to say anything else. If there was someone truly excellent at reading people, it was Andrew Minyard. Jeremy didn’t need to offer anything outside of the truth behind his last statement.

A moment of silence passed before Andrew nodded.

“The Ravens lost two players,” Jeremy continued. “It’s not only that they are two of the best players in the game. They left what is, statistically, the best team in the country. And the press? Dead silent. There’s not a single story out there with a shred of factual basis.”

“You did research,” Andrew said. Jeremy was accustomed to the way he asked questions without ever sounding uncertain.

“Of course I did,” Jeremy said. He generally tried to avoid overly exposing transfer stories. He preferred the athletes coming to him on his own. Jeremy, personally, wouldn’t be thrilled if people he hadn’t met already knew his past. Fuck, he wasn’t even fond of sharing it with people he’d known for years.

Jean Moreau, however, was no typical transfer. That didn’t make him less deserving of privacy and Jeremy respected that, but as team captain, he couldn’t be blind sighted. His role came with a level of trust and responsibility he had to uphold.

Sharing these things with Andrew was a new development. And God, Jeremy was thankful for it.

Andrew had become someone familiar for Jeremy over the years. He became someone Jeremy didn’t need to pretend around. He became someone that wasn’t disappointed when Jeremy didn’t act like Captain Sunshine. He became someone who accepted Jeremy as he was.

He’d become so comfortable around Andrew that Jeremy found himself wanting to share things he normally couldn’t. As team captain, he couldn’t share team uncertainties with his friends, who were also athletes. And as someone with a past more akin to the Foxes, he steered far clear of sharing anything personal.

But Jeremy had stopped himself, because that wasn’t part of their arrangement. The lack of non-clinical, necessity-only conversation between them started weighing on Jeremy. He had a feeling Andrew noticed months before Jeremy had. Then Andrew called him a few months ago; their first ever virtual contact. He’d promised to never share anything Jeremy said.

The relief Jeremy felt was something he’d only dive into with his therapist.

“Jean’s contract didn’t even come from him,” Jeremy said. “I don’t think Coach knows who it came from. It wasn’t Coach Moriyama.”

Jeremy watched Andrew reach across his desk and grab the open pack of bullseyes.

“There’s something going on with the Ravens.”

“Yes,” Andrew responded.

“Something weird.”

“Opposed to all the times you played them and thought they were normal?” Andrew said, raising an eyebrow. He had a point.

“Do you know anything?” Jeremy asked, gesturing for Andrew to toss him a bullseye.

“Moreau is not my forte,” Andrew said, throwing one over.

“He stayed with you guys for a few days, right? You didn’t have a heart to heart?” Andrew snorted.

“He avoided everyone but Kevin, and even that he seemed none too pleased with,” Andrew said.

“Figures.” Jeremy popped the candy into his mouth. “Nathaniel got him out. Kevin got him here.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes.

“You know Nathaniel got him out,” Andrew said, voice flat to cover his surprise. Jeremy waved him off.

“He called a few days ago,” Jeremy said. “He said if I let Jean go back to the Ravens, he wouldn’t make it back out.”

“Kevin was very similar in that regard.” That was news to Jeremy. As much as he admired Kevin Day, he didn’t know much about him, his accident, or the ‘Nest,’ as they called it.

“Maybe I could ask Ke–”

“No,” Andrew said, his voice low and final.

The silence following was palpable. Jeremy stilled when he looked over at Andrew. There was something burning behind the other man’s eyes. Far more than Jeremy had ever seen or felt from Andrew.

Jeremy understood what few select emotions looked like on Andrew. He knew the medicated glint in his glassy eyes when he was manic. He knew the dull, bored gaze he had during games. Quite frankly, Andrew made it seem like exy was less interesting than watching grass grow. He knew when Andrew was struggling because his eyes were empty enough to get lost in.

But Jeremy had never seen this.

Something much darker, much stronger than passion.

Oh my.

“Oh,” Jeremy said. Andrew knew the moment it clicked for him, because his shoulders dropped a fraction.

When they’d talked about their collective lack of romantic attraction for each other, Jeremy assumed Andrew felt the same as him, meaning he simply didn’t date. He hadn’t considered that Andrew’s romantic attraction might already lay with someone else.

“You could ask Nathaniel,” Andrew said.

“He seemed pretty adamant about me not using that number again,” Jeremy said sardonically.

“So it was a warm and fuzzy phone call,” Andrew responded, picking up on his tone.

“How well do you know Nathaniel?” He wanted to gauge Andrew’s opinion of him before he said something he couldn’t take back. Jeremy let Andrew think for a minute.

“I used to know him well,” Andrew said. “We haven’t spoken much since college.”

“Oh, great,” Jeremy said. “Thank you can tell me if he was always a complete fucking asshole.”

The corner of Andrew’s mouth twitched up.

“He’s British,” Andrew said.

“He’s also rude, inconsiderate,” Jeremy started, “and stupid, worthless, no-good, goddamn free-loading son of a bitch.”

“You forgot ugly, lazy, and disrespectful,” Andrew continued. Jeremy grinned. He made horns with his right hand and put it up to his forehead.

“You mess with the bull, you get the horns.” Jeremy dropped his hand to his leg. “I didn’t know you were a Breakfast Club fan.” Andrew simply shrugged.

“I’ve never known Nathaniel to be a well-tempered human being,” Andrew said.

Jeremy sighed. He reached over towards the night stand to grab his phone. It was ten of four. He assumed Jean was in his one-on-one with Coach Rhemann. Jeremy would deal with that tomorrow. He had more pressing matters.

Like how the Foxes were staying the night.

Jeremy dropped his phone and looked back at Andrew.

“Round two?” Jeremy asked.

Andrew gazed at him with a look in his eyes Jeremy knew quite well.

Lust.

CH12—currently in progress

“Sexier,” Ichirou said, and Katsu shot him a flat look, not that he noticed.

Of course he didn’t notice. Ichirou was laying on his back, tapping away on his goddamn phone while Katsu was over here with a legitimate concern.

“You didn’t even look,” he said. Ichirou sighed and let his head hang off the side of the bed. He regarded Katsu—albeit up-side-down—before lightly shaking his head.

“Just as sexy. The navy you had on earlier was sexier,” Ichirou responded. Katsu regarded himself again in the mirror. Damn, the bastard was right.

“I agree, but I’m still s–”

“Sexy either way. Yes, Katsu, I know,” Ichirou said, not unkindly. Katsu snorted before heading back to the walk-in closet to change. After grabbing his and Ichirou’s suit jackets off the chair, he went back into the bedroom.

“What game are you playing?” Katsu asked as he passed Ichirou on his way to the desk.

Ichirou didn’t respond. Katsu knew it was a silent ‘how do you know I’m playing a game?’ and shot a smile over his shoulder.

“You never conduct business lying down. Why you think standing is necessary is beyond me,” Katsu said. “But as long as you deal with the angry children’s parents and who’s sitting where at lunchtime, I’ll support you to the ends of the Earth, honey.”

A small smile played on Ichirou’s features. He couldn’t outwardly reference Katsu’s… analogy for the crime families, but Katsu knew he appreciated it. This was the most emotion the man ever wore and it was only around Katsu.

He had a feeling that the circle would eventually grow to include Nathaniel, but that was far down the line. Dependent, of course, on Katsu’s ability to keep the kid alive. The odds weren’t with him, clearly, though Katsu rarely liked when they were.

I mean, come on. It was hard to be this sexy and mysterious without a few battle scars. Perfect odds didn’t give you that.

“You also only text with one hand, Ichirou,” he said. Always have one hand open. For a gun, hand-to-hand combat, intimidation, it didn’t matter. Hence why he and Ichirou were particularly skilled at texting with one hand.

And that finger dexterity had more than one benefit.

Speaking of fingers, Katsu ran his along the underside of Ichirou’s desk, feeling for the button (oh, dirty). He clicked it and the wall of windows went temporarily transparent. One-sided, of course, but then they could see the stadium in all it’s fucking glory (dirty again, Katsu was on a roll).

The stands were mostly cleared out by then, and Katsu’s watch said it was almost an hour after the game. And they were Nathaniel-less. Huh. Caution, Katsu’s mind said.

Though Nathaniel might not have every hamster running upstairs, he had the mafia-related ones, at the very least. Nathaniel knew he was supposed to go to the East Tower after the game. Katsu had sent him a reminder, though he doubted the kid needed it considering he was raised by the yakuza. And the yakuza rarely invested in being ‘subtle.’

Katsu’s job was to assess every possibility, every outcome. Since he was sixteen, Katsu trained these instincts for Ichirou and Ichirou only. It was his job, and he was damn good at it. He also knew, from his time before the mafia, when he should ‘jump’ to a conclusion.

Possibility one: Nathaniel was stuck in post-game interviews. Unlikely. Nathaniel was rarely put in front of a camera by principle—something about an attitude problem, apparently.

Possibility two: Tetsuji. Also unlikely. Tetsuji was a man of few words, and Nathaniel was a man of no words when he tried to censor himself.

Possibility three: he forgot. Almost negligible. From what he gathered, Nathaniel had the clearest mind during an exy game, or after.

Possibility four: something was wrong.

Katsu, Ichirou, and now Nathaniel, didn’t have the luxury in life to thoroughly consider every possibility before acting. Sometimes he had to choose, with his current knowledge, which option he’d regret the least. The line between his training and his instincts had blurred a long time ago, and he trusted it.

As the windows faded to black, Katsu felt the faintest anxiety pass over him like a breeze. With absolute certainty, Katsu knew something was wrong, and Nathaniel wasn’t in control.

Nathaniel wasn’t in control, and he was in the Nest.

He was in the Nest, and he was in trouble.

He was in trouble, and he was hurt.

He was hurt, because Katsu knew the kid would have to be bleeding from a vital organ with several cracked ribs before he willingly gave up control. Katsu hadn’t personally known Nathaniel long, but he could tell Nathaniel was a caged animal.

This was how Katsu’s mind worked.

It was fucked up, yes, but Katsu liked it.

Rolling his shoulders, Katsu shrugged on his suit jacket and fastened the cuff links. He turned around to find Ichirou already watching him. He likely knew the second Katsu’s mood shifted and had been watching him ever since.

Katsu didn’t care. He and Ichirou had been together for too long and had made it out alive of too many situations to not have a sixth sense for each other. How Ichirou clocked his moods that quickly, Katsu didn’t know. After all, being first born wasn’t the only reason Ichirou was the Moriyama heir.

“Nathaniel,” Ichirou guessed, though it probably sounded factual to anyone other than Katsu.

Katsu looked him dead in the eye and said, “Yes.”

Nodding, Ichirou grabbed his jacket before he and Katsu were in sync heading towards the bedroom door.

Katsu didn’t open the door for him, nor did Ichirou slam it against the wall when he did it himself. He didn’t need to.

The man exudes power.

It rippled off his breath and spread through the hallway like a current. No one was immune. It suddenly felt like everyone’s heart only continued beating because he allowed it.

Smiling internally, Katsu gladly fell into step behind him. Ichirou never needed to question whether Katsu was there, half a step behind him and one step to the right.

Only once they were in the elevator did Ichirou turn to look at him.

“How bad?” Ichirou asked.

“Variable,” Katsu responded.

“On?”

“How quickly Nathaniel was overpowered.”

“By whom?” Ichirou asked.

“Riko, likely. Tetsuji, possibly.”

“My uncle isn’t that stupid.”

“No,” Katsu agreed, “he’s not. And for a similar reason we know Nathaniel is alive.”

“Unfortunately,” Ichirou said, firm but quiet, before turning to face the elevator doors.

They had a weird form of communication. A lot was said in a few words, and he and Ichirou were both in a constant stream of conversation. Katsu always answered bluntly and without hesitation. If he answered ‘variable,’ it wasn’t to be opaque, and Ichirou knew this. It was because Katsu genuinely wasn’t sure what state Nathaniel was in.

There were few people in the Nest stupid enough to make an attempt on Nathaniel’s life, but chances were he was in a situation where he’d be better off dead. He and Ichirou were both, silently, very aware of this.

Taking a deep breath, Ichirou turned to face him again, “Katsu–”

“I know,” Katsu said, tossing him a glance. Ichirou stared at him for a few more seconds before nodding and facing forward again. Katsu never knew what Ichirou was looking for in him, but he almost always found it. “Trust me.”

“Always.”

Katsu wouldn’t go so far to say Ichirou cared about Nathaniel. Regardless of how far along in their relationship they were, Nathaniel was Ichirou’s, and to some extent, Ichirou was Nathaniel’s.

A threat to Nathaniel was a threat to Ichirou. Which was, essentially, a threat to his empire. That alone was enough to start a war, and this was solely on the basis that Ichirou owned Nathaniel. Ichirou might not care about Nathaniel, but he was protective. He had to be. If Nathaniel was significantly hurt, it was a reflection of Ichirou’s security. Again, war.

And we called anyone on the opposing side of a war with Ichirou the ‘losing side.’

Never once, however, had the Moriyama heir been in a relationship. Not even taking Ichirou’s own issues into account—which he rarely did in his position anyways—it was a logistical nightmare.

But now he was.

With Nathaniel.

And that man was being threatened.

A war was the least of their worries.

Katsu, for better or for worse, found himself caring about Nathaniel. The fucker must’ve cursed him with some satanic ritual that probably involved a coconut bra in the dead of night. It was the only explanation. It was the only reason Katsu felt purely male, primal rage gathering on a distant shore.

For some godforsaken reason, Katsu was ready to tear the Nest apart, brick by fucking brick, to get to him. He wasn’t naive enough to want to ‘save’ Nathaniel. The kid was already thoroughly traumatized, not to mention the idea of saving someone made Katsu physically ill.

Regardless, he wanted to protect him, and some part of Katsu was furious that he’d given Nathaniel a false sense of security. He doubted Nathaniel himself believed he was protected, but that wasn’t the point. That wasn’t the reason Katsu felt more peaceful at this moment than he had in weeks.

Was he proud that this type of situation made him feel calm? No. Did he want to change? Again, no.

The elevator doors opened and the click of his and Ichirou’s shoes on the ground brought him back to the present.

“Where?” Ichirou asked as they stalked down the hallway leading into the Nest. The security guards posted at the stairs exiting the Nest bowed their heads as they passed. Katsu didn’t spare them a glance.

“Red Hall or locker room,” Katsu said. Ichirou nodded as they moved through Black Hall. There were various Raven in their rooms, and some in various states of undress, as well, and Katsu idly wondered if the doors were required to be open in the Black Hall. It didn’t matter. The residents of the few empty rooms they passed, however, were probably involved in the situation he and Ichirou were on their way to… rectify.

“You take the Hall. I’ll take the locker room,” Ichirou said. Katsu threw him an incredulous look over at him as they neared the end of Black Hall.

“Split up,” he said, voice flat. Katsu knew better than to question Ichirou, but he needed some way to communicate his concerns about the idea.

“Katsu.”

“Yes, sir,” Katsu said, immediately hanging a left towards Red Hall. He didn’t like the idea of dividing and conquering. Not fear for Ichirou—the man was more than capable of handling himself—but the possibility that he pulled the short straw, and Nathaniel was in the locker room. Objectively, Katsu knew there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Objectively, he understood the advantages of splitting up.

But he didn’t fucking like it.

Katsu quickened his pace. If there wasn’t security around, he’d be running down the hall like he was Road Runner trying to avoid getting an anvil to the head. His shoulders relaxed once his eyes locked on the entrance to Red Hall.

As he got closer, Katsu waited for the chill that graced his skin when he was near danger. He waited for warning to start flashing in his mind. He waited for that overwhelming need to find Ichirou and make sure he was alive. He waited.

Katsu hadn’t even set foot in Red Hall before he knew something was wrong. Not ‘wrong’ as in violence, but ‘wrong’ as in lack of violence. He took one cursory glance down Red Hall before he spun on his heel and took off sprinting towards the locker room. Fuck security.

He saw the end of Black Hall where he and Ichirou had been standing, and grabbed the corner to haul himself around it. His shoes echoed off the black floors as he ran. The seconds ticked by, seeming to stretch and multiply, warping time until the back of Ichirou’s suit jacket finally came into view. The man was standing in the open doorway that led to the locker room, one door propped open, one firmly closed.

Ichirou was standing still, his head slightly cocked to the side. Katu’s eyes zeroed in on Ichirou’s left hand, hidden from any onlookers by the one closed swinging door. It was clenched in a tight fist. His knuckles were stark white. This had Katsu slowing to a walk a few steps before the locker room—partially so he didn’t bulldoze over Ichirou, and partially because he knew Ichirou was angry.

Ichirou prided himself on control. If Ichirou was angry, the only way out of the situation involved blood, but Ichirou’s reputation wasn’t built solely on blood. Wesninski’s reputation was, and we all knew how well that was going.

Ichirou valued composure. He was calculated, cold, a tad convoluted. And Ichirou only trusted Katsu as much as he did because Katsu understood this. Katsu knew he couldn’t just go in swinging. He knew, fundamentally, what losing control cost you. If the situation was this dire, Ichirou couldn’t act quickly. He could only act efficiently.

After all, the Moriyama heir had all the time in the world, and more power than most people could ever imagine. Everyone knew this. There was as much damage occurring now, while Ichirou simply witnessed whatever it was, as there would’ve been had Katsu shouldered past the man into the unknown situation.

Katsu marched the last three steps to Ichirou, who silently moved one step to the left. Katsu’s eyes raked down Ichirou’s appearance to make sure he was intact and relatively unscathed before he flicked his gaze to the scene in front of him.

Katsu felt his entire body flinch back.

Katsu has watched people get tortured without a lick of guilt on multiple occasions. He even used to participate in the clean-up process, which was a pain, but mindless work. Ichirou rarely dabbled in torture, but there was always a rhyme or reason behind it when he did. People like Nathan Wesninski and Lola Malcom disgusted him, sure, but never enough to force a visible reaction out of Katsu.

Not like the sight in front of him did.

Later that night, when he and Nathaniel were safely in Ichirou’s East Tower bedroom, he’d finally understand his near-miss with a black-out rage episode. There was a reason it took Katsu years to distance himself from his emotions, and there was a reason why he had to.

His last episode was three years ago and it had to do with Ichirou. Not a threat to his life, because that was a daily if not hourly occurrence, but a truly fucked up situation where Katsu couldn’t live with himself until he got Ichirou out. He could count, on one hand, the number of people in his life capable of triggering a black-out. And apparently, Nathaniel was now on that list. Katsu had assumed as much when he first figured out Nathaniel was in trouble, but he had more important things to deal with than his own twisted psyche.

And when Katsu’s gaze fell on Nathaniel—gagging over the side of the bench as tears mixed with saliva mixed with Riko’s cum dripped from his mouth—it took every goddamn shred of control Katsu had to not grab Riko and relish in the crunch his neck would make as it snapped.

He knew Ichirou’s answer before he asked, “May I?”

He just needed Ichirou to give him the green light: “Yes.”
And there it was.

As much as Katsu loved his shirt, he didn’t think blood would ruin it. On the contrary, depending on the situation, some people might find it even sexier. So all in all, Katsu thought as his vision started to tunnel out, this was for the greater good.

—

Nathaniel had always enjoyed watching Riko get cut off at the knees. The master lost his temper, occasionally, and Nathaniel felt no small satisfaction watching it blow back on Riko. The fucker dug his grave, and he had to lie in it like everyone else. Nathaniel knew this side of himself absolutely came from his father, but he didn’t care enough to do anything about it.

Yet when Katsu stepped forward, Nathaniel’s eyes fell to the ground. It was a battle of wills to not squeeze them shut. Riko was still standing above him, shorts around his thighs, and Nathaniel couldn’t find it in himself to drag his gaze off the black tiles.

He didn’t want to see him. He needed the feeling of his thighs clenching around him to be gone. He needed his fucking taste out of his mouth. He needed to get out of the Nest. He needed to get him out of him.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t make himself look when Katsu’s arm wrapped around Riko’s neck. There was a grunt and a crash, and Nathaniel saw Riko crumble against the lockers in his periphery.

Nathaniel let his shoulders and head fall back on the bench, eyes trained on the tinted overhead lights as air left his lungs and never returned. The ligaments in his wrists stretched as he subconsciously wrenched on the ties holding his arms in place.

Katsu then appeared above him. It took Nathaniel’s eyes a few attempts to focus on his face with any amount of recognition. He couldn’t read the look on Katsu’s face, and as something like despair flickered behind Katsu’s eyes, Nathaniel figured he was better off not knowing.

Nathaniel looked away and opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Katsu interrupted him.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “It’s too soon.”

It’s too soon.

Too soon to speak.

It’s too soon.

Too soon to use his throat.

It’s too soon.

Too soon to deal with this.

It’s too soon.

Too soon to hear the voice that had thanked Riko for doing this to him.

It’s. Too. Soon.

On second thought, Nathaniel didn’t feel like speaking.

Katsu snapped his fingers, dragging Nathaniel out of his mind. The man then pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and knelt next to Nathaniel’s head. He made quick work of the ropes.

The closer Katsu got to him, the closer Nathaniel was to sobbing.

Nathaniel sat up the second the ropes slipped free. His vision went black around the edges. For once, being consumed by the darkness didn’t seem all that scary, but Katsu didn’t let him drift far.

He felt the familiar cold metal of a locker biting into his shoulder.

Nathaniel didn’t remember standing up.

It wasn’t important.

Nothing was.

Not even exy, junkie? Andrew’s voice flooded his head. Nathaniel mentally rescinded his previous statement, but not entirely because of exy.

“Nathaniel,” Katsu said, and Nathaniel turned to look at him. Katsu then grabbed the back of his neck before practically dragging Nathaniel to the bathroom stalls. He pushed two fingers roughly down Nathaniel’s throat and shoved him to his knees in front of the toilet. By the time Nathaniel’s brain registered what was happening, the only thing he had left in his stomach to throw up was bile.

Nothing about that was gentle, but Nathaniel didn’t care. He didn’t mind feeling the slices on the back of his throat from Katsu’s nails. Katsu likely knew the window of time between eating something and being able to throw it back up was pretty tight. Nathaniel would’ve let him do it ten times over. He doubted his body would’ve allowed himself to push his own fingers that far back in his mouth.

“Thank you,” he whispered as he rested his forehead against the seat of the toilet. Maybe Katsu heard him, maybe he didn’t. Either way, Nathaniel meant it.

“Hey,” Katsu said, firm and quiet. A plastic bag collided with the side of his face when he turned. Nathaniel scowled, knowing Katsu’s aim was far too good for that to be anything but intentional. On the ground between his knees laid a pack of Trolli gummy worms.

Nathaniel glanced at him, unsurprised to find his own hands already ripping open the package. It was then his brain recognized another person in the room. His movements slowed as he looked up at Ichirou, but Ichirou wasn’t looking at him.

Nathaniel didn’t know what look the Moriyama heir was wearing, though he was sure Katsu did. The two were staring at each other. Nathaniel had a distinct feeling their unspoken conversation wasn’t just about him, but also the gummy worms. Their gazes were glued on each other and neither moved an inch.

He didn’t know what passed between them, but whatever it was had him feeling comfortable enough to continue opening the package when they broke apart.

Nathaniel popped a gummy worm into his mouth as he stood up. He was still in the bathroom stall, the exit blocked by both Katsu and Ichirou. It was a shit situation if he wanted to run, but Nathaniel slowly realized that the crippling need to get out wasn’t there. He didn’t want to leave and venture back into the Nest by himself.

Was that pathetic? Maybe. Nathaniel, though, thought he had some ground to stand on. He didn’t have Jean anymore, and the next person he trusted here was an emotionally stunted yakuza bodyguard that was way too obsessed with his own looks.

He trusted Katsu. Ichirou owned him. And Nathaniel, for once in his life, was so sick of trying to do this on his own. He’d always had temporary security—his mother on the run, Andrew in juvie, Kevin and Jean in the fucking Nest—and he lost them all. But Katsu and Ichirou? Nathaniel doubted they were going anywhere for a very, very long time.

He’d paid enough, and he deserved their twisted security.

He paid enough.

So Nathaniel didn’t know if it was confidence or stupidity that had him now looking Ichirou in the eyes. Gazing at the man didn’t spark any emotions in Nathaniel, good or bad, and he supposed that was a good thing. After all, Ichirou owning him was the only reason he could’ve saved Nathaniel like he had tonight.

“Thank you,” Nathaniel repeated quietly. Regardless of what Andrew would say, Nathaniel did have at least one or two survival instincts, and all the cards he held were because of the man in front of him.

“Do not thank me,” Ichirou said, his voice smooth and calm. “Whether or not I choose to recognize that filth as my next of kin is negligible. It was my blood that did this to you.”

Nathaniel didn’t know what to say to that. Never once had he seen a powerful person in the mafia circuit take responsibility for something that wasn’t directly theirs. Nathaniel looked at Katsu, who gave him a flat look that said, do you believe me now, dipshit?

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Nathaniel met Ichirou’s gaze again. Had Nathaniel not been this exhausted, he might’ve been able to read something in the man’s eyes.

“Am I right to assume,” Ichirou continued, “this is the first time my brother enacted this particular form of torture?”

Burning rage laced up Nathaniel’s body. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but it was a lost cause, because anger was rolling off of him in waves. He was smart enough to know it wasn’t directed towards Ichirou and he prayed the Moriyama heir knew that. Ichirou also knew Nathan, so he was aware Nathaniel was fighting a losing biological battle.

Images and memories started flipping through Nathaniel’s mind. Some part of him snapped tonight, and Nathaniel doubted it would ever mend.

Despite all the times he fought, screamed, begged, or thanked Riko for what he did, Riko still managed to get inside him and rip out any remaining scraps of shame or embarrassment he had left.

Nathaniel never liked his face, his looks, his voice, but he never thanked Baustin or Taylor like he thanked Riko. He’d heard his own voice thank Riko for beating him, thank Riko for sparing Jean, thank Riko for cutting into him. He’d thanked Riko for forcing Baustin on him, he’d thanked Riko as Taylor pulled his pants down. Thanking Riko was so familiar.

But he’d never thanked Baustin.

He’d never thanked Taylor.

And tonight, the man he thanked had shoved his dick in Nathaniel’s mouth as he laid there tied and fucking helpless. The man he thanked–

It was never enough, was it?

Nathaniel didn’t look away from Ichirou. Let Ichirou see the destruction his brother left behind. Let Ichirou see that Nathaniel wasn’t fragile.

Let Ichirou see that Nathaniel wouldn’t break easily.

That thought had his anger receding. Since he’d met Ichirou, he’d been slowly learning that he didn’t know the Moriyama heir at all. Every day, Nathaniel was less and less sure that Ichirou’s goal was to break him. That he wanted to break him. That he intended on breaking him at all.

It’s a shame people can’t recognize something beautiful. And why they would damage it is beyond me.

“Kind of,” Nathaniel said. With Ichirou, any lie was a wrong answer, and neither ‘yes’ nor ‘no’ held enough truth for Nathaniel to say it confidently.

“Meaning,” Ichirou said. Nathaniel flicked his gaze to Katsu, not sure where to go from here. Katsu gave him a small nod, which told Nathaniel absolutely nothing.

Nathaniel hadn’t forgotten his blinding, purely primal panic the first time he’d met Ichirou, and he was certain Ichirou hadn’t either. He didn’t seem like a man to miss details. Given Ichirou knew that, he wasn’t looking for a broad answer—he wanted something specific from Nathaniel.

God, meeting new mafia members was always fucking exhausting.

Nathaniel was far too tired to craft the perfect answer, so he went with blunt, thoughtless honesty.

“Yes, this is the first time Riko fucked my mouth.”

Nathaniel’s eyes snapped to Katsu when the man’s breathing shuttered. Ichirou hummed before adjusting his weight just enough to have his arm brush Katsu’s, and as quickly as it started, Katsu’s breath returned to normal. Had Nathaniel not been paying attention, he would’ve missed the whole thing.

“But,” Ichirou prompted.

“Not the first time he had someone fuck me.”

Nathaniel tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone, but he didn’t have the patience nor mental capacity to do much.

He wasn’t upset with Ichirou for asking. It wasn’t his fault. Nathaniel’s life wasn’t supposed to be on Ichirou’s radar until graduation, and even then, solely related to compensation.

He was aware of this, and he needed Ichirou to know that.

“I do not mean to be–” Ichirou held up a hand, effectively silencing him.

“Pack your belongings, Nathaniel,” Ichirou said, turning to stalk towards the door. He didn’t spare Riko’s body a single glance, and part of Nathaniel almost wished he were awake to witness it.

He didn’t understand why Ichirou said that. He didn’t know how to ask for clarity, and his window of opportunity was rapidly closing. ‘Why’ seemed rude and simply saying ‘Ichirou’ seemed unnatural.

“Sir?” Nathaniel asked.

Ichirou paused, taking a few seconds before turning around.

“The East Tower has three bedrooms. The elevator is password and security protected. The court is still at your disposal. I am only here on game nights,” Ichirou said. Nathaniel’s brain was running, too busy trying to absorb information for him to understand it. “Think logically, Nathaniel. There is no reason for you to live in the Nest.”

Nathaniel felt his eyes widen.

Think logically, Nathaniel.

Ichirou was offering him a way out. Nathaniel could say he’d rather stay in the Nest with Riko and Tetsuji and Baustin, but why would he? Nathaniel already spent a considerable chunk of time in the East Tower with Katsu in Ichirou’s bedroom. He had no idea there were two other bedrooms. He wondered why they never spent time in Katsu’s bedroom, but maybe Nathaniel had only been allowed in Ichirou’s.

Think logically, Nathaniel.

And he was. Emotionally, he should be scared. Even logically, he should be afraid. But all he could think about was what it might feel like to sleep without wondering if Baustin or Taylor were going to sneak into his room. All he could think about was what it might be like to not wake up with his hands already cuffed.

All he could think about was getting away from the monsters he knew.

Ichirou was one person. One monster. A monster with enough power to decimate the eastern seaboard and a few international territories, but still one monster.

A monster that was born into this life. A monster that became a person with power. A person with power only a few years older than Nathaniel. A person with power that just wanted Nathaniel’s loyalty, who, in return, would keep him out of Tetsuji and his psycho nephew’s hands, Nathan and Lola’s hands, even Kengo’s hands.

Think logically, Nathaniel.

Ichirou figured out what very few leaders before him had: the loyalty of the fed is worth more than the desperation of the hungry.

Ichirou wasn’t needed by his followers, and Nathaniel was starting to understand why.

He was worshiped. Feared.

What a lethal combination.

“Nathaniel,” Katsu said quietly, pulling Nathaniel from his thoughts. He realized Ichirou was still looking at him, expecting a response. He knew he had to pick his words carefully, and ‘thank you’ clearly wasn’t earning him any points tonight.

Nathaniel doubted he’d ever get this many free passes from Ichirou again.

“Yes,” Nathaniel said. Ichirou raised an eyebrow in response. “I want to be closer to you.”

This ‘yes’ meant more than Nathaniel could properly put into words right now, and he hoped Ichirou understood it.

Yes, I’ll live in your space.

Yes, I’ll be with you.

Yes, I’ll treat this relationship as though it’s mine, yours, ours.

Yes, eventually, I’ll forget what it would’ve felt like to be with you willingly.

Nathaniel knew this wasn’t freedom, but for a caged animal who forgot what it looked like, this sure tasted like it.

Ichirou was looking at him like it cost him nothing to peel away Nathaniel’s layers and lay bare any truth he wasn’t telling.

There was only one truth Nathaniel hid away—Andrew.

He wasn’t ready for either illusion to shatter. He wanted what Ichirou was offering, and he wanted a life with Andrew that didn’t involve this. One was right in front of him, and the other was impossible.

Eventually, Ichirou’s intense focus faded, and a slow smirk drew across his face, lethal and approving.

“Katsu,” Ichirou said as he walked out.

“Sir,” Katsu responded.

—

Jean Moreau could not find enough words in the English nor French languages to accurately describe Los Angeles.

Jeremy Knox called the minute they landed, insisting he pick them up at the airport. Jean gave Kevin a slight shake of his head. Kevin did not push the subject. He knew without asking that Jean wanted to meet Knox in his territory, at USC or the Gold Court.

Jean already had to suffer through meeting a new captain—at the very least it needed to be in a place Jean understood.

In return, Knox had Kevin put him on speaker to ensure he actually had Jean, and Kevin had not made him up as an excuse to visit. Jean snorted. It was a valid concern. Kevin loved the Trojans because “their kindness matters.” Which he said, on multiple occasions, because the only thing Kevin loved more than Jeremy Knox and his team was hearing himself talk. Jean did not understand how Kevin managed to hold onto the inane philosophy after spending his entire life in the Nest.

The conversation was short. Knox asked for Jean’s initial opinion of Los Angeles, to which he responded with ‘unfamiliar,’ because it was the kindest word he could come up with. Kevin rolled his eyes and fielded the rest of the conversation as Wymack got their rental car.

Kevin silently handed over dark, reflective sunglasses before they exited the airport. When Jean just stared at him, Kevin waited until he put them on and simply said, “Trust me,” then left it at that. Jean would have rolled his eyes at the theatrics had he not been nearly blinded as they walked out. He gave Kevin a small nod of thanks.

As it turns out, Jean Moreau does not have eyes biologically capable of taking in the amount of light that was Los Angeles. Jean leaned in and said to Kevin, “Whoever designed this wretched city was an idiot.” Of course, Kevin knew exactly what he was talking about and responded with, “Why they picked white sidewalks is beyond me.”

Jean tended to agree.

Once they got in the car—Wymack driving, Jean in the passenger seat, Kevin and Andrew in the back—Kevin launched into a verbal resuscitation of the city’s history. He watched the scenery as Kevin droned on. Wymack occasionally piped in with a few choice words about Los Angeles drivers. It was comfortable, and a touch too familiar, because Jean’s mind drifted back over the events that led him here.

The whole process to get Jean across the country would have been eventful had he not been Jean Moreau. Contrary to most press articles, Jean did not hate flying. For Kevin, Jean, and Nathaniel, flying meant public-approved-Riko, which led to two or three days of blissful hotel nights where Riko could not hurt him anywhere visible. Riko rarely bothered because he saw it as a waste of time.

Most reporters saw his generally gloomy exterior in airports and concluded that Jean Moreau simply hated flying. Fans fabricated various reasons without a shred of truth. Some of the theories were mildly entertaining when Nathaniel had read them to him.

The flight itself was uneventful. He could tell that the goalie was not enjoying his time, though he knocked out soon enough after take-off that Jean doubted he would remember much once they landed. Wymack was the same person as always.

Kevin, however, was The Kevin Day in the airport, and he knew how to play the part. Jean could admit that Kevin was an extremely attractive person—thank God his fan base did not know his loathsome personality—and he looked so enraptured by his history book that most of his fans left him unbothered. Kevin was also a chronic anti-social unless the situation involved vodka.

The train of thought led him to Nathaniel, but Jean could not think of his partner. He could not handle it.

At some point during the lengthy trip, Jean mentally decided to stop referring to him as Neil.

The conversation Kevin relayed to him after their private phone call had not come from Neil. Those words came from someone Jean thought had died eight years ago when he first arrived at the Nest. In fact, they sounded so natural with the slight British lilt of Nathaniel Wesninski as they rebounded in Jean’s head.

They replayed like a broken record while Wymack drove them to the airport, as Jean walked through security, as he directed questions from reporters until Kevin could take over. Jean could not reconcile his partner with the Nathaniel that Kevin had told him about. Nathaniel’s words were the only reason Jean was on his way to USC right now.

Some part of Jean knows I’m better off without him, Kevin. I think he knew all along.

Jean did not want to hear it. He and Nathaniel were partners. Not brothers, not lovers, but some fucked up mix of both. And the Nathaniel Jean had known, bloody and bruised and broken, was someone who had looked Riko in the face and said he would be dead before he hit the ground if he touched Jean.

I don’t know how he got out, but I don’t want him back. I’m sick of it, Kev. I’m sick of not fighting because it’ll blow back on Jean and getting beaten or assaulted anyways.

Jean did not understand. He knew every part of Nathaniel, as Nathaniel did him. There was no hiding from each other in the Nest. They learned early on that ‘privacy’ was a facade and being alone was not an option. They never had a chance of escaping each other. That was how the system worked.

I know it’s not his fault, and I love him, but I like it better this way.

Jean could not believe Kevin when he told him. This was not Nathaniel. Something was wrong. Someone had a gun pointed to his head and he was backed in a corner and Jean needed to go to him. He needed to go back.

Jean argued and argued until Kevin revealed the last thing Nathaniel had said to him. It drained all the denial and rage out of him as if it had never been there. Jean knew, without a doubt in his mind, that his former partner had said it to Kevin.

Jean knows I don’t like being alone, but I never said I don’t like being by myself.

It sounded like a truth Nathaniel held that Neil never wanted to say.

These thoughts only abated after Jean landed in LAX, and once again as he got his first glimpse of USC’s campus.

The building was very cathedral, and very southern west coast. As Wymack made his way through campus streets, Jean quickly realized the USC was opposite to the Nest in every visible way. Beyond a very anticlimactic statue of a Trojan horse, nothing on the campus was colored black.

Jean was never given the chance to appreciate architecture, and in the car with a few Foxes, he did not need to hide any of his interests. He did not only get to look at these buildings, he would be allowed in them, he assumed. He was convinced there were more outdoor areas than there were indoor.

Until he saw the Gold Court—comparable size to the Nest, and colored an obnoxious maroon and yellow—Jean could not find a single similarity to Edgar Allen. There was only one person to blame for this, and he was already watching Jean when he turned around in his seat.

Jean gave Kevin a flat look that he hoped conveyed everything he was thinking. When Kevin only smiled in response, Jean felt the expression slip off his face. Kevin gave genuine smiles so rarely that Jean had forgotten what they looked like on his face. Part of Jean was glad only he and a few others got to see it.

The world did not deserve this side of Kevin.

As much as Jean hated his obsession with training and hated who he was in the Nest and hated what happened with his relationship with Nathaniel and hated him for getting Jean out… he could never truly hate Kevin. He did not deserve it.

“You’ll get used to the colors,” Kevin said. Jean sighed.

“No, I will not,” he said.

“Question,” Wymack said as he pulled into a parking spot. “How long do you think he’s been waiting there?”

Jean looked through the windshield and saw none other than Jeremy Knox, the Golden Boy, sitting against the outside gate with his nose in a book. His blond hair fell slightly over his forehead and he had one muscled leg bent up to his chest.

Knox closed the book when he saw them and waved. He stood up, stretched his arms over his head until his shirt revealed a very toned stomach, and started making his way over to the car. As he walked, Jean noticed–

“Is he wearing flip flops?” Jean asked. Andrew snorted in the backseat.

“Welcome to SoCal. The entire state is a fucking mental case,” Andrew muttered before getting out of the car and walking in the opposite direction. Jean watched him pull out a pack of cigarettes before turning his attention back to Knox.

“Do you trust him?” Jean asked.

“Yes,” Kevin said. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“He looks like an overgrown twelfth grader,” Jean mumbled in French while undoing his seat belt.

“That’s half the charm,” Kevin responded in French, already halfway out of the car.

‘Charm’ was not exactly the word Jean would use. ‘Infuriatingly gorgeous’ and ‘unfairly hot in flip flops’ seem more on par with what he was thinking. Jean took a breath, wrapped his crooked fingers around the door handle, and stepped into the sun.

Nathaniel did, however, find it increasingly difficult to spend time in his room without Jean. He didn’t like sleeping in his own bed, for obvious reasons, and now he couldn’t sleep in Jean’s bed because it still smelled like him and all Nathaniel thought about was what he lost.

The worst part? It was his own fucking fault. It was his own fucking fault that Nathaniel single-handedly lost the best thing in his life since he’d been with Kevin. At least, with Kevin, Nathaniel could blame Riko for how he lost him. It was Nathaniel’s choice to take Jean out of the Nest. It was Nathaniel’s choice to burn the only support he had in a house built on ashes.

His plan for Jean wasn’t even done yet. He’d thought, stupidly, that the act of getting Jean out would be the hardest part. He was wrong. Some part of his mind knew that, and a smarter part blocked it out, and he was left with the knife to sever their tie together.

Jean would try to come back, if he hadn’t already. He was a French bastard who never left well enough alone when it came to Nathaniel. If Jean knew Nathaniel was the sole reason he got out, Jean would find his way back, even if it killed him. If Jean thought Nathaniel had nothing to do with it, then he’d look for ways to get Nathaniel out with him. If he thought Ichirou orchestrated it, he might kill himself outright.

Nathaniel had thought it through over and over and over. He had to sever his tie to Jean and make sure the damage was irrevocable. There was no way around it. The door was slightly ajar, and until Nathaniel slammed it closed, built a wall of bricks, and demolished the building it led to, Jean wouldn’t stop.

And, by God, Nathaniel was sick of thinking about it. Night after night, day after day. It’d barely been a week, and he was ready to tear his hair out.

He spent more time on the court with each passing day. He barely slept, and when he couldn’t, he’d practice exy. He spent his hours attempting infuriating, meticulous drills that took his entire concentration. Any thoughts that didn’t help the drill? Pointless. He’d forget about them as soon as they crossed his mind. It wasn’t for nothing, because his skills were skyrocketing. Nathaniel thought he had a heart attack when the Master said his performance was ‘acceptable.’ Acceptable.

Riko had been out of ear-shot, thank fuck. The spoiled psycho had been oddly tame over the past week, so Nathaniel knew that was coming.

Nathaniel also found himself spending more and more time in the East tower with Katsu. Ichirou had been attending meetings in New York since that night. Nathaniel didn’t question it when Katsu popped up every few nights to… just… hang out? Why Ichirou’s second took a private jet back to the Nest multiple times throughout the week, Nathaniel didn’t know.

That was how he ended up here, eating takeout on the floor of Ichriou’s room, watching the newest episode of some Japanese animated show. Nathaniel didn’t really know what it was about, though he was vaguely interested. They both spoke Japanese, so they didn’t need the subtitles, and Nathaniel could listen while he did video review.

Something small hit the side of Nathaniel’s face, pulling him out of his thoughts. Looking at the gummy worm on the floor, Nathaniel wiped excess sugar off his face and glared at Katsu.

“Stop pulling your hair,” he said, taking his eyes away from the screen. Apparently the episode ended. Nathaniel relaxed his left hand that had been locked in the hairs at his nape.

“I can’t believe you actually wasted a gummy worm on that,” Nathaniel said.

“Me either. I expect you at the funeral. Gifts are welcome, but not required,” he said, folding a slice of pizza with too many toppings to count. Nathaniel was convinced the guy had zero taste buds.

“If I grace you with my presence, that’s the only fucking gift you’re getting,” he responded.

“‘Grace’ is a very forgiving word for what it’s like to be around you. I’d err on the side of ‘plague,’ or ‘torture,’” Katsu said, reaching for the gummy worm and popping it in his mouth regardless. “Words you’d find in a Stephen King novel. It’s all work and no play. Have you ever seen The Shining?”

“Not yet,” Nathaniel started, “but you might want to remove that stick from your ass before we watch it so you’re more comfortable.”

“How altruistic of you.”

“That’s me,” he said. “Always thinking of others.” Katsu snorted, and Nathaniel couldn’t even find it in himself to be offended. Turning back to the TV, Katsu pulled up an old YouTube video that seemed to be reviewing a chess match. Nathaniel narrowed his eyes at the ‘highly rewatched’ tag that appeared in the bottom right corner.

Not for the first time, Nathaniel wondered who the Hell Katsu was. It was more out of surprise than any judgment. He hadn’t expected the second to the heir of the Yakuza to be so… human? Casual? Normal? Katsu’s love for video games and YouTube videos and shitty take-out seemed to run deeper than a general fascination.

Nathaniel’s childhood was less than conventional, and from what he could tell, Katsu’s hadn’t been any better. It was easy to talk to him. It took the pressure off Nathaniel to explain any of his habits that were, as Katsu so eloquently put it, ‘more fucked than a couple trying to conceive.’

“What gives?” Katsu asked, gesturing to the phone clutched in Nathaniel’s right hand. “You’re looking at it like it’s Satan’s spawn.”

“You’re Satan’s spawn,” Nathaniel muttered. Katsu snorted.

“Where’d you learn that comeback? Elementary school?”

“You act like you actually went to grade school,” he said. When Katsu remained silent, Nathaniel looked over with an eyebrow raised in question. “You went to grade school?”

“Technically,” Katsu said. And there it was.

“School that wasn’t related to the Yakuza?” Katsu flipped him off.

“I didn’t learn about the Yakuza until I was seventeen. That’s not to say I had a very… consistent attendance streak in school, but it wasn’t because of the mafia.”

“Why?” Nathaniel asked.

“You’ll have to take me on another date before I show you the skeletons in my closet.” Katsu had a dullness in his eyes that Nathaniel recognized, but couldn’t name. He never shied away from Nathaniel’s stare and he knew how to easily redirect conversation. Considering Katsu was second to the heir of the Moriyamas, it wasn’t too shocking.

“Is that all you have in your closet, honey?” Nathaniel asked.

“You’ll have to wait and find out, love,” he said. Nathaniel was rolling his eyes before Katsu even finished speaking. “So, what has you staring at the phone like a high school prom date?”

“Okay, that’s pushing it. No way you went to high school,” Nathaniel said. Katsu didn’t take the bait and just continued to look at him. “Jean.”

“Moreau?” Katsu asked. “I thought this was already underway. Didn’t you call Knox?”

“I did,” he said, dropping his chin and letting his forehead land against his knee. “You never knew Jean.”

“Not well, no, but I talked to him a few times,” Katsu said. Nathaniel’s eyebrows shot up. He could count the number of times he and Jean weren’t together on one hand, and each of those situations almost always involved Riko. “Ichirou had me keeping tabs on him for a few years, then you, more recently.”

“Why Jean?” Katsu looked at him for a moment, contemplative. He wasn’t hesitating—Nathaniel didn’t think he was biologically capable of hesitating, whether that be a learned trait or a given one—though he wasn’t jumping at the bit to respond, either.

“He wanted to make sure his assets remained active,” Katsu said. It wasn’t rude or unkind, just factual. Nathaniel’s whole body went still when he put together what that meant, his lungs contracting but not expanding again.

Nathaniel knew, rationally, that the main branch had ways of discovering information that went far beyond the reach of his mother’s paranoia. Nathaniel knew, factually, that his partner was almost always severely low mentally. Nathaniel knew, understandably, that Jean saw little value in life. Nathaniel knew, realistically, that Jean cut into his veins and he planned multiple ways to kill himself.

And somewhere, hidden in the depths of Nathaniel’s mind, he knew Jean was only biding time until graduation for Nathaniel’s sake. But he didn’t want to know, and he didn’t want to see it, and he didn’t want to believe it.

There was no hiding from it anymore; not when Katsu confirmed that the main branch had Jean on some fucked up version of a suicide watch for years.

“How?” Nathaniel asked.

“Why are you calling him?” Nathaniel didn’t push the change in subject.

“I’m calling Kevin. Jean is going to try and come back, and I need to make sure he doesn’t.”

“Do you know if he tried already?”

“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me.” Katsu was quiet for a minute.

“You have to cut ties with him,” Katsu ventured. Nathaniel didn’t answer. “But even if you tell him not to, he’ll still come back. Considering that and the look on your face, this has to be something crueler.”

After a few minutes of silence, Nathaniel picked his head up to look at Katsu.

“You’re going to sever your relationship with him, aren’t you?” Katsu asked.

Nathaniel didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. Katsu was clearly more than capable of figuring it out on his own.

“You knew him for—what? Eleven years?” Nathaniel nodded. “It’s never easy to weaponize yourself for other people.” That got Nathaniel’s attention, whether to ignore his impending phone call or genuine interest, Nathaniel didn’t know.

“Speaking from experience?” Katsu gave him a bland, empty smile.

“There aren’t many ways to get your biological family to stop looking for you,” Katsu said, reverent. “For you, faking your death isn’t an option, and that leaves you with one.”

Katsu reached over to the side table and opened a drawer Nathaniel hadn’t noticed. Without a handle, it didn’t seem like the drawer came built-in.

Leaning back against the couch with a new pack of Trolli gummy worms, Katsu kicked the drawer shut with his foot and turned his attention back to the TV. He opened the pack and offered some to Nathaniel who just shook his head while grabbing a handful. Katsu tossed him a side glance and a small smirk.

“Don’t tell Ichirou,” he said, not looking apologetic in the slightest.

Nathaniel sighed and slouched down next to Katsu. Picking up his phone and tossing a worm into his mouth, Nathaniel pressed ‘call.’

—

Pass the locker room. Take a right. Up the stairs. Left. Lap the academic wing. Up the stairs. Right. Through the medical wing. Down two flights. Left. Pass the ‘away’ locker room. Right. Lap the outside court. Lap the inside court. Lap outside again.

Pass the locker room. Take a right.

Again and again, over and over. If Nathaniel hadn’t been inside the Nest since he was five years old, the monotonous lap probably would’ve become boring. Stifling, even. The thing is, he didn't have many memories of what it was like to run outside. If he’d known the feeling, it was long gone by then. The loop was calming, borderline freeing, because Nathaniel had only ever known the Nest.

If he had a normal childhood, it wouldn’t be as enjoyable.

Lucky him.

Another benefit was the design of the Nest. It was built to be a home—prison—where the people it housed rarely left. Despite away games and interviews, Nathaniel rarely did. Even the players who got recruited into the Nest only left for a few days around the holidays and two weeks during the summer.

The Nest was big enough that the loop was 5K. The staff knew Nathaniel well enough to not even acknowledge his presence each time he passed them. Professors typically shut their door after the first loop, the nurses couldn’t care less, and the janitorial staff simply stepped out of his way.

Nathaniel had nearly six and a half miles of bliss before his mind zeroed in on a new set of demons.

Help him, Kevin.

Up the stairs.

Then help me help him.

Left.

He can’t talk to me, Kevin, or he’s going to be so mad he might kill me himself.

Lap the academic wing.

I don’t care if it’s fair or not. If you won’t tell him, then I’ll ask Andrew to. You and I both know he doesn’t give a flying fuck about Jean as long as you’re safe.

Up the stairs.

I know I’m asking a lot but he needs to believe it. Tell him I don’t want him, tell him I don’t need him, and t- tell him I was just waiting to get him out so I don’t have to deal with him anymore.

Right.

I can’t talk to him. He won’t believe me.

Through the medical wing.

I don’t fucking know, Kev. Tell him that he’s only hurting me when he’s here and I can’t take it anymore.

Down two flights.

Thank you.

Left.

Stop. We’re not having this conversation in the middle of night.

Pass the ‘away’ locker room.

Kevin, are you still playing in the Spring? Then we are where we are, accept it.

Right.

exy isn’t a fix for us like it is for him. It’s our lives, you know this. We’re doing what we have to do to keep it, and never fucking apologize for that.

Lap the outside court.

Don’t you understand that I can’t do this right now?

Lap the inside court.

Because talking to you hurts. Talking to you really hurts, don’t you understand that?

Lap outside again.

No, Kev. I would have shot you if you came back.

Pass the locker room.

Glad we’re in agreement with that.

Take a right. Up the stairs.

Nathaniel kept running. It didn’t matter that he was on borrowed time and it was only a matter of hours, if that, until Riko or the Master came looking for him. It didn’t matter. If Nathaniel had time to run, he’d run, without a second thought.

There was one time Nathaniel could remember hesitating before he ran, and he had no one to blame but himself. It was his fault for ignoring everything his mother taught him; she had been right, in the end. Don’t look back, don’t stop, keep going. That was only possible if Nathaniel didn’t have anything he wanted to look back on.

A short, blond-haired, golden-eyed wrench had been thrown in that plan.

Nathaniel didn’t know how long he’d been running for. It was at least two hours, he assumed, because he passed the half-marathon distance a few laps ago. He slowed down the next time he passed the ‘away’ locker rooms. His body locked up and his lungs contracted the second he stopped moving. He didn’t want to stop because everything hurt. Nothing good had ever come from staying in one place, yet here he was.

Standing up, Nathaniel leaned against the court wall until his breathing leveled out. Glancing at the clock on the scoreboard, Nathaniel saw that he only had an hour before the other teams would arrive for the banquet. It kicked off the start of the Spring season, and because the Ravens were the reigning champions of their conference, it was hosted at the Nest. Nathaniel wasn’t sure how he missed the throng of people setting up the court, hustling chairs and tables onto it once they covered the flood. He didn’t think too long about it.

One thing he did think long on was Andrew. His unyielding presence. Some articles said Andrew was overbearing, while others labeled him as nonexistent. Nathaniel’s perception of him never faltered, never changed. He knew Andrew wasn’t the same person he met in juvie. He wouldn’t mourn that person; Nathaniel wanted to learn every part of Andrew—always had—but not the parts of him that didn’t exist. Not the parts of him the press confabulated. Not the parts of him he intentionally forced out.

In their brief interaction, Nathaniel saw that the ‘new’ Andrew wasn’t created by happenstance.

Pushing off the court wall, Nathaniel made his way to the red hallway. He briefly wondered where Riko was before continuing into his room. It didn’t matter anymore. Nathaniel didn’t care if this fake confidence came from his new standing with Ichirou or not. He only had to worry about himself. And even then, he didn’t have much of a choice. He would keep himself alive and functioning, more for the main branch rather than his own reasons, but that was water under the bridge.

Nathaniel grabbed his black suit and red fucking tie and stalked to the bathroom. He got nothing out of these banquets except two less hours of his life. The only benefit was that it coincided on the same night as the Ravens’ first pre-game of the season. He could get through anything if there was a game hanging in the balance, and that was much easier to think about than his new disgusting awareness that Ichirou was watching.

I will be back for the game at the end of next week.

He knew he’d been seeing Ichirou at some point tonight. For what, Nathaniel didn’t know. There was no point in worrying about it. Why suffer twice?

—

Heights? Andrew didn’t like them.

Flying? Not a fan.

Flying high? Severely unenjoyable.

Flying high while flying high? Ha. Not fun. Absolutely zero points in the ‘fun’ category.

His medication loved making sure he was having fun. All the time! In every situation! Cat got hit by a car? It was probably a green Kia Soul because anyone buying that car has to be blind as a fucking bat.

A smile pulled across his mouth. Andrew ran a hand over his face.

It was a shame only he heard his thoughts. He was often left laughing by himself. And he truly meant heard, because Andrew’s thoughts bordered on auditory hallucinations when he was medicated. That was the main indicator to sober Andrew that these meds were genuinely wrong for him.

And buzz buzz Bee knew it too, but there was nothing she could do.

Ha!

Long story short, he hated his meds. He couldn’t really hate them, no, no, not while he was on them.

Sober Andrew hated few things, but these fucking meds were one of them.

He almost always preferred being sober. Except for one situation. Not a fun situation. One situation. A not fun situation he was currently avoiding by being high before they physically went up and up, like the plane would.

Like Andrew was.

Everyone else was far behind.

The situation had negative points in the ‘fun’ category and a few hundred in the ‘I’d rather try to genuinely understand Kevin when he talks’ category. And, distinguished guests, the situation was withdrawals on a plane.

Withdrawals on a plane, withdrawals on a plane… snakes, snakes, Snakes on a Plane!

His meds were the culprit for both situations, but in this case, the monster he didn’t know was better than the monster he did. Andrew had little control when he was high, but he knew withdrawals on a plane.

Such a pain, those withdrawals on a plane.

He could describe the JetBlue bathroom floor with award-winning clarity, where he’d knelt vomiting into the toilet during turbulence. Until the day came where he couldn’t do that, high on planes it was.

“Andrew,” Kevin said. Andrew turned away from the window, his eyes zeroing in on the bag Kevin held.

“Well, well, don’t you know the way to my heart,” Andrew said, wearing a grin that felt like it stretched from ear to ear.

“Do you want them or not?” he asked. Andrew snatched the bag of lollipops.

“Have you been taking dance classes?” Andrew asked. “Because the way you express yourself has gotten better.”

“Fuck off,” Kevin said, without much heat.

“Are there tootsie ro–”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“That’s up for debate,” Andrew quipped, and Kevin looked at him.

Kevin knew medicated Andrew and sober Andrew better than anyone. Kevin didn’t like his meds for two reasons—two reasons he said often and loudly, because he’s Kevin. One, he didn’t think Andrew liked them nor deserved them, and two, Kevin thought Andrew would put more effort towards stickball if he wasn’t high or crashing 24/7.

Andrew wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of saying he was right.

Alas, Kevin knew he hated flying, and Kevin knew he hated being high, and Kevin knew Andrew was there for him. Hence the lollipops with tootsie rolls, despite Kevin having more food issues than even Andrew did, and Andrew went a year and four months in juvie without candy.

Devastating. Even sober Andrew would agree.

Raising an eyebrow, Andrew said, “And you’re still in my space because…?”

Kevin rolled his eyes and made his way to the tall French latte with a three on his face. Wymack was somewhere around, likely buying a bottle of water and a granola bar for $40.

Mr. French Latte wasn’t as pissy as he’d been when they got him. After speaking with his caged redhead, Kevin said something to Jean that broke him and set him free. Not free like a fly-away Raven, but detached from a chain holding him down.

Somewhere in that 6’3” tall drink, Andrew knew Jean wasn’t upset about going to the West coast.

Kevin wasn’t either. He had a Knox obsession.

When they called boarding for their plane, Andrew waltzed over to Kevin with a lollipop in his mouth and two more in his hand.

“Oh loverboy,” Andrew called. He heard a very dramatic sigh before Kevin looked over at him. “Grab Mr. Latte. We’re boarding.”

Latte said some choice words in French, and Andrew just shrugged.

Andrew only had one loverboy in his mind, but his meds never liked to focus on one thing for too long.

—

“You really thought that was a good idea, Wesninski?” Riko’s words tore through his mind, adding salt to all the wounds that opened in the past few hours. Rolling his shoulders, Nathaniel continued to stare at the back of his locker as if he were doing something.

He didn’t have any regrets, really. It had been a long night, and all Nathaniel asked for was one exy game where he didn’t have to think. Where he didn’t need to worry about ruining Riko’s fragile pride. Where he didn’t need to hold his checks against Baustin because it might turn around on Jean. Where he could simply play.

Just play.

One focus.

One goal.

Just him.

In light of the shitstorm that today was, Nathaniel needed a moment to breathe. He knew playing exy was the only way to achieve that illusion in the Nest. Had Nathaniel spent another game planning his moves according to Riko’s position, contemplating the easiest way to win with Riko on top, and fucking thinking, he was going to lose it. It was suffocating.

He was suffocating.

He didn’t even want to think that Kevin had lived like this for years. How he still managed to love the sport was beyond Nathaniel, and that was saying something. The only person who understood his need for exy was Kevin. They both needed it like the blood in their veins, though they played differently.

For Kevin, training was practically another vital organ tied directly to exy. Kevin trained for exy. It was precise decisions, calculated maneuvers, and repetition. Nathaniel, however, was a junkie, playing on instinct and muscle memory. He was becoming acutely aware that luxury didn’t exist when he was alone in the Nest. He was starting to wonder if Kevin’s brand of playing didn’t come about naturally, but out of sheer necessity.

Riko always needed a dog to kick, and Nathaniel was a fucking idiot for ever thinking a deal with Ichirou and the fact that they played opposing positions would be enough to keep Riko off his back.

“...that’s fine, Nate,” Riko said, his words fading back into Nathaniel's awareness. “You don’t have to respond. Your voice just complicates things, really.”

Nathaniel slammed his locker shut and turned around. Riko was staring at him with that crooked, sadistic grin, flanked by Baustin and Taylor, and Nathaniel swallowed the urge to laugh. The fucker always liked to put on a show.

“Are the theatrics necessary?” he asked. “Do you like feeling put-together or does the power-trip get you off?”

“It’s not a power-trip, Wesninski. Any good captain would congratulate their teammate after your performance on the court tonight,” he said.

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you that last pass,” he said. Nathaniel felt a sick freedom every time the urge to seek Jean out washed over him. He didn’t like being alone, but he sure as Hell enjoyed being by himself. Nathaniel couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it because he was fucking tired and he wanted the threats in the room to run their course already and be done with him. For better or for worse, Nathaniel liked not having to hold his tongue. “I didn’t know you needed an assist every time. I’ll adjust and plan accordingly.”

And there it is.

Nathaniel watched that flame behind Riko’s eyes ignite. The bastard would honestly be much smarter if he learned to not be affected by what others said. Not for the first time, Nathaniel wondered if Riko and Ichirou came from the same set of parents. He knew Kengo fathered them both, but for some reason, their discrepancies rubbed Nathaniel in the wrong way.

“I really hate that mouth of yours, Nate,” he said.

“That seems like a you-problem. I’m open to couples therapy if you think it’ll benefit the relationship,” Nathaniel responded. He heard a cough that sounded suspiciously like someone trying to cover up a laugh and his eyes snapped to Taylor. The backliner might be a dick, but he had a sense of humor on him. Unfortunately for Nathaniel, the slip-up didn’t go unnoticed.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Nathaniel,” Riko said, closing in on him. Nathaniel bit down on his urge to say ‘that you aren’t?’ with a decent amount of effort. “I have to finish a post-game interview soon, and by the time I get to your room, I don’t want to hear your voice for the rest of the night. Are we clear, number four?”

“Fucking crystal,” he mumbled. Within a second, Nathaniel was slammed against the lockers with a hand around his throat. Riko was close enough that Nathaniel could feel his breath coat his face. He knew this wasn’t a battle worth fighting. He didn’t have anyone else to fight for, anyways.

Did the amount of damage really matter?

“I don’t think you finished that sentence, Nate,” Riko said.

“This really does get you off,” he said, voice quiet from the lack of air. “Did your hand not do a good enough job this week?” God, even his French bastard of a partner would’ve laughed at that.

The fingers tightened as Riko’s thumb dug into the skin above Nathaniel's jugular vein.

“Last fucking chance, Nate,” Riko said. “You don’t have anyone to clean you up after this, so I would think long and hard before you answer me.” Nathaniel froze as his mind latched onto Riko’s words. He was very aware—today, more than anything—that he didn’t have anyone. Nathaniel left Andrew in juvie, he lost Kevin before he even left the Nest’s walls, and he sent Jean away without a shred of a salvageable relationship.

Maybe Nathaniel was playing right into Riko’s cards, but he didn’t care. Nathaniel really had no ground to stand on, did he?

Did the amount of damage really matter?

“You have daddy issues, Riko, but that doesn’t mean I have to call you ‘king.’ We all have fucking issues. You’re the only one throwing a tantrum that Daddy won’t even bother himself to come and deal with.”

Nathaniel thought he could nearly see the fumes coming off of Riko. There was half a second, maybe one, where Nathaniel allowed himself to enjoy the destruction of his words. Nathaniel rarely aimed to kill with what he said, even though sometimes he did. He was never one to sugarcoat things, and he didn’t necessarily feel anything when they affected others in ways he didn’t intend.

With Riko, however? Nathaniel didn’t have a bone in his body to feel bad about what he voiced. They were his father’s genes that relished in others’ pain, and he didn’t mind them. Nathan’s smile tugged on the corner of his lips and Nathaniel put in a feeble attempt to muffle it.

In all honesty, Riko wasn’t the worst monster out there. He was wasted energy. Nathaniel knew it. Jean knew it better than he did. Kevin never got a chance to learn it, thrown into Riko's world at too young an age. Nathaniel let his tongue loose with this pathetic human, but he might as well save his killing blows for someone a few pegs higher than Riko.

It wouldn’t change his fate, in the end. There were ways he could pull his punches to protect Jean, but when he was alone, Nathaniel knew he was a lost cause.

A growl slipped out of Riko’s mouth.

“Baustin,” Riko called. The senior made his way over and grabbed Nathaniel by his shoulders. Instincts taking over, Nathaniel let his left fist fly. He was smart enough to aim his aggression at his fellow teammate rather than his beloved king. Baustin ducked. Nathaniel felt his own reaction time short circuit, exhaustion making his limbs weigh thousands of pounds. Riko used his hesitation to throw a punch of his own. Nathaniel turned his head and Riko’s fist collided with his ear rather than his jaw.

God, Nathaniel was tired.

Baustin had Nathaniel’s head in a lock before he realized what’d happened. Nathaniel’s vision started to blur, and some part of him wondered if he’d pass out before they tortured him. He didn’t have much time to hope for it, though.

Nathaniel’s gulps of air became smaller and smaller as Baustin tightened his hold. The back of his left knee buckled, after someone kicked it in, and Nathaniel felt his body go slack in Baustin’s grip. Riko’s voice rang through the air. Nathaniel’s brain couldn’t process the words.

His eyes fixed on his shoes as they dragged him across the locker room. It was a weird thing to focus on in a time like that; Nathaniel always fought like a feral cat, acutely aware of everyone’s movement. Maybe Jean was the only reason Nathaniel had managed to stay in the present each time this happened. Maybe Jean kept him tethered. Maybe Nathaniel could convince himself that he didn’t hate being alone so much.

He felt Taylor grab his legs as Baustin dropped him on one of the benches. Nathaniel’s head cracked against the wood. Taylor was holding his legs down. Riko was fiddling with the strings of his own pants. Nathaniel didn’t know where Baustin went, but a few seconds later, he felt hands wrench his arms under the bench.

Nathaniel’s brain kick-started again.

He tried to sit up, but Baustin reached over his chest, using his extra fifty pounds of lean muscle to keep Nathaniel pinned. Baustin tied Nathaniel’s right wrist to his left elbow before moving to the other side. Nathaniel let his head drop against the wood.

“You little fuckers,” he said. He didn’t think anyone heard him.

Riko then stepped one leg over the bench, his pants hanging low on his hips and the strings brushing over Nathaniel’s face. Something in Nathaniel’s brain put together what was about to happen. His body ran cold as a strange sweat prickled across his skin.

Nathaniel saw Riko’s mouth moving, but he couldn’t hear anything. There were noises that weren’t words. Riko’s face seemed to twist in anger the longer Nathaniel stayed silent.

“...keep that mouth shut,” he said. Nathaniel blinked as Riko slipped his fingers into the waistband of his pants.

“Pl–” Nathaniel tried. He couldn’t figure out how to string sounds together to make a proper word. “D– Don–”

“What was that?” Riko asked, leaning down a bit. “Cat got your tongue, Nate?”

Nathaniel was shaking. His struggles pulled his shoulders until the point of pain because of how tightly his arms were tied.

“You are worthless, Nate,” Riko said. “I’ve always hated your fucking mouth, but I think I’ve finally found a purpose for it.”

He started to hyperventilate. Fingers threaded through his hair and pinned his head against the bench. Riko pulled his pants down and Nathaniel willed his eyes to close.

“Let’s see how good you are at sucking cock, Four. I’m sure Jean had you practice on him once or twice considering he is a fucking fa–”

“Don’t you say his fucking name,” Nathaniel hissed. “I’ll bite your dick off.”

“Are you sure about that?” Riko asked before pausing. Nathaniel knew the look he wore—the ‘I have something over Nathaniel’ look. He would know, because he’d lived with the sadist for years. “Take a look around the room.”

Nathaniel didn’t want to move his eyes off Riko, not trusting the bastard as far as he could throw him, but Riko relished in humiliation more than anything. He doubted he’d trick Nathaniel into looking away just to fuck him over. Riko was far too vain for that.

Taylor hadn’t moved from Nathaniel’s left side the entire time. He didn’t think Taylor respected Riko much—he was just there to get off. Not that it made anything better, but Nathaniel wasn’t blind to the way many Ravens ‘coped’ with the Nest. Consent was an abstract concept in their cult.

Flicking his eyes to the right, Nathaniel saw Baustin fiddling with… Nathaniel’s eyes widened.

There was a tripod and a camera pointed directly at him.

“Are you really going to incriminate yourself?” he asked.

Riko’s hand wrapped around Nathaniel’s jaw and forced his head back straight. Riko leaned down until they were nearly nose to nose, his eyes glinting in their own fucked up way.

“I’m not in the frame, Nate,” he said, hand tightening. “Besides, the person I’d send this to wouldn’t let it leak. I doubt he’d even show anyone.”

Wrong.

He had to be wrong. Nathaniel knew he was wrong. Riko’s perception of that person was very different from the one Nathaniel knew him as… but part of him wondered.

Would he do anything?

Would he say anything?

Would Nathaniel even want him to say anything?

Wrong. Riko had to be wrong, wrong, wrong.

“What’s the matter, Nate?” Riko whispered. “You don’t think Kevin would enjoy this?”

Nathaniel flinched. Truly terrified, he flinched.

Riko laughed.

“You know, I always asked him if he wanted to watch the other players use you. I never got an answer. He just grabbed a bottle of vodka and walked away.” Nathaniel didn’t want to hear it. Nathaniel didn’t want to hear this.

He knew Kevin fought. He’d heard it, he’d witnessed it, he’d nearly broke over it. Kevin broke over it. He was abused and he had to cope. Nathaniel didn’t want to think about how young Kevin was when he started drinking like that. Even though Nathaniel knew it wasn’t his fault, he didn’t want to think about his own involvement in it, either.

He didn’t want to. God, why wasn’t anyone listening?

“Kevin really turned into a selfish coward. Maybe this will get him to change.”

“Better a selfish coward than an egotistical cunt.”

Nathaniel’s head snapped to the side when Riko backhanded him.

“Keep your teeth off my dick while I fuck your mouth like the useless toy you are or your bitch of a boyfriend will get a front row seat to the show.”

Riko threaded his hands through Nathaniel’s hair and pulled until it hurt. Nathaniel’s heart picked up as Riko pushed in. He gagged before desperately trying to detach his mind from this goddamn situation. Riko got lost in it, pinning Nathaniel’s head against the bench.

Nathaniel wondered if Riko even remembered he was a person.

Riko was saying things, moaning like a five dollar whore. Nathaniel wasn’t listening.

Riko kept going. Nathaniel went nowhere.

Riko finished. Nathaniel wondered if any ring of Hell was worse than this.

Then Riko’s entire body stilled. Nathaniel felt Riko’s legs go rigid on either side of his body. The second Riko’s dick was out of his mouth, Nathaniel was dry-heaving over his right shoulder. If only his hands were undone and he could make himself throw it back up. As Nathaniel watched his saliva and tears gather on the locker room floor, he realized Riko still hadn’t moved.

There wasn’t any laughing or taunting. No humiliating insults or threats. Something was wrong.

What would make him stop–

Oh.

There was only one person who could make Riko freeze like that.

Nathaniel dragged his eyes off the tile and they zeroed in on perfectly polished Louboutin dress shoes. His eyes trailed up the pristine suit, past the unbuttoned black shirt, and locked gazes with Lord Ichirou. Nathaniel felt saliva and other substances drip from his mouth each time he sucked in a ragged breath.

Footsteps approached from down the hall and Ichirou silently stepped to the side.

Nathaniel didn’t crumble until Katsu walked in and he saw the man flinch. A man he had grown to care for in one screwed up way or another. A man who could torture with a straight face and laugh at Mario Kart and eat gummy worms off the ground as he threw them at Nathaniel. If he had any way of throwing up, he would’ve.

He watched as Katsu's eyes glazed over. Nathaniel idly wondered about Katsu’s relationship with anger, anything to keep him from living what was happening.

The reaction reminded him of Andrew, because no one was that calm by accident.

Katsu’s voice was deadly quiet when he spoke.

“May I?”

Ichirou’s response was short.

“Yes.”

Regardless, Andrew hadn’t even brushed unconsciousness in the past three hours of his life he spent staring at his eyelids, the ceiling, and the wall (in that order). Kevin somehow managed to only drag him on a spontaneous trip to the court when he was half-awake already. Whether Kevin did it out of courtesy or fear for his life, Andrew didn’t care.

He threw on the nearest hoodie, slipping the keys to the GS in his pocket. Andrew wanted to grip the stitching of the steering wheel beneath his palms and allow himself a single, ephemeral moment to feel protected in his car without medically floating above his body. He sometimes drove high during the week when he needed time to breathe—always alone, always on deserted roads—but it wasn’t the same.

Reaching for the door, Kevin interrupted him.

“Jean is coming,” he said, tossing a look at Andrew’s nightstand. Andrew reached back for his armbands, pulling them on and throwing the door open. He nodded at Kevin on their way out. He didn’t mind leaving his armbands and sheathing a few knives in his pockets when it was just him and the addict.

They picked up Frenchy in the kitchen of Abby’s house and headed out. Andrew didn’t spare him a glance. He kept walking until the cold night air hit his face and his fingers wrapped around the handle of his car.

He was vaguely aware of Frenchy’s string of curses when he immediately pulled out of the driveway. Fall out of the car or not, Andrew didn’t really care as long as it wasn’t his job to clean up the blood. The drive to the stadium was quick. Frenchy got out the second Andrew threw the car in park and Kevin followed soon after.

Kevin paused, giving Jean the code so he could let himself in, and ducked his head back in the passenger window before Andrew got out.

“Are you going for a drive?” he asked. Andrew raised an eyebrow when Kevin just stared at him. “Go for a drive.”

“What about you?” Andrew said.

“Jean can protect himself and me, if need be.” Andrew scoffed.

“You act like I trust him.”

“You don’t need to. I’ll be fine. Just go, Andrew. Watching this practice isn’t worth your time.” Andrew narrowed his eyes. There weren’t many times when Kevin fought to be by himself. He and Kevin almost always coexisted in the same space. It had started with their deal and eventually morphed into something different over the months. It wasn’t something more, Andrew knew, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it eventually became that.

When they first met, Kevin hadn’t viewed him as a mental case with a body wrapped around it like most people in his life. The only reason Andrew could ‘care’ about Kevin was because Kevin treated him as a human. Andrew didn’t fault people for calling him an apathetic psycho. Though if they were going to view him as a monster, then his ‘care’ towards others couldn’t get any deeper than protection, could it?

“Why.” Kevin shrugged and looked away. Andrew knew he wasn’t going to get anything out of him, because admitting he cared for people was almost as hard for Kevin as it was for Andrew.

“I’ll be back by 4, call if you need anything,” Andrew said. Kevin left it at that and walked away—there was only so much practice time Kevin would waste arguing. When it came to other people, Kevin rarely tried to fight a losing battle. Himself, though, was another discussion.

Putting the car in reverse, Andrew started down a loop he knew well. The road had an unusually high speed limit for the steep hills and sharp turns it held, which made Andrew’s own illegal driving slightly less illegal. He put all the windows down and turned the heat on full blast as the past forty eight hours started to unravel in his head.

Spencer Green, at the time, was a passing ship in Andrew’s life—one he never intended on seeing again. Andrew knew a lost cause when he saw one, and Abram was a blind, caged rabbit. After those few months in juvie, Andrew figured the red-headed flight risk either went up in flames or sunk because he’s too idiotic to run a ship by himself.

He had another twelve months in that cell to convince himself that Spencer Green was a figment of his imagination. Andrew’s life wasn’t conducive to bright things, and Abram’s blue eyes didn’t belong there. He was proven right, after all. Not only did Abram leave, Spencer Green was imaginary all along.

Andrew spent two years in juvie. He was angry the first year, defeated into the second, and self-destructive through it all. By the end, Andrew had reached a level of apathy he didn’t know his way out of. He would, voluntarily, push his GS off a bridge before returning to the person he was when he left Cass. That person cared too much and wanted things he never got.

Few things terrified Andrew; becoming that person again was one of them. If it happened, he would get in the drivers’ seat and press the pedal down himself as he smashed his most prized possession to smithereens.

There were many things about juvie Andrew didn’t bother fixating on. Two years of sleepless nights, two years of being a thing and a hazard rather than a human, and, maybe worst of all, two years of no candy. Two years of seeing Drake, one year of hugging him and smiling at him, one year of ruining his relationship with Cass the second Aaron’s name came out of Drake’s mouth.

Andrew’s eyes focused back on the road when the leather of the steering wheel creaked under his hands. He took the next exit and made his way through a trashy suburban street that mainly housed college students.

Pulling into his unofficial designated parking spot, Andrew made his way around the front of the building. He grabbed a rock off the side of the road and threw it at the rusted pin holding up the ladder of the fire escape. It hit home and the ladder came crashing down. His aim was one of the slightly-less-annoying side effects of playing stickball.

Andrew made his way up the ladder and to the seventh floor escape balcony by muscle-memory. A familiar spike of fear cut through his strange blend of apathy and anger as he stepped off the rusted escape landing and onto the first balcony. The apartment balconies weren’t connected, but the gap between them was less than two feet wide. By the time Andrew made it to the right apartment, adrenaline coursed through his veins.

Andrew took one of his first unlabored breaths in the past 48-hours as settled on the railing, his back leaning against the apartment wall and his legs dangling over the edge. The fact that Andrew had the option of pushing himself off the railing settled something in him.

The thought didn’t worry him. Andrew knew himself well enough by then to know how much control he truly had over himself. Being locked in a room by yourself for an extended period of time tends to have that effect on a person. While some people try to claw their way from the brink of sanity, others make peace with it. Sometimes, though, Andrew wished he wasn’t the latter. Maybe then he’d be able to push himself over the edge.

A rattle came from behind him, followed by the sound of the glass door sliding open.

—

“I have a front door, you know,” Wymack said. He sighed when Andrew just shrugged, stepping out onto the balcony and closing the door behind him.

Wymack looked at the two plastic adirondack chairs then back at Andrew. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Andrew to break and enter in the middle of the night. Wymack guessed this wasn’t exactly considered entering, but he had no idea if the little gremlin broke anything on his way up here.

Andrew’s eyes were trained on the ground, not straying for a solid minute.

“Andrew,” he said. Wymack repeated his name when the kid didn’t immediately respond. Andrew’s eyes eventually met his, and Wymack stilled at the far-away look in them. It wasn’t the out-of-body, high-above-his-fucking-mind look he wore when he was medicated. His eyes were calm in a way they never were on his meds, and Wymack saw that self-control Andrew wore like a second skin.

He knew how important that was for Andrew, someone who naturally lived at rock bottom and felt anger like a physical transformation. Those were the two extremes for Andrew. Wymack only knew them so well because he understood them, he lived them. Anger was lethal to others when Andrew felt it, but he was skillfully crafted in taking himself apart stitch by stitch all other times.

Wymack’s eyes dropped to the street far below before tracking their way back to Andrew’s gaze.

“Are you thinking or plotting?” Wymack asked with a casual air Andrew absolutely didn’t fucking believe.

“What answer are you looking for?” he asked. Wymack was surprised he got one at all.

“The honest one.” Andrew rolled his eyes and Wymack let it go, dropping into the plastic chair. “Why the fuck are you awake at 3AM?”

“Hypocritical, no?” Andrew responded.

“I never said it wasn’t.”

“Thinking of a certain birdie?” he asked. They both knew he wasn’t talking about Jean. Wymack trusted that the kid would be fine, and Kevin could hold him together while he was here. Whether or not there’d be any vodka left in Abby’s house until Jean left for whichever school Nathaniel intended on sending him to was another story.

Andrew let his head fall back against the wall.

“He’s a lost cause, Coach,” Andrew said.

“So were you,” he said.

“You gave me a way out.” Andrew paused. The words weren’t said with any noticeable trace of kindness or gratitude—just fact. Wymack had to pry his eyes away from Andrew and take a moment to make sure he was breathing properly. Coming from Andrew, that statement meant more than Wymack was willing to admit. “Nathaniel’s a tragedy in the making.”

“Maybe so,” Wymack said. Andrew’s eyes were trained on the sky now, but his hands unconsciously toyed with the ends of his armbands. Andrew only did that when he felt threatened. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t care,” he said. They were quiet for a few minutes before Andrew continued. “I knew him in juvie.”

“Really?” Wymack asked. That was news to Wymack.

Andrew didn’t talk much about his time in juvie—he didn’t talk much at all when he was off his meds—though Wymack couldn’t blame him. After all these years, Wymack avoided thinking about his own time in juvie like the plague. It happened, he was there, and he still noticed the effects of it in his lifestyle. That was more than enough contact he needed with that time in his life; there was no reason to dig up and ruminate on the actual events.

“I hated him.” Andrew’s hands stilled when he said that.

“I find that hard to believe,” Wymack muttered. Andrew shot him a glare.

“Are you working above your pay grade, Coach?”

“Don’t I always, according to you?” Maybe the moonlight cast a strange light on Andrew’s face, but Wymack swore he saw a hint of a smirk drawing across his lips.

“Are you going to?” Andrew said. If Wymack hadn’t been watching Andrew closely, he would’ve missed the words.

“Going to what?” Andrew’s jaw clenched and unclenched a few times before he spoke again.

“Work above your paygrade,” Andrew said. “With Nathaniel.”

“I’ve been trying to since he dropped Kevin off,” Wymack said. “I haven’t found a way to get his contract.”

“Keep trying.” Wymack wanted to ask why this was catching Andrew’s attention, but he refrained. If Andrew was interested in getting Nathaniel out of the Nest, Wymack knew his chances just got a whole lot brighter, but he couldn’t ignore the fear that laced his body at the thought.

Andrew rarely wanted anything… and just the wanting was enough to split the kid open if it didn’t follow through. Wymack knew that, and he wanted to go his whole life without seeing it. He didn’t know the details of what Andrew went through—the foster system and juvie were enough to fuck anyone over on their own—but Wymack figured there was a reason behind Andrew’s perfectly sculpted apathy. It was too much of an art form to be biological.

Andrew’s words from a minute ago came back into Wymack’s mind.

Keep trying.

“I never stopped,” Wymack responded.

“You don’t think there’s a way to get him out,” Andrew said. It didn’t sound like a question; more like confirming a suspicion he already accepted.

“Not one I can see,” he said. “I’ll keep looking.”

Silence enveloped the space around them, filling in the cracks and seeping into the crevices of their conversation.

Since the day he saw Nathaniel stumble into Abby’s living room with a broken, bleeding Kevin, Wymack has been searching for a way to get him out. It was true, what the press said about him. Wymack found the dysfunctional, shattered kids and offered them another chance. There weren’t many people he’d admit it to, but Wymack had lost multiple nights’ sleep over Nathaniel’s situation. He couldn’t get to him, and Wymack hated it.

Through Kevin, Wymack witnessed a fraction of how fucked up the Ravens truly were. Kevin stayed with Wymack for his first few months after getting to Palmetto. Wymack saw traces of their sick methods in every aspect of Kevin’s life: from the food he ate to the inhumane way he viewed himself to the alcoholism. The first time Wymack heard Kevin casually state that he knew Kayleigh wouldn’t want him as her son if she were still alive, Wymack saw red.

“Kevin,” Wymack called, shoving the front door closed behind him and tossing his keys towards the basket. Somehow, the keys managed to rebound off the wall and land on the floor. Fuck me, Wymack thought, throwing his head back to cruse whatever bastard decided today was the day to test his limits. ‘That day’ started when Wymack began coaching the Foxes and still hasn't ended to this day, but that was a technicality.

“Living ro…” Kevin started, his voice trailing off as if he got distracted in the span of three syllables. “Fucking hell. Did you see Knox’s pass in his last game?” Wymack shrugged off his jacket.

“Third quarter, right?” he asked.

“Yes. If he tilted his racket down about thirty degrees, that move would’ve made history. It’s still unbelievably impressive, though the Hurricane's defensive skills are purposefully mediocre at best and naturally pathetic at worst.” The fact that they were yelling across the apartment instead of waiting ten seconds for Wymack to walk to the living room clearly never crossed Kevin’s mind. “I want to try it. Did you know Knox doesn’t use a heavy?”

“I knew he did last year,” Wymack said, making his way into the kitchen. He pulled a beer out of the fridge and used the counter to pop the cap off before yelling back at Kevin. Apparently, the yelling didn’t bother Wymack enough to not partake. “I thought he would’ve upgraded by now.”

“He should. If he had, he wouldn’t even need to angle that pass. I might call him.”

“Maybe he tried and didn’t like it. He’s fast, isn’t he?” Wymack grabbed a bottle of water for Kevin.

It didn’t take a genius to see that Kevin was a borderline alcoholic, and while Wymack didn’t think now was the right time to get him off of it, he avoided encouraging it when possible. Kevin still couldn’t play because of his hand. If Wymack had tried to address his own alcohol abuse issues without the option of exercising to an unhealthy extent, it would’ve been pointless.

“Not fast enough to excuse a lightweight racket,” Kevin said, not bothering to look up from the computer screen he was studying when Wymack walked in.

“You might want a lightweight when you start training your right hand,” Wymack said. Kevin was nodding before he even finished speaking.

“Yes. I don’t know how long it’ll take to master lightweight with my right. But once I do…” Kevin trailed off again when a ref called a foul on the screen. Wymack resisted a sigh. He was unsuccessful, but he doubted Kevin cared.

“Have you eaten yet?” Wymack asked.

“Yeah,” Kevin said, eyes still trained on the screen. Wymack looked around the coffee table the computer was on and didn’t see any empty plates or napkins. Kevin doesn’t typically leave dishes lying around, but it’d clearly been a while if he already had time to clean everything.

“Recently?”

“I’ll have a natural sugar before my run and protein after,” Kevin responded, squinting at the screen.

“Have a granola bar too,” Wymack said, taking a swig of his beer. If he was less tired, he might’ve admired Kevin’s ability to have an entire conversation while studying an exy match. In all likelihood, however, Kevin had seen it enough to know the exact minute of each important play.

“Why?” Kevin said.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Kevin shrugged.

“I don’t know. I have it planned out,” he said. It was easy to talk to Kevin about his eating habits because he didn’t see anything wrong with them.

Wymack knew how important it was for athletes to track their carb and protein intake. He wasn’t arguing that. He was protesting the fact that Kevin didn’t know when he was hungry or what foods he liked. Wymack knew how much professional athletes were supposed to eat, and Kevin wasn’t anywhere near that. His protein counts were perfect, his carb intake was perfect. His overall food consumption? Far, far off.

“Kevin,” Wymack said, waiting for Kevin to flick his eyes up to him. “Are you hungry?”

Kevin shrugged, and he paused the computer in front of him before standing up. Wymack’s eyebrows drew together in confusion when Kevin just stood in place for about twenty seconds, his eyes traced around the room and his fingers moved back and forth. He nodded a second later and sat back down.

“I’m fine,” he said. Wymack stopped him before he could resume the game.

“What the fuck was that?” Wymack asked. It took a lot of effort to keep the anger from seeping into his voice, because he had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer.

“You asked if I needed food,” Kevin said. Wymack didn’t point out that he asked if Kevin was hungry, not if he needed food. Wymack just stared at him, waiting for an explanation. “What?”

“And?” Wymack urged.
“‘And’ what?”

“Why’d you stand up like that?” Wymack interrupted when Kevin opened his mouth, assuming he was going to give him the same answer. “What was the point of standing up?”

“Oh. I was checking if I was dizzy,” he said. “It’s a good indicator.” Wymack froze.

He stood up to see if he was dizzy. Is that what they fucking did in the Nest?

“No,” Kevin said. Wymack hadn’t realized he said that outloud. “Not everyone. It’s just what Riko and the Master have me do. Why take time out of training when you don’t need to?” There were too many thoughts speeding through Wymack’s head.

Hearing Kevin call Tetsuji ‘the Master’ had taken a few fucking weeks to get adjusted to, and even then, it still had Wymack questioning if he had the funds to replace more drywall in his apartment.

It took Wymack enough time to sort through what to say that wouldn’t drive Kevin into a panic attack or send Wymack to jail. Kevin started the game again.

“Kevin,” Wymack said, taking a breath, “we don’t do that here. At all. Have you talked to Betsy about this?”

“Why would I?” he asked, pressing the rewind button on the computer.

“Because it’s fucked up that they made you do that. Did the other athletes also do it?” Wymack asked.

“No.” Kevin’s eyes stayed glued on the screen.

“Then why did you?” Wymack knew the question was too simple for the situation, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around everything Kevin was saying.

“They told me to. Do you really think I had an option?” Kevin asked.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Wymack said, running a hand over his face. It was hard to look at Kevin—an unbelievable athlete with an insane amount of dedication and an obnoxious, loving addiction to training—and not wonder how he made it out alive.

Kevin clearly understood that normal teams didn’t function like the Ravens’ did, but he didn’t understand that there were other lifestyles outside of what the cult bred him into. There were other ways to live, and Wymack wanted to show him. He wanted Kevin to see that there were ways of living that didn’t involve the amount of pain he’d always endured.

Wymack knew, the second he saw Nathaniel drop a passed-out Kevin on his couch, that there was no hope for him. There was no question, no hesitation. Wymack would take Kevin in and do everything in his power to give him a chance at life he never got. And through it all, Wymack saw Kayleigh in him, and it broke his heart.

I’m sorry, kid. That didn’t even start to cover it.

Sighing, Wymack came back to the present and turned towards his office. Kevin could go through video review for hours—Wymack had witnessed it first hand—so he decided to leave him to it and get some of his own work done when Kevin spoke up again.

“It’s fine,” he said, responding to Wymack’s ‘I’m sorry.’ Wymack resisted the urge to sigh again and opened the door to his office. “Riko and Tetsuji were like my brother and father. Of course I listened to them. I knew Kayleigh wouldn’t want me anyways, if she were alive. Who was I to question the only family I had left?”

Wymack’s world came to a screeching, bloody halt.

All thoughts fled his head as if they knew the impending storm that was going to tear through his mind. He could feel the carnage, practically taste it. One sentence repeated in his head, over and over like a jack-in-the-box from Hell.

I know Kayleigh wouldn’t want me anyways.

I know Kayleigh wouldn’t want me anyways.

What’s worse is that Wymack heard traces of Kayleigh’s voice—the warm lilt, faintest whisper of an Irish accent—in Kevin’s as the phrase repeated and repeated and repeated.

I know Kayleigh wouldn’t want me anyways.

Kayleigh.

Kayleigh.

Wymack turned around, almost comically slow. He expected Kevin to be looking at him, or at least staring off into the distance.

Kevin was watching the game. His shoulders weren’t tense and his chest was rising and falling in a natural, calm rhythm. There wasn’t anything in his demeanor that made Wymack think it was the first time this idea had crossed Kevin’s mind. He said it off-handedly with practiced ease. Wymack wondered how many times Kevin had said that for it to be so casual. How many times had he heard it? How long had this idea been in Kevin’s head?

And for the fucking life of him, Wymack couldn’t picture Kevin coming up with this idea on his own. Wymack knew Kayleigh well. She was loving, and Kevin was her world. This couldn’t have developed while she was alive, nor from anything Kayleigh left behind after she died. That left one fucked up option.

“Who fucking told you that?” Wymack asked. His voice came out in an unapologetic growl that had Kevin looking up from the game. Wymack hadn’t realized he moved closer to Kevin until he saw his whole body go rigid. “Answer the goddamn question, Kevin.”

“Christ, Coach. What’s the problem?” Kevin snapped back, but not in an aggressive way. “What did I do?”

Kevin’s eyes were wide. He didn’t look scared, just on alert. It took Wymack a second to realize Kevin didn’t know why he was getting yelled at, which was why he was willing to push back. The thought did nothing to calm Wymack. He nearly felt ten years’ worth of anger management leave his body in one fell swoop.

“Who the fuck told you that Kayleigh wouldn’t want you?” he asked, barely getting the words out.

“Riko, the Master. Does it matter?” Wymack ignored the question.

“When was the first time you heard it?” Kevin shook his head, and Wymack’s hands balled into fists. Fuck the cost of repairing drywall.

“I don’t know.” Annoyance colored Kevin’s gaze because he didn’t understand why Wymack was angry, and he was probably pissed that Wymack’s meltdown was interrupting his video review.

“Think a little harder, Kevin. When did you hear it last?”

“Riko says it all the time,” Kevin started, looking genuinely confused, “What the fuck is your deal?”

Wymack lost the battle with his control, taking a hard swing at the wall. His fist went through without much resistance.

“Coach,” Kevin yelled.

Wymack aimed again.

“Wymack.” Kevin came into his line of sight, holding his hands up as if taming a wild animal. “I understand, okay? I get it. It’s not a problem.”

“Kevin,” Wymack said on a exhale. “Kayleigh loved you, Kevin.”

“That’s why you’re mad?” Kevin asked. Wymack watched an unknown expression melt Kevin’s features—some mix of realization and… apprehension? For what, Wymack didn’t know, but when Kevin met his gaze again, there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Kayleigh loved you, Kevin,” Wymack said. He could feel the anger dissipating. “They lied to you. Riko had no fucking right to say that, and neither did Tetsuji. I– I knew you mother for some time.” Wymack’s world was crumbling into pieces. He didn’t think Kevin knew he and Kayleigh dated for a while, and this really wasn’t the time to tell him.

Kevin looked like he was going to be sick.

“I’ve known for years, Coach. No need to defend it,” he said. “I know Mom loved me. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it.” It was supposed to be a question, but Wymack didn’t succeed.

“She’d be disappointed in me now. Tetsuji and my mom were really close. He said she’d disown me if she were alive. He knew her best, so why would I question it?”

“Because he’s a manipulative asshole who abused you,” Wymack said. Kevin’s face didn’t change. It was like he knew all the facts—knew the truth in his mind—and had accepted them long, long ago.

“It doesn’t mean he was wrong,” Kevin said. “You didn’t know me in the Nest. I deserved it.”

“You never did anything to deserve that.”

“Exactly,” Kevin said. “I didn’t do enough. That’s why they did it.”

Wymack’s heart split down the middle, and he swore he could hear the blood leaking out.

Kevin didn’t speak in a self-deprecating way—that isn’t him. Kevin will blandly state his faults, real or fabricated, and accept them if they’re something he can’t change or train and train and train.

This was Kevin speaking a truth he accepted. He couldn’t change it, could he? Kayleigh was dead.

If there was an award for being a manipulative genius, Tetsuji would take the gold. It was too perfect of a lie with no way for Kevin to escape it.

Wymack stepped forward and Kevin moved back a bit. Not out of fear, just caution.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Would you just hold still?” Wymack asked. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Kevin’s shoulders. Kevin, being 6’2”, was only an inch taller than Wymack. “Kayleigh loved you.”

After a long, tense few moments, Kevin relaxed and even dropped his head on Wymack’s shoulders. Wymack just held him tighter when he felt a few shuddering breaths wrack through Kevin’s body.

“Don’t let me go back,” he whispered.

“Never,” Wymack said. I’m never letting you go, Wymack thought. After another few seconds or so, Kevin spoke up.

“Can I go back to watching the game?” he asked. Wymack snorted a laugh and playfully shoved away from him.

“Christ, kid. You never stop, do you?” Wymack asked.

“Not if I can help it.” Kevin’s eyes were already on the screen. Wymack sighed, grabbing a granola bar off his desk.

“Heads up,” he called, tossing it to him. Kevin’s eyes never left the screen, and he caught it cleanly.

“Would you keep Aaron’s and Nicky’s contracts if I weren’t here?” Andrew asked, bringing Wymack back to the present in all its painful, raw glory.

His head snapped up, not sure if he heard him correctly, and his gaze collided with Andrew’s. The kid was looking right at him, though Wymack shouldn’t be surprised, because everything Andrew did was calculated. The question couldn’t have been a joke. Andrew knew what he asked and he wasn’t backing down from the answer.

“Why wouldn’t you be here?” Wymack asked, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. Andrew’s question and the way he was looking at the ground earlier had Wymack’s mind running with possibilities he never wanted to consider. The images flashing through his mind were enough to screw him up for this lifetime and the next.

“Would you?” Wymack flinched back. Andrew wasn’t one to repeat himself.

“It doesn’t matter, because you’re not going anywhere, Andrew. Right?” Wymack pulled in a breath, trying to calm himself down enough to finish the conversation before he did something that would finally ruin his security deposit for good. “Why are you fucking asking me that? I need you here, Andrew.”

Wymack didn’t think Andrew could begin to understand how true that last statement was.

“Do I need to put you on suicide watch?” Wymack asked. Andrew shook his head, the gesture far too casual. “Then what?”

“You said we can’t get him out,” Andrew said. He looked at Wymack, almost waiting for him to put the pieces together.

Wymack swore he knew the full picture, but he didn’t want to see it. He knew that once Andrew set his mind to something, there was no going back.

“No, Andrew,” Wymack said.

“We can’t get him out,” Andrew repeated. “What if I go in?”

Most of his team was sprawled out across the couches, a few at the tables, and an unsurprisingly large number were face-first on the floor. They were athletes. And with the harsh transition from eight-hour to twenty-hour weeks with the start of Spring semester… Jeremy had found himself on the floor more often than not. They call it twenty-hour weeks, per Class 1 regulations, but that really meant twenty hours of coach-supervised training a week. The team had ‘on your own’ workouts to complete as well, so it was more like four or five hours a day of physical conditioning, not including the additional hours he dedicated to the team as the captain.

But shhh, Class 1 doesn’t need to know that. Plus, Jeremy didn’t know of a team in the top ten of the class that didn’t do the same thing.

He was exhausted—but God, did he love his team.

There was a slight pain in the side of his head, and he looked over. Laila had an arm slung around Alvarez’s shoulders and an arm stretched precariously close to Jeremy’s head, ready to flick him again. Alvarez was hunched over some work, diligently ignoring her girlfriend using her as a support.

“Feel better?” Jeremy asked, rolling his eyes. Laila smiled triumphantly.

“I do, thanks,” she said. “Are you lost in your head?”

“I like being at school,” he responded, shaking his head. Laila’s eyes flashed with concern. It wasn’t that he hated being home… he loved it, really, but there were too many memories and associations for him to break them all. And it wasn’t the ‘home’ itself or his parents that were the issues. It was all amazing, truly. The problem was Jeremy’s head, and the fact that it hadn’t been his home. Apart from when he was playing exy or being with the Trojans, it always took time for him to come back to himself after winter session.

She pushed off Alvarez a minute later, whose head came dangerously close to hitting the desk.

“Okay, fuck you,” Alvarez said. Laila leaned in and gave her a kiss on the temple without hesitation. Jeremy looked back at his team as Alvarez grumbled something like, you’re so fucking affectionate, you goddamn teddy bear. Laila threw back an ‘I love you, too.’

They had a special love language, that was for sure.

“Knox, you bastard,” someone said. Jeremy smiled and looked over right as Ashton threw himself on him for a bear hug.

“Oof, how it’s going man–” Jeremy’s world started to tilt as the chair toppled over backwards. Ash caught him before his head hit the ground, but then stumbled. They both landed on the floor with a thud. If Jeremy hadn’t been getting thrown into the plexiglass by his backliners, repeatedly, for the past week, it probably would’ve hurt.

“Ash,” someone—Madeline?—called. “You’re as graceful as a bull in a china shop.” Her voice was hard but there was a hint of humor (definitely Madeline). Jeremy shoved Ash off of him, laughing as his teammate pushed up to his elbows to glare at Madeline.

“Real original,” he said, winking. Jeremy knocked one of his elbows out, and Ash landed hard on his back and groaned.

“That’s what you get for tackling me,” Jeremy said.

“You’re a striker. It’s not my fault your reflexes are shit,” Ashton replied, cracking an eye open to look at Jeremy.

“You really wanna go?”

“Not really,” he said. Jeremy snorted.
“When you two feel comfortable parting with the floor, I’d like to say a few words.” Jeremy shot up, a smile splitting across his face as he locked eyes with his Coach. Jeremy took the first, unlabored breath since winter session started. “Good to see you haven’t changed, Knox.”

The team laughed.

It sounded like an insult, but Rhemann knew him too well. It meant so much more. If they weren’t in a room full of people, Jeremy would’ve tackled his coach similar to what his fellow striker did a few minutes ago. Rhemann gave him a nod that said he understood.

Jeremy stood and pulled Ash up with him. Ash plopped down on the couch right between Madeline and Cody, ignoring the couple’s protests. Coach Rhemann waited for the room to quiet down.

“I’m really proud of the work we’ve done these past two weeks of intensive training,” Rhemann started. “This round of testing just gave us another data point to add to our growing list. We have a strong foundation heading into this Spring. Physically, mentally—we are prepared. We’ve had a very professional training camp, with no drama, and continued competitive, dedicated work.

Remember: this is just a moment in time. This is one data point that we will use, and then continue pushing forward. Our sights are on the first match, right here, in nine weeks. The playing was really tight today. For our testing, we had a delta less than a second among the strikers, and one or two seconds for our defense and dealers. This is the closest our team has ever been, and the fastest we have ever been.

We will keep pushing forward. I’m looking forward to a great season. Let’s make it a championship one.”

Jeremy took a moment to look around the room. There were nods of affirmation, and a few hyped up shouts. A small number of his teammates held a quiet dedication in their eyes that vaguely reminded him of Kevin Day. This team… Jeremy didn’t know what he did to deserve it.

You earned it, a voice that closely resembled his therapist rang out in his head. Pfft.

“Knox?” Coach asked, prompting. Jeremy pulled back out of his mind.

“We all came out of the gate racing at the start of training camp,” Jeremy started. “I am proud of our competitiveness and our supportive environment. We push ourselves, we compete with each other for starting line-ups, but at the end of the day, we bring our teammates up.

As Trojans, we find our limits and push beyond them, with each and every player. We pick each other up. Let’s head into this season with that mindset.”

Jeremy would lay his life down for this team.

“Hands in,” Rhemann said. “Travis, call it.” The room was silent for a split second, and Jeremy felt his team slot into place.

“Trojans on three. One, two, three.”

“Trojans!” The team split, grabbing their bags and making their way out of the room. Laila winked at Jeremy on her way out, dragging a grumbling Alvarez behind her.

“I need a fucking nap,” Alvarez said.

“I know, babe.” Jeremy gave them a salute before turning to Rhemann.

His coach opened his arms, and Jeremy didn’t think twice before crushing him in a hug.

“Welcome back, Knox,” he said. “Missed you, kid.” Rhemann patted the back of Jeremy’s neck twice before they broke apart.

Coach looked him up and down, with the subtlety of an anvil falling on someone’s head. His eyes snagged on his neck.

Fuck.

Jeremy froze, some ugly mix of fear and anger dousing his body. He looked down.

Rhemann sighed.

“How was break, Knox? Dylan good?” Jeremy looked up at that, and a tentative, unconscious smile drew across his face. He avoided Rhemann’s eyes as he pulled up a chair and rolled one over to Jeremy. He waited until Coach sat and leaned back to straddle the chair in front of him. “Knox.”

Jeremy looked up again.

“Look at me.”

Oh. He looked up. Rhemann gestured for him to continue, and Jeremy knew he was genuinely interested.

“Break was good,” he started, a little hesitant. Rhemann’s patient eyes brought him back to himself—like always. “Dylan’s eleven, and has some good friends at school.”

“He’s still playing exy?” Rhemann asked. Jeremy raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not allowed to recruit in 7th grade, Coach.” Rhemann waved him off.

“If there’s another Knox out there, I want ‘em.”

“He’s a Navarro,” Jeremy said.

“Right, sorry.”

“Anyways, yes, he is still playing exy. Settled into a goalie position.” Rhemann nodded like he was already making line-ups, and Jeremy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “He’s a quiet kid, now. I think the lack of chaos with his mom and dad is rubbing off on him. He’s very different from me. Dylan honestly reminds me of the Fox’s goalie.” The thought made Jeremy smile. It looked like Rhemann wanted to say something, but he decided against it.

“What grad year is he…” Jeremy chuckled. “How are the parents?”

“Maureen’s good. We went on a few hikes and runs together. Calabasas is gorgeous—I still haven’t gotten over it. Anyways, she’s in the middle of marathon training, so I kept my runs to a half marathon. Daniel and I decided to hunt down all the old libraries and churches throughout Calabasas, Woodland Hills, and Los Angeles.”

“Good. And Dylan still loves them?” Jeremy nodded.

“They’re a family, through and through. I’m glad he got them at a young age.”

“He always had you,” Rhemann mumbled. Jeremy nodded. He didn’t want to open that conversation up again. “Did you… did you see Wendy?” Jeremy shrugged. “When?”

“Uh. The Tuesday before training camp,” he said, eyes dropping to Rhemann’s shoulder to avoid his face.

“Tuesday before? Almost two weeks ago?” Jeremy nodded. Coach stayed silent, though Jeremy knew it was in an attempt to control the tension radiating off his body. Rhemann was fiercely protective, and Jeremy knew that. Despite Jeremy’s intention to stay relatively distant freshman year (he’s been told to separate school and his home life for years), Coach never relented. It wasn’t until after the winter session his freshman year—in a situation oddly similar to the one they were having now—where Coach put his foot down.

Looking back, that was one of the best days of Jeremy’s life. Not in the moment, but his relationship with Rhemann completely changed once Jeremy stopped fighting it. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“Did you stay overnight?” Rhemann asked.

“I was going to,” he responded. Rhemann snapped his fingers and Jeremy brought his eyes back up. He met a gruff expression, but it wasn’t unkind. “It was fine during the day, but then… shit happened.”

Rhemann gestured to his neck, and Jeremy raked a hand through his hair. He used to be embarrassed around Coach with this. It was pathetic, in Jeremy’s opinion. But Jeremy wasn’t one to resort to violence, even when someone inflicted violence on him—especially when inflicted on him. At the wrong moment and the wrong time, however, Jeremy sometimes lashed back, and he hated it.

Rhemann sighed, rubbing both hands over his face.

“Two weeks, Knox? Really?” It was a nasty bruise, even now, and Jeremy knew that. “What happened?” Jeremy shrugged.

“Mom and I were fine.” Rhemann passed him a harsh look. “Really! I swear. It was going well. Then her new idiot boyfriend came over and he said some words to my mom and I said some back. He came at me and I snapped and we fought. Then mom pulled him back and… took matters into her own hands.”

“And you didn’t fight back,” Coach finished for him. Jeremy clenched his teeth and shook his head. “Did she hit you anywhere else?”

“Yes.”

“Wendy did all that?”

“Her boyfriend contributed.” Rhemann was quiet for a few minutes, and Jeremy tried to block out his pained expression.

“Can I see?” Rhemann asked. “Or you can see the team nurse.”

“You. Tomorrow?” Jeremy asked. Rhemann nodded. Jeremy wanted to avoid the team nurse at all costs. It would bring in so much baggage that he really didn’t want to deal with. It was against regulation, but Rhemann kept it between them. While he wanted to ensure Jeremy was okay, he wouldn’t put it in his file as something that needed to be ‘cleared’ because of domestic abuse.

“Where did you spend the night? Huron isn’t close to Calabasas.”

“My car.” Jeremy was stuck between the need to look away and the urge to stare Rhemann down. He ended up doing some mix of the two—his face flushing red as he looked at his coach.

“Fucking Hell, Jeremy,” Rhemann snapped. “When are you going to stop going back?” Jeremy’s world seemed to rewind, pulling up memories that were old but throwing him back into feelings that never changed.

“Hey, Jere-bear,” his mom said, leaning on the railing outside her double-wide. Jeremy locked his car, breathing through instincts that made him simultaneously want to smile and flinch.

“Hey, Ma,” he said, going in for a hug. “Missed you.” She hummed in response.

“How’s school, kiddo? Everything good?” His Ma opened the screen-door and they went inside. This house hadn’t been the one Jeremy grew up in, but it was damn similar. Jeremy flopped onto the couch, resorting to an overly-casual demeanor when he felt the farthest thing from it.

“Yeah, it’s fine. exy is going well and the team is great,” he responded. She nodded, listening as she opened the fridge to grab a beer. The fridge door bounced back open after she tried to close it. Jeremy watched her push it closed twice before kicking it hard enough to leave a mark. He felt eight all over again.

“And, Dylan?” she asked. Jeremy shot her a glare that she didn’t see; his mom was too busy popping the cap off the bottle with the laminate kitchen-counter.

“I don’t want to talk about him.” That got his mom to look up.

“Well, I do. Is something wrong?” She paused. “I’m his mother, Jeremy. I’d like to know.” Jeremy took a breath and sorted through the words in his mind, searching for ones that wouldn’t ruin the relatively pleasant moment they were having.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Then what’s the problem?” She took a sip.

“I will not talk about him with you,” Jeremy said. He’d talked to Dylan, at one point, about their mother. Dylan had been too young to have suffered so much—his mind blocked out most of it. Despite the fact that Jeremy wouldn’t let them anywhere near each other until he knew his mother was capable of a non-abusive relationship with him, Dylan didn’t seem very interested. Neither were Maureen and Daniel, for that matter.

“That’s rude, Jer. I deserve to know,” she said.

“Leave it alone, Ma, please,” he said. She shook her head, scoffing. They had this conversation every time.

“If you’re not willing to try, Jer, then what’s the point?”

“I am. Just take it one step at a time. Dylan will still be there after you’ve had a consistent relationship with someone else.” She laughed, taking a few more sips from the near-empty beer.

“What, with you?” Jeremy stared at her, but she just shrugged.

“Is that so bizarre?” he asked, quieter than before.

“No, it’s not. I just don’t get you, Jer. You come over here, to my house, oftentimes unannounced, and you won’t even bother to talk about anything other than you.” Jeremy didn’t know why it still hurt. It shouldn’t hurt anymore. He didn’t bother to mention the calls she left unanswered.

“That’s not it, Ma. Dylan has his own life and I’d like him to live it separate from us,” he said.

“You mean you want him to stay cut-off,” she fired back. “If you’re so ashamed of me, you should just leave.”

“I never said that,” Jeremy gritted out. “Can we have five minutes, Ma?”

“Oh, please. You always lied as a kid. I’m not surprised.”

“That’s–”

“Why do you keep coming back, Jer? We don’t need you here,” Ma said, kicking the fridge door closed again. A bottle rolled off the top and shattered to the floor. Jeremy dropped his face in his hands.

“Who’s ‘we’?” he asked.

“Like you fucking care,” she said.

“Ma,” Jeremy snapped.

“Me and Clifford.” Jeremy sighed.

“Boyfriend?”

“Yes,” she said, reaching up to grab the pack of cigarettes out of the bread container.

“Is he treating you right?” he asked.

“It’s none of your goddamn business if he’s treating me right, son.”

“Knox?” Jeremy flinched.

“I’m not having this conversation,” Jeremy whispered. He ignored how empty his voice sounded to his own ears.

“Knox–”

“No.” Rhemann sighed, his eyes turning slightly glassy.

“What caused that? It doesn’t look like just a punch,” Rhemann asked, gesturing to his collarbone. Jeremy wouldn’t answer if he didn’t want to. It was hard to resist the urge to isolate and fall back into his I’m-fine-on-my-own mindset after visiting his mother. Rhemann cared—Jeremy knew he did—and it meant the world to him.

“A water bottle or something. I don’t really remember.”

“How much damage?” he asked.

“Not the worst it’s ever been,” Jeremy said.

“That’s not very encouraging, kid.”

“Yeah, well, she usually doesn’t have any help,” he sniped.

“I’m sorry,” Rhemann said. Jeremy looked up, apologetic.

“Don’t be.”

“I just don’t like to see you hurt. I love you, kid,” Coach said, voice cracking the slightest bit at the end. Jeremy looked away, and for once, Rhemann didn’t call him on it. “You know if you ever need anything, you can call me, right? I’m not mad at you, but just know I would’ve driven my ass to Huron, middle of the night be damned. You know I’m up anyways.” Jeremy let out a light laugh.

“I know,” he said.

“You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want you to… see it. See me,” Jeremy whispered. It was true. He spent many nights at his lowest alone, and even telling Rhemann about it two weeks later, it still cut like a knife. Jeremy wasn’t at a place where he could ask for help at the moment.

“Next time,” Rhemann said. He sighed, wiping a few stray tears from his face that neither he nor Jeremy acknowledged. “Now, do you need a break, or can we talk about some team stuff?”

“Oh, Coach, I’m insulted. Have you ever met me?” Jeremy asked.

“Just because you have a never-ending well of time and energy for this team doesn’t mean you can’t take a break. A discussion today will still be a discussion tomorrow.” Jeremy waved him off. He was finally breathing normally. The Trojans, exy, his team—this was what Jeremy knew how to deal with.

“What’s up?” Rhemann sat up and rested his elbows on his keeps, locking eyes with Jeremy.

“A contract for a transfer was sent over today.” Jeremy sat up at that. Rhemann looked reverent, if not… scared? The Trojans were always open to the possibility of new players; Jeremy didn’t know why Coach seemed.

“Who is it?” he asked. “What team? What’s the problem?”

“He’s a great player. One of the best in the game, really, and definitely the best in his position,” Rhemann said. “I was told he’s injured, but ‘playable.’ I didn’t get many details, but he defected from the team due to a severe incident under the pretense that their ‘team environment is not suitable for his rehabilitation.’” Jeremy had no idea where this was going, but he was interested. “They didn’t tell me what the incident was or why he defected, but I’d bet my shit on mental health being at play too. I have a written guarantee, however, that he will recover to the quality player he was before. And, they predict that him being with us will allow him to become even better. If not, they said it will be ‘handled.’”

Rhemann used air-quotes, leaving Jeremy to assume he didn’t understand the situation any better than his coach did. They’ve had transfers before, yet they usually didn’t come with a written ‘warranty,’ which was weird for many reasons—one being the fact that warranties didn’t typically apply to… people.

With most transfers, also, they typically heard from the player before they got the official contract. The way Rhemann was describing it made it sound like they haven’t even talked to the player.

“He’s also from a team with an entirely different approach to exy than we do, especially when it comes to bending the rules. The transfer contract also ‘guaranteed’ that he would adapt and perform in the best interest of the team.”

This was all very interesting, but Jeremy really only had one question.

“Who?” he asked. Rhemann took a breath, his demeanor changing from scared and uncertain to almost intimidating.

“Jean Moreau.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened for a split second before a faint smile pulled across his face.

—

Nathaniel tried not to scoff as Katsu played Mario Kart on the big screen in Ichirou’s bedroom and pressed the phone up to his ear. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d called someone, let alone with permission. Nathaniel ignored that and listened to the phone ring and ring.

And ring.

He didn’t have a clue as to what time it was on the west coast—hell, he didn’t even know what time it was outside the Nest—but if Knox didn’t answer his phone, Nathaniel would call again. Leaving a voicemail was out of the question, and he couldn’t care less if Jeremy was asleep or in class or playing exy or visiting family or at fucking church. He was going to answer his phone.

Luckily, three calls later, Knox answered the phone.

“Knox,” Nathaniel said.

“Who is this?” Jeremy asked, words fumbling out over a yawn. Part of Nathaniel wanted to be glad that he made him wake up.

“Nathaniel Wesninski.” He contemplated adding a ‘sir’ or ‘captain’ to the end of that, but Nathaniel figured that level of… superiority only came within the Nest.

And Jeremy Knox better pray to whatever God he believes in that his team isn’t like that in the slightest.

“Ah, Nathaniel. Nice to hear from you,” Knox said. There was a small hesitation over the phone, and Nathaniel chose to stay quiet. This was a losing battle for Knox. “You’re calling about Jean, I’d imagine?”

“Are you going to take him?” he asked. There wasn’t much of a choice, but Jeremy didn’t know that. Also, in the few interactions Nathaniel had with the USC captain, he doubted he’d let this opportunity slip by.

“There’s been no formal decision. I’m not really at liberty to say,” Knox responded. “I’m sure Moreau will tell you when he receives a response.” The comment stung, but with the Rainbow Road theme song in the background, the feeling disappeared quickly.

Nathaniel was apparently quiet long enough for Knox to start talking again.

“He’s a phenomenal player, as you know. We’d be privileged to have him on the team. I’m not legally allowed to disclose our decision until it’s in writing.” There was a slight pause and Jeremy’s voice sounded a tad less ‘captain’ when he started speaking again. “I’m sure you’ll be one of the first he tells.”

Nathaniel knew the comment came from a kind place. He didn’t care much, but he was sure many fans and players alike thought Jean and him were in some sort of a relationship. They weren’t necessarily wrong; it just wasn’t romantic.

“Can–” Nathaniel stopped himself. “I’m not here to talk player-to-player. I want to know because I care about him and I care where he is going.” He assumed, before he started the call, that he’d have to let some things slip to get a genuine response out of Jeremy. Luckily, those words didn’t hurt much.

“Okay,” Jeremy said, much softer than before, but his voice still carried a hard edge. “I still can’t tell you if the team will acce–”

“I’m not asking if the team will take him. I’m asking if you will,” Nathaniel said.

“Why?” he asked. “I think you and I, Nathaniel, have talked once in our entire collegiate career. If we do take Moreau, it will be a private team decision, and it’ll be up to him to decide if we can talk about him without him present.”

Nathaniel wanted to smile—genuine and full of relief. He had a feeling Jeremy was the right choice for Jean, but that one sentence sealed it.

That wasn’t going to stop Nathaniel from prying, obviously.

“Fine. I need you to listen, Jeremy, because I need to know if you will be there for him.”

“I– um. I take care of everyone on my team. What are you asking me?”

“He doesn’t need taking care of. Hell, the last person in the world who needs protection is that French bastard.” Nathaniel thought he heard Jeremy choke on something over the line. “I need someone to be there for him because I can’t.”

“Wait– he’s not with you?” Nathaniel sighed, wondering how to spin the truth that would have Jeremy understand without him hating the Ravens. Maybe, at some point, Jeremy would know the truth without coming after the team.

“I forced him out of the Nest,” Nathaniel said. “I had a very good reason, Knox. Something very… bad would’ve happened if he stayed.”

“What– excuse me?” Jeremy asked. He sounded much more awake.

“Jean didn’t want to leave. I need some blind trust, Jeremy, for you to believe me when I say his life was on the line. The Ravens are a fucking dedicated team—bordering on a cult. Jean, being a stubborn arsehole, will try to come back.” Nathaniel didn’t think he was explaining this very well, but there weren’t many details he could hand out. “I can guarantee that if he comes back, he won’t make it back out.”

“What is happening over there, Nathaniel?” he asked. Knox sounded less scared and more angry. Nathaniel didn’t know what he was expecting from Mr. Sunshine Captain (because if anyone knew how well pain could be hidden, it was him), but anger wasn’t his first guess.

“I can’t tell you. There’s nothing you could ever take to the NCAA or court. Please, Knox,” Nathaniel said. There was a long pause over the line where Nathaniel listened to Jeremy’s breathing. It seemed ragged, with intentional inhales and exhales, but not desperate.

From a young age, Nathaniel learned how to read people. Their breathing was always particularly telling.

Jeremy wasn’t trying to control panic over the line—no. He was controlling his anger.

“What do you need from me?” he asked. Maybe… just maybe, Nathaniel could tell why Jean had a crush on Jeremy. Not by looks, but because of this.

“He can’t come back here. He needs to be with you and alive. And, to do both those things, he can’t know that I was the reason he left. Don’t let him call this number,” Nathaniel said.

“I won’t control him.”

“I don’t want you to. For the first few weeks, just… try to keep me as far from his mind as possible. It needs to be impossible for him to get back here.” Nathaniel heard a small ‘oh’ across the phone.

“You’re the reason he’ll go back,” Jeremy said. Nathaniel didn’t answer, but the silence was enough.

“I’m trusting that your team lives up to its sportsmanship bullshit because that’s why I sent him to you.”

“We do. It’s not bull–”

“I know,” Nathaniel said, a little too quick to be believable.

“They’re my team, Wesninski. They’re my life. Don’t question my word on how I treat them.”

“Knox,” Nathaniel started, bracing himself, “I can’t explain to you what he means to me. I can, however, give you a detailed explanation of how I will tear that team of yours apart, limb by fucking limb, if he gets hurt. I don’t care if he’s hurt on the court, but if he gets hurt by the team, I can and will wipe the Trojans from Class 1. I know how to flay you like a fish, Knox, and I won’t hesitate to pull the skin from your body if you damage him after the Hell he’s been through.”

Nathaniel wondered if Jeremy was going to hang up right then and there. He didn’t know what was going through the captain’s mind, nor did he care too much.

“I– I would never hurt someone,” Jeremy said, quietly. “I wouldn’t– I can’t do that.”

“Good.”

“But you don’t get to threaten or accuse my team again. Back down, Wesninski. You can do it to me, fine, but they are off-limits.”

“I won’t if you don’t give me a reason to.” The ragged breathing was back. “Jean can handle himself, but he’s never been out of the Nest. I just needed to know that you’d be there.”

“What’s the Nest?” he asked.

“It’s what we call the court and where we train.” Jeremy hummed and was silent for a few moments.

“Wesninski,” Jeremy said. “Would you like to transfer, too?”

Nathaniel’s mind went blank. He– what?

“No,” Nathaniel said. That was usually a good answer to most questions.

“If you’re unsafe, Nathaniel, we can get you out of there.” Nathaniel let out a bitter laugh. Jeremy had a level of kindness that Nathaniel couldn’t understand.

“You can’t get me out.”

“It’s unsafe.”

“It is,” Nathaniel agreed. “I had the option. I chose Jean.” Jeremy didn’t respond to that. “I appreciate it, I guess. I wouldn’t fit in with your team, though.”

“Well… you could adapt,” Knox said. It was lighthearted, and Nathaniel was thankful for that.

“I’m an arsehole. Ask Jean. I’m sure he’ll tell you I was a pain in his arse.”

“You two seem great,” he said, almost fondly. “It’s almost 3am here… is that all?”

“Sure,” Nathaniel said. “Thank you, Knox.” Nathaniel always bent his rules when it came to Jean.

“Take care, Wesninski. Remember that my offer always stands,” he said.

“I look forward to crushing you and Moreau in the Spring.”

“Hah. We’ll see how the cards play out. I’m sure it’ll be a good fight,” Knox said. It was going to take Jean awhile to get used to that flavor of shit-talking. Nathaniel remembered something, right before Knox hung up.

“Oh, Knox?”

“What’s up?”

“Jean and I aren’t dating, by the way. Just for future reference,” he said. Nathaniel had to set his partner up for success. He hung up before Jeremy could respond.

Nathaniel stared at the phone. He sometimes forgot how mean he could be—and how cruel he wanted to be. Everything with Jeremy seemed to be unfolding as well as it could be.

But Nathaniel… he felt violent.

He wanted to be violent.

He wanted hurt. Whether towards him or someone else, he wasn’t sure. Worst of all, Nathaniel didn’t think he cared which answer it was.

If everything truly went according to plan, the next time he’d talk to Jean would be during a game. He wanted it that way, right? That had been the whole point, hadn’t it? Right. Yes.

He glanced up when Katsu released an impressive string of profanity. On the TV, a weird, green dinosaur driving a red car fell off the side of a dirt road that circled some sort of dotted egg.

“What is that?” he asked Katsu, who looked over his shoulder. His eyes traced across Nathaniel’s face before his own lips pressed into a thin line.

“You look like shit,” Katsu said.

“Thanks. Would you like an award?” Nathaniel asked. Katsu laughed.

“It’s called Mario Kart. You pick a character and race to see who finishes three laps first. There are a few different tracks. Come play.” Katsu knocked his head to the side, inviting Nathaniel to join him on the couch.

“No thanks. I think I’m going to go back to the Nest,” he said. It had been almost two days, and Nathaniel would prefer if Riko didn’t get more pissy than he already would be. Katsu paused the game at his words despite looking reluctant to do it. Nathaniel, not for the first time, wondered if Katsu had a childhood… because it didn’t seem like it.

Who was he to judge, though?

“You sure?” he asked. “Why don’t you stay here another night? They’ll live without you. I’m sure they’ll be happy about it.” Nathaniel flipped him off.

“I miss exy,” he said.

“Really,” Katsu said.

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes. What’s your problem?” Katsu shook his head.

“You sacrifice a lot for that sport.” Nathaniel shrugged.

“It’s the only thing I have left.” Katsu nodded, then held up a finger. He went towards the dresser and opened the bottom drawer. Katsu pulled out a pack of gummy bears and tossed them at Nathaniel.

“Riko will kill me,” Nathaniel said. Katsu actually looked disgusted by the thought. Nathaniel figured it had more to do with Riko than it did his death.

“You're not his anymore. He can deal,” Katsu said.

“Good luck telling him that.”

“If he tries anything, you call me.”

“You can’t be serious,” Nathaniel whispered.

“Deadass.” What? “I’m serious. One, you’re not his. Two, Ichirou would be pissed. Three, I prefer to hang out with you when you’re conscious. You ignored my funny jokes when you were bleeding out.”

“You fucking wanker,” Nathaniel said. “I don’t have a phone.” Katsu pointed to the one in his hand.
“That’s yours,” he said. “Really. Do with it what you please.”

Nathaniel slowly nodded, and left with the phone and the gummy bears.

He left the room, making his way to the elevator as if on auto-pilot. He got in and let the doors close without pressing the ‘down’ button. Nathaniel rested his head against the cold metal of the wall, pulling in even, steady breaths. At least, that was what he told himself. He brought a hand up to the back of his neck and felt over the distinct bumps and ridges of his new burn.

His other hand was moving before he registered it, too busy trying not to hyperventilate.

Too much change. His entire reality shifted. It wasn’t that he liked his life—but it was familiar. He knew what to do with Riko’s tantrums, the Master threatening him with Nathan, the senior Ravens using him for a good fuck. It was sick, but he knew what to do. He didn’t know what to do now. Part of him wanted to believe that it was better. He wanted to think that Ichirou was a savior, rather than another person holding a leash that tightened and tightened.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

Nathaniel wasn’t a thing.

He was.

He was.

He was.

“In and out, Abram. Imagine the rebound-drill we used to do. Follow the repetition. In and out. Again and again.”

Nathaniel pictured the ball hitting the plex-glass and him catching it in his net on the rebound.

He swung.

It hit the plexi, rebounded. He caught it.

Again.

He swung.

Then someone caught it. Someone, in his mind, had blond hair, an apathetic expression, and daring eyes. Nathaniel breathed.

“In and out, Abram,” Andrew said. Nathaniel wasn’t sure how he got on the phone, but he would have collapsed in relief. A number was sent to his burner phone a day or two ago yet he hadn’t meant to use it now.

The doors opened with a ‘ding’ and Nathaniel took steady breaths as he headed into the Nest.

“Drew,” he said. They both ignored how it sounded more like a prayer than a name.

“You want to tell me what’s going on, Junkie?’’

“I’m fucking exhausted,” he said. Andrew hmm-ed over the line as Nathaniel made his way through the Red Hall, keeping his eyes down as he passed Riko’s door. It was closed, so Nathaniel didn’t know why he bothered. “Shit happened with Lord Moriyama.”

“‘Shit’ I’m assuming you can’t tell me about,” Andrew responded. Nathaniel knew he wanted to know… but he also knew that Andrew likely put his safety above his own (among other things). He wasn’t stupid. If telling him something about the Moriyamas would pose a greater risk to Nathaniel than a benefit to him, he wouldn’t pry.

“No,” he responded, walking into his room and pausing in the middle. Nathaniel didn’t know where to go. He didn’t want to sit on Jean’s bed, and the last thing he wanted to do was go near his own. “At least, not yet. How’s Jean?”

“He’s a stubborn asshole,” Andrew said.

“You’re one to talk.” Andrew didn’t respond. Nathaniel eventually heard Andrew cough a few times over the line. “Are you sick?”

“No,” he said, voice ragged in a way that stirred way too many emotions in Nathaniel’s mind. “Happy pills.” Then it was Nathaniel’s turn to try and control his breathing.

“Do you– do you want to be on them?” he asked, tentatively. The Andrew he knew four years ago would’ve hated the idea, but a lot could change.

“No,” Andrew said. “Didn’t you read? ‘Court-mandated.’” Nathaniel scoffed. He’d read the papers and thought it was still just as stupid now as it was then.

“That’s so–”

The door opened with a crash, making Nathaniel flinch so hard he almost dropped the phone.

An angry-looking Riko was seething in the doorway, one hand still pressed against the black frame. He looked a little worse-for-wear and Nathaniel was enjoying every minute of it.

Enjoy first, panic second. That was always his motto.

“What the Hell do you think you’re doing, Wesninski?” Riko asked.

“None of your goddamn business,” he spat, just because he could. Except, with Ichirou, his insults were no longer empty threats.

Riko started towards him, but Nathaniel felt no urge to move. For once in his life, his words would actually mean something.

They actually held weight.

The sadistic fuck grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back. Nathaniel looked into those eyes, so filled with rage, and felt the overwhelming urge to smile.

“I suggest you back off, Riko,” Nathaniel said, enunciating every sound in his name just to piss the bastard off. And boy did that work. Nathaniel couldn't remember the last time he hadn’t called him ‘king’ to his face.

“You’re going to have a long fucking night, Wesninski. Who are you talking to?” Riko spat on his face and Nathaniel bared his teeth.

“It doesn't matter,” he said. Riko went to grab the phone, but Nathaniel slipped it in his pocket before he could. He was glad his mother’s paranoia prevented him from assigning Andrew’s name to the number. These little acts of defiance were what made Riko flip his lid. He had all of his priorities in the wrong spots.

“Get on your knees,” Riko said, deadly quiet. Nathaniel almost laughed

“You can’t fucking touch me, Riko,” he said. Riko was a power-bent, idiotic person; he was harmless, though, compared to the real dangers in Nathaniel’s life. He wasn’t denying that Riko knew how to cause pain and make his life a living Hell—but it wasn’t true fear he associated with him.

Riko leaned in close and Nathaniel’s body locked up without his permission. His lips brushed Nathaniel’s ears, but the words rang loud and true.

“I have before, Nate, and I will again,” Riko purred.

“Take a good, long look at the back of my neck before you do anything stupid enough to actually give your brother a reason to talk to you.” Riko started shaking. He pulled back, staring at Nathaniel with wide, deranged eyes. He seemed to be searching Nathaniel’s face for something he didn’t want to find.

“Is– is that where you’ve been?” he asked. Nathaniel smiled the moment Riko’s eyes registered the raised scars peeking over the side of his neck.

“Something wrong?” he asked, innocent. “Or have you finally got it through your thick skull that I’m ranked higher than you are?”

“Wh– what does he want with you?” Riko asked. Nathaniel shrugged. He already got what he wanted. Riko seemed to snap back to himself a moment later, too many emotions flashing behind his eyes. “I might not be able to touch you, Nate, but God knows Johnson can. And Baustin.”

Nathaniel stopped breathing, and Riko—the little fucker—noticed.

“Do you really think they’ve done their worst?” Riko laughed like Nathaniel was a small child that didn’t understand the real world; like he reveled in being the one to take any remaining innocence left within him. “There are so many ways they can touch you, Nate. So many ways you can be breached. If you’re really whoring yourself to my brother—because, let’s face it, you’re only good at being tied down and used, and I can’t think of any other reason he’d want someone as defiled as you—then I would say the games are just getting started.”

Riko pushed off of him before he could respond.

Nathaniel didn’t know Riko could dig that deep.

He hadn’t thought.

And the worst part of all? Riko wasn’t wrong.

When the door to his room slammed shut, Nathaniel snapped back to the present.

Fuck.

He pulled out his phone, wondering how much of that Andrew heard, but the screen only said one thing.

Call failed.

—

Andrew’s hand continued to curl around the device. Shards from the screen dug into his palm, creating a mosaic of tiny lacerations.

I have before, Nate.

He let the crushed phone fall to the roof.

Get on your knees.

He needed to get a new one.

And I will again.

He needed to get Abram out.

He didn’t feel bad for Nathaniel—he couldn’t really, despite many efforts. Katsu wasn’t chemically set up that way. Maybe he had been, at one point in his life. He wasn’t upset about it. A tad angry, sure, but that was an emotion he had to watch from afar rather than actively partake in.

Katsu was the only person Ichirou trusted as much as the Lord trusted himself. Nathaniel, physically, was a map of damage. After the medic finished treating Nathaniel’s neck, he started on a few particularly glaring cuts on his chest. It was necessary, and despite the medic’s insistence (well, as much as someone could insist something on Lord Moriyama), Ichirou didn’t let him check anything else.

Ichirou eventually got pulled away, and after giving brief instructions to Katsu (he already knew what to do), he left. Katsu changed Nathaniel’s clothes with the amount of courtesy the bodyguard of the goddamn heir to the Moriyama clan could have. Seeing what he did, he doubted Nathaniel had been granted much courtesy in life, either. Katsu didn’t change Nathaniel’s boxers—he had a guess as to what he would find.

Katsu’s eyes flicked back to the sleeping boy when he heard his breathing pattern change. Nathaniel’s fucking blue eyes peeled open a second later. Katsu watched as he tried to pick up his head, but couldn’t.

Katsu stayed still as last night’s events unfolded behind Nathaniel’s eyes.

He figured the internal horror movie ended once Nathaniel resorted to just shoving himself off the mattress, injuries be damned. He felt relatively comfortable observing Nathaniel until he reached an unnaturally unscathed hand towards the back of his head.

Now was probably a good time to jump in.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said. Nathaniel’s eyes immediately snapped towards him, his entire body going rigid. Katsu narrowed his eyes.

“Katsu,” Nathaniel said, hesitantly. Katsu smirked and brushed invisible lint from the shoulder of his suit.

“The one and only.” A look of confusion and… was that respect, crossing Nathaniel’s gaze? Nathaniel had very subtle changes in his expression, clearly well-bred in keeping his feelings to himself. Nathaniel sat back on his heels, sizing him up with some level of taught reservation.

Damn right.

Katsu let him look at all 180 pounds of his lean muscle. He cocked his head to the side as Nathaniel stared, running a hand through his black hair when a strand fell into his line of sight. Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed at his unbuttoned shirt and the red tie draped over his shoulder. Katsu knew he was gorgeous.

Katsu’s job was his entire life, and his entire life was his job. He found breaks when he could, and couldn’t give less of a shit if his attire bothered Nathaniel. He highly doubted that it did, anyways.

Once Nathaniel seemed to finish his Katsu-analysis, Katsu pushed off the wall and stalked towards the bed. He slowed when Nathaniel flinched, recognition stirring deep in his own mind. Nathaniel clearly tried to hide his flinch, but it wasn’t a job well-done. Katsu sighed and pushed his shirt off of his left shoulder.

“It looks like this, if you’re wondering,” he said. His mark was long-healed by then. Katsu dropped his hand a few moments later when Nathaniel nodded.

“Why can’t I feel it?” Nathaniel asked.

“Ichirou had one of his doctors treat it and give you Novocaine. He also worked on a few of your other cuts,” Katsu said. Nathaniel’s eyes immediately zoned out, his shoulders unconsciously dropping and not rising again.

Warning, warning.

“Bathroom?” he asked. Katsu didn’t hesitate to point to the door off to the side. He was already moving before Nathaniel stumbled off the bed. Katsu swung the door open with his hand just as Nathaniel doubled-over, crashing to his knees on the black tiles.

He looked away before Nathaniel started throwing up in the toilet. It wasn’t a picture he wanted to look at.

Katsu propped the door open and headed back into Ichirou’s room to get mouthwash out of his nightstand. Nathaniel had finished vomiting whatever he ate by the time Katsu made it back. Leaning against the door, he watched the redhead’s hands shake as he looked down. Katsu tracked his eyes as they registered the black shirt and red sweatpants he wore.

God fucking dammit.

Nathaniel went back to dry-heaving a moment later.

Katsu understood, but he didn’t dwell on it long. His life before the Moriyama’s was long buried, and it would take nothing short of a trip to fucking Mars for him dig it back up. Ichirou would be right next to him, burning the world to ashes before he let it touch Katsu. He dismissed both thoughts as they came.

Katsu watched Nathaniel pull in a few shuddering breaths, his shoulders shaking. Nathaniel glanced up at him in the half-light of the bathroom.

“Wer– were you here?” he asked. The question almost surprised Katsu. “When th– they did…”

“Yes.” Nathaniel took a breath.

“Did they do anything else?” Nathaniel was looking at him like he’d rather kill himself than hear the answer. But he asked anyway.

Katsu clenched his jaw, his breathing steady. He watched his anger from afar gather like a title wave. It wouldn’t be able to drown him. Katsu’s mind wasn’t wired like everyone else’s—he had made sure of it, and Ichirou helped—and he knew the anger didn’t have jack-shit on him.

“No,” Katsu said. “They didn’t.” Nathaniel let out a sigh, collapsing against the glass shower door behind him. Katsu knew Nathaniel wasn’t trusting him, at least not willingly.

Katsu kept his breathing steady. He’d been with Ichirou long enough, he supposed, that he didn’t try to hide behind his eyes anymore.

After a minute of staring, Nathaniel shot him a confused look. The boy who had looked two words (“they did”) away from death now completely buried.

“What’s your problem?” Nathaniel asked, a familiar bite in his tone. Katsu knew who Nathaniel was, but he’d never met Nathaniel until then. Katsu, for whatever reason, couldn’t drop what he’d insinuated as quickly.

It was a valid question. Katsu would never fault him for that.

“I changed your clothes. Ichirou didn’t let them touch longer than they needed to,” Katsu said. Nathaniel snorted.

“Forgive me for asking,” he said, a wry smile pulling at his mouth.

“Ichirou wasn’t even in the room.” Nathaniel looked like he wanted to call bullshit but his exhaustion won out. Katsu sighed and took a seat on the floor, leaning against the vanity.

Nathaniel looked at him like he was on fucking crack.

“Do I smell, or something?” Katsu asked.

It took a minute, but Nathaniel almost, almost smiled. Then he leaned forward and sniffed the air, before shrugging and leaning back.

“You’re a little shit, you know that?” Katsu said, not unkindly. Nathaniel rolled his eyes.

“I’ve been told,” he said. A reverent look passed his features. Katsu rested his elbows on his knees.

“Let me explain something to you,” he said. “Nathaniel–”

“Neil,” he responded. Katsu paused. Nathaniel's eyes dared him to argue.

“Neil,” he said. Nathaniel did a tiny nod, not looking embarrassed, but he kept his eyes downcast. Katsu knew he was waiting for a strike. “Huh, that’s much better. Nathaniel was a fucking mouthful.”

“Did Riko tell you that?” Nathaniel asked, his eyes seeming a fraction more alive. Katsu knew it wasn’t because of what they were talking about, but how. Katsu grunted a laugh.

“Please. Riko’s head is too far up his own ass for me to hear him.” Nathaniel gaped at him. “What?” His mouth closed, but his expression didn’t change. “This is part of what I wanted to explain.”

“Should I get a notepad and pencil out?” Nathaniel asked.

“Can you not keep up?”

“I can, but you deserve my undivided attention.” Sarcasm was an artform, to Katsu; one that Nathaniel apparently understood.

“If you wanted a nude model to draw, you could’ve just asked,” Katsu said. Nathaniel scoffed, almost… fondly.

“Confident, much?”

“Not confident,” he said. “I’ve been in too many… situations to have any self-respect or embarrassment. But, sure, we can go with ‘confidence.’”

For all the times Nathaniel looked at him, this was the first time Katsu thought Nathaniel actually saw him.

“Amen,” Nathaniel whispered.

“Are you going to close your goddamn mouth and listen?” Katsu asked.

“No promises. I don’t think I’m physically capable. Have you met my father?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I have. Not impressed.”

“With me or him?”

“Mm, both.” Nathaniel flipped him off. “Kidding, kidding. Him, clearly.”

“What did you want to tell me?” Nathaniel asked.

“This—here—with Ichirou is very different from the Nest,” Katsu started. He knew the scars Nathaniel had, he could guess what they were from. He saw the hidden mental scars he had, and Katsu was pretty damn sure he knew where those came from, too. “I won’t bullshit you and say that those forms of torture won’t happen, because they will. If not to you, then you’ll be watching it happen to someone else.”

Nathaniel wouldn’t look at him, his breath moving a little faster than it should.

“However, you are now with Ichirou. That relationship changes your entire life. This brand on the back of your neck marks you as nearly untouchable to anyone who doesn’t want to fuck with Ichirou—which, let’s be honest, is pretty much everyone if they have half of a brain cell. Now, you might only have a quarter of a brain cell–”

“Fuck you, Katsu,” Nathaniel threw at him. He was breathing better, though. Goal achieved.

“I need you to hear me, Neil. You are as ‘high security’ as it can get.” Nathaniel’s eyes were wide, like he couldn’t fully understand what he was saying. Tough luck, kid. He had to stick it out. “You are in the safest and most dangerous position you could be in. You’re not on your knees for Ichirou—that is deadly, but not necessarily dangerous. You’re not above Ichirou—Kengo is the only person, and he won’t hold that position for much longer.”

“Why?” Nathaniel asked before he could continue.

“He’s sick. I doubt he’ll make it to the end of the month,” Katsu said. Nathaniel nodded. Katsu assumed he didn’t have an issue talking casually about death. “Ichirou runs the business. Kengo will hold the title until he dies. You will hear a lot of information in the main branch that you cannot share.

Back to what I was saying. Ichirou has power that most people can’t even imagine. And you, Neil, are now next to him. You are the most valuable asset and his greatest liability. Riko can’t touch you. Anyone with a foot in the mafia world will take one look at that mark and stay as far away as they can. Even Nathan can’t touch you.”

Nathaniel started to shake his head. Katsu reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Trolli gummy worms. He opened it and popped two in his mouth before offering them to Nathaniel. Katsu needed a fucking sugar rush before he dove into the next part of the conversation. He only started speaking again after Nathaniel hesitantly grabbed a few.

“Stay with me for this, okay?” Nathaniel nodded. “You are, depending on how you look at it, ‘safe’ from everyone but one person. Ichirou can tell anyone to do anything to you and they will do it. After people see you with Ichirou, as fucked as it is, many are going to want to do things to you and a few might try. They won’t get far, but I don’t need to tell you that a lot of hurt can happen in a short amount of time. And if you do something wrong, Neil, Ichirou can grant them permission to do what they want.”

“Ho– how often?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It depends. If you and Ichirou are going strong, and you’re true to each other, then rarely, if not ever. He can see right through you. It’s going to take time to find a rhythm, because even I don’t know what he wants, and I’ve known him since I was fourteen. It won’t always be this way.” Nathaniel looked like he wanted to laugh.

“What does he get out of this?” he asked. Katsu shrugged.

“Don’t fault me for this, Neil, but you are beautiful. That’s one thing. You’re also very smart. You can translate. You are also the picture of loyalty.” Katsu paused, gathering a few of his thoughts. “You’re a double edged sword. Ichirou gets to show that he is a loyal, reasonable, and dare I say ‘kind’ person. And, with that, he can show off his influence. Ichirou is unwavering strength and cruelty, and you will do anything he says—from sitting on his lap to cutting into yourself. ”

They were silent for a minute. Katsu watched Nathaniel work through that in his head. He offered the bag of gummy bears again and, to his mild surprise, Nathaniel took some.

“I don’t care if you believe me—I haven’t held any punches, so you might as well—but Ichirou is a reasonable person. He’s only a few years older than you. Does he make cruel decisions? Yes. Do I defend those? Yes. It’s my job. It’s my life. I’d willingly give my life for Ichirou. Do I agree with all of them? No.

This will come crashing down, Neil, and it will hurt. Then you will build back up with him. Only once. After you build a relationship with him, unless you do something so utterly fucking stupid, it won’t crash again. I will keep you from doing anything stupid.”

Katsu stared at Nathaniel. He didn’t know what was going through his head. It had been too long since Katsu’s mind hadn’t been a part of this that he didn’t remember what it was like. His situation, though, was very different from Nathaniel’s.

Nathaniel then looked at him, and gave him a small nod. Katsu took it for the ‘thank you’ neither of them would give. They were quiet for a few minutes, before Nathaniel broke it.

“Those are really good,” he said, gesturing to the gummy bears.

And Katsu—God kill him—smiled.

—

Kevin watched as Jean paced back and forth in Abby’s living room. It was nearing two in the morning and Jean hadn’t stopped talking. Kevin hadn’t really expected him to—it’s been about a year since he left, and even he hadn’t shut up about it (polite as always, Andrew).

“Explain it to me again,” Jean said.

Kevin groaned, dropping his forehead to his arm that rested on the kitchen counter. Jean pivoted at the left end of the entertainment center and turned around.

Like he had been.

For the past two hours.

Kevin had a bottle of vodka in his other hand. He would take another swig if he wasn’t so tired. A battle he had been so valiantly fighting for the past two hours. They got back around midnight. After graciously ignoring Wymack’s judgment, he downed half of the bottle and hadn’t managed many sips since.

Kevin knew Jean wouldn’t relent… but Jesus fucking Christ.

Kevin turned his head, glancing at the person he hadn’t seen in a year and… the person he hadn’t known for much longer than that.

“You have to believe that I wanted to get you both out, but I couldn’t,” Kevin said, sitting up. He shouldered the blame, gladly. He’d do just about anything for Nathaniel. “I planned this once I knew playing again was possible.” That part wasn’t a lie.

“And all that time you spent thinking after you fucking fled the Nest, you truly could not find a way to get Nath–”

“Jean…” Kevin sighed. “You know I would sell my soul for him. If I had stayed at the Nest, Riko would’ve kept me broken. I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this. And Nathaniel would’ve run himself into the ground to stop it.” He squared his shoulders and unconsciously flexed and unflexed his left hand.

Jean looked up at him, and Kevin wondered what he was looking for. Unfortunately, most of the person Jean had known didn’t exist anymore. Kevin barely recognized himself and he didn’t expect others to.

Jean’s facial expression shifted through multiple emotions before landing on some version of confused.

“You cannot fault me for fighting,” Jean said, his voice cracking at the words. Kevin didn’t ask why. He was too fucking tired and too fucking sober for this.

“I don’t.” Jean scoffed, shaking his head.

Kevin didn’t know what he wanted, but he knew he couldn’t give it to him.

“Would you honestly care if I hated you?” Jean asked. Kevin looked up, taken slightly aback by the question. Jean’s eyes were filled with so much hurt. It would’ve taken the breath from Kevin’s lungs a few years ago.

He could be reading into it, but somewhere among the despair, there seemed to be a flicker of relief. Jean was out of the Nest. Even his terror for Nathaniel couldn't outweigh the reprieve that came with being safe.

“No,” Kevin said.

“Would you care if he did?” Care wasn’t the right word. It would hurt, if Nathaniel hated him, and it would be Hell; but it wasn’t something he could change.

“No.” Jean didn’t move.

A few moments later, Jean sighed and ran his crooked hands over his face. A dark chuckle escaped his mouth.

“Fucking Riko,” Jean said. “What did he do to you, Kevin, when we were not there?”

Kevin watched the gears turn in Jean’s mind as he tried to understand the person Kevin became. Jean was seeing just how twisted this version of Kevin was, like a series of sick epiphanies when solving a puzzle with outdated pieces. Kevin wouldn’t help him if he had a gun to his head.

“If you break something,” Kevin started, “you can’t exactly predict how it tries to heal.” Jean took that for the dismissal it was.

“Nathaniel never broke.”

“He didn’t,” Kevin said. “That might be different, had I stayed.” Kevin watched Jean’s mask start to shudder, the ties holding his composure together frayed at the edges. He looked away, shoulders shaking and eyes glistening with tears he only shed in silence, and with Nathaniel on rare occasions.

This was all he had left.

Kevin stood, making his way towards Jean. His mind was unnaturally blank; a quiet he just recently developed. Kevin has yet to figure out if that was something good or not. That was Betsy’s job, not his.

He stepped into Jean’s space and brought his arms up. Jean’s eyes snapped to him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, just above a whisper.

“Would you just hold still?” Kevin said. Jean looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, and Kevin took that as a good sign. Kevin wrapped his arms around Jean’s upper shoulders. He stiffened, but it didn’t last long. Kevin knew when someone was unraveling—he couldn’t let Jean shred apart without trying to hold him together.

Kevin knew, at that point in his life, that he wasn’t any good at comforting people. Riko reminded him of that after he discovered his relationship with Nathaniel. Every time Kevin wanted to tear down the walls, Riko said that Nathaniel was better off without him.

You can’t comfort people, Kevin. He’s fine on his own.

You’re broken—what good can you do?

You act as if you’re not damaged.

I know you don’t understand, but it’s stupid to think you could help him.

It’s better if you stay away, Kevin. You’ve seen what happens to people you care about. I’m the only one who can handle you.

He snapped back to the moment when Jean’s thinning resolve gave out. Jean almost fell into Kevin, circling his arms around his waist and letting his forehead fall on Kevin’s shoulder. His fingers gripped Kevin’s shirt.

Kevin couldn’t move. He felt occasional stabs of pain, though he knew it couldn’t be physical.

God, Kevin felt so empty. Riko was a bastard, but he was smart.

Kevin pulled away and grabbed the bottle of vodka off the floor. He took a few sips before making his way out of the room.

“Kevin, really? That is not heal–”

“You don’t get to judge how I cope,” Kevin threw over his shoulder, taking another sip. His vision started to fade a tad out of focus. Finally. “You can sleep on the couch. Leave the lights on, if you want. Wymack said he doesn’t care how much electricity you use.”

Kevin didn’t turn around. He went up the stairs and knocked on the guest room door. He knew Andrew would be awake—the stairs in Abby’s house weren't quiet. The door swung open a minute later. Kevin let Andrew stare at him, allowing him the time to figure out if he wanted to let him in or slam the door in his face.

It was a 40/60 shot, really, but Kevin didn’t mind.

Andrew eventually nodded and opened the door further. Kevin closed it behind him and lightly sighed, sliding against the door until he landed on the floor. Andrew was straddling the desk chair, his arms resting on the back, clad in a black hoodie and sweatpants.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that something was bothering him (though Andrew wasn’t far off from one). Just because tonight was one of the few times Kevin wanted to talk about the trainwreck inside his head, didn’t mean Andrew wanted to listen. He saw the question on Kevin’s face.

“Would I have let you in if I didn’t want to?” Andrew responded. Kevin shrugged.

“Do you ever just… want to?” Kevin paused, his mind flipping through images of his cuts like an old movie reel. It wasn’t unappetizing to him. Kevin didn’t really care either way. “It’s not that harmful,” he continued. After Andrew made a pointed look towards his armbands resting on his nightstand, Kevin nodded.

“Yes,” Andrew said.

“Why did you stop?” Andrew shrugged.

“There’s no point to it,” he responded. Kevin shook his head, letting it fall against the door behind him with a thud. “We had different circumstances.”

“But it’s the same addiction.” Andrew nodded. “I don’t get it. Where’s the harm? Skin heals.” Andrew shrugged, and Kevin thought he seemed a little distant. Kevin let the silence fall over them as Andrew sorted through whatever his mind decided to dig up.

“At some point,” Andrew said, “the benefit stopped being worth it. Fighting pain caused more pain. You get low enough that cutting and making a sandwich carry the same weight; the same energy. They’re both satisfying. It just depends on what you want to clean up.”

Andrew had MDD. Kevin knew Andrew lived in a ‘low’ most people experienced only a few times in their life. Kevin hadn’t actually seen what it did to him, but he picked up on a few of his tells over the past year.

One being Andrew’s attitude towards exy. When Andrew said he didn’t care about exy, he was being honest—just not in the way Kevin originally thought.

“Do you still do it?” he asked. Andrew was quiet for a bit.

“No,” Andrew said. He paused, then gave Kevin a little more. “Sometimes.” Kevin didn’t say anything until Andrew raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“Not often,” Kevin said. Andrew waited. “Does it matter?”

“It does to you,” Andrew responded. “Or you wouldn’t be asking.”

“The Master never did it without a purpose.”

“He never made you do it without a motive.”

“I know. Even without him, the need is still there,” Kevin responded. He thought of the faint scars that lined the insides of his upper arms. They were barely visible—just a patch of skin that had more scar tissue than the rest. “Do you ever miss it?”

Andrew scoffed.

“Okay, not like ‘miss,’ but–”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

Kevin nodded, thanking Andrew in the only way he knew how. Andrew just shrugged, but it still meant more to Kevin than he would ever admit.

Kevin pushed off the floor, throwing an arm out against the door when he stumbled. Andrew spoke before he left the room.

“Kevin,” Andrew called. He looked over his shoulder, trying to get his sleep-deprived eyes to focus. “Give it time.”

Give yourself time.

He nodded. Kevin didn’t have much to give Andrew in return at that moment, but there was one thing.
“Nathaniel will still be there,” Kevin said. Andrew didn’t show any physical reaction, but Kevin grew up reading people’s eyes. He never knew for sure, with Andrew, but he tried. “He won’t let go of you a second time.”

Andrew had told Kevin a bit about his time with Nathaniel in juvie. And if Kevin knew Nathaniel at all… he would tear the world down before he lost that again. Nathaniel was feral, in the Nest, when something he cared about was going up in flames, enough to burn but never enough to die.

This wasn’t the same.

“Get out,” Andrew said. Kevin went to grab the vodka, but one look from Andrew had him leaving it on the ground.

—

Nathaniel glared at the ceiling of Ichirou’s bedroom, tossing a flip phone up in the air and catching it. Katsu suggested that he stay another night. Nathaniel scoffed, but relented. Ichirou wasn’t there, and Katsu didn’t seem like he wanted to do anything with Nathaniel… plus, Katsu slept in a different room. They didn’t seem worried about him running away.

They don’t need to be, Nathaniel thought, because I don’t want to.

Over the past twenty-four hours, Nathaniel hadn’t had much time to process the shitshow that took over his life. He rarely processed things in the first place, but one thought was glaring and painful. Nathaniel couldn’t remember a time where he didn’t want to run. It didn’t matter if he was only alive by the skin of his teeth—Nathaniel always ran.

Even last year, when Nathaniel was slowly killing himself, he still wanted to run. Nathaniel would’ve traded everything to get out. You couldn’t run from the Nest—absolutely not. He’d tried, and he landed his ass in juvie before spending a few honorary nights with Nathan and Lola. Nathaniel wasn’t actively trying to die (fuck you, Jean, for claiming otherwise), but some part of him had been working and thinking and planning, and it all stemmed from his innate need to run.

Out of everything to have an existential crisis over—Riko’s torture, Jean escaping, the burning, Andrew—Nathaniel didn’t know what to do with the newfound empty space within himself. He could practically hear Drew calling him an idiot who’s priorities were all screwed up. Nathaniel would have responded with something snarky, like, I enjoy obsessing over my priorities, because I get to think about you. Drew might’ve punched him, for that, and Nathaniel would’ve let him.

Nathaniel could piece together why he no longer wanted to run—logically, at least. He was branded, for one, and everyone who mattered knew the Moriyama kamon.

Second, the threats in his life were shifted. Down or up, Nathaniel wasn’t sure. He was safer yet also in more danger. That made sense. Absolutely.

Nathaniel threw the phone and caught it.

Third, Nathaniel truly didn’t have anywhere to run to. At the end of the day, the Foxes existed, and Nathaniel (theoretically) always had the option of running there. It wouldn’t turn out well, but the thought wasn’t terrifying. Jean being there severed any tie he had to that possibility.

Fourth, his mother was dead. Awesome.

Fifth, Stuart couldn’t reach him anymore. Stuart had tried, years ago, but Nathaniel cut him off before he could get too close. After his mom died, Stuart wanted to take Nathaniel as far from the Moriyama empire as he could get… which obviously meant he would become a part of the Hatford crime family. Nathaniel didn’t entertain it. Theoretically (again), Stuart could’ve bartered for Nathaniel’s life because the Hatfords and the Moriyama’s work together. Stuart Hatford, however, had nothing on Ichirou Moriyama.

He tossed the phone. Caught it. Did it again.

Sixth… fuck this.

Nathaniel sighed and pressed his hands to his face, rolling to the side so the phone fell on the pillow next to him. The room smelled like Ichirou—it was pretty nice, in all honesty. Nathaniel didn’t have too many bad memories tied directly to him.

He pushed off the bed and made his way to the bathroom. The light flicked on automatically, and he met his father’s eyes in the mirror.

Nathaniel looked intimidating. He would know, because the sight of Nathan still crippled him with terror, among other things. His hair was now shaved on the sides (courtesy of Katsu) which pushed the shadow of his father a little further.

Who was he kidding? Nathaniel could be his father’s twin if he were younger.

He was unapproachable, but in a different way than Jean. His—wait, not his, anymore—French bastard was more of the dark and mysterious type, with an arsehole demeanor. Nathaniel, though, was lethal. Danger was etched into his features and chiseled from the man that maimed and tortured and amputated and cut for fun.

As Nathaniel watched the face across from him smile… he understood why. His look didn’t sicken him. It made Nathaniel flinch. It made his mother flinch. Jean shied away from him when they originally met. Kevin worked through the fear before they passed age six. It made Stuart do a double-take. It made Lola want to take him to bed.

He was terrifying.

Nathaniel didn’t feel that way.

He felt the least threatening he’d ever been.

There was one person that didn’t look at Nathaniel with disgust or fear. He saw Nathaniel and stepped closer. Terror was the farthest thing from his mind.

When the eyes in the mirror became glassy at the thought, Nathaniel turned away.

He looked down at the phone and walked over to Ichirou’s desk.

Nathaniel,

Use this cream to help with the mark. I’ll leave Jeremy Knox’s number below, in case you want to give him a call.

I will be back for the game at the end of next week.

Call Katsu if you need anything. He has a phone for you. I am speed-dial one, and Katsu two.

Practice hard. Pull your rank in the Nest if you need to.

–Ichirou

Nathaniel knew the best place for him was next to Ichirou. He just had to get there.

Let the games begin, Nathaniel thought.

Nathaniel couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

And worst of all, he didn’t know if he wanted to.

“If we’re being completely honest, I bought you from Nathan years ago. I wasn’t planning on enacting this now, but it seems Riko has forced my hand.” Nathaniel kept his mouth shut. “We’ve been relatively pleased with Nathan’s work. There’s no need to replace him, and if we do, that role will be filled by Lola Malcom—whom, I’m sure, you are very familiar with.” Ichirou paused to take a sip from his glass. “In short, your father wanted to kill you. I offered to take you off his hands for a sum of money. He agreed with no issue.”

Sick, didn’t even begin to describe how Nathaniel felt.

“There is one thing you can give me, Nathaniel: compliance.” Nathaniel wanted to detach from himself. If only he could. Nathaniel was at his core, though. “You put up a good argument; very persuasive. Better than one your father could have put forward, that is for sure.” Nathaniel didn’t miss the underlying threat in those words.

For once in his life, Nathaniel had nothing to say.

“Moreau’s contract has already been transferred to USC. We are waiting on logistics. Moreau is a long-term investment—one that you inadvertently saved from being short-term. I know that Moreau planned to take himself out of the picture after graduation. You solved that problem for me.” Nathaniel did his best to hide any shock from his face, but he was barely breathing as it was. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but Nathaniel knew Jean planned to kill himself after graduation. He just didn’t know it was so set-in-stone that Ichirou knew about it.

“Thank you, My Lord,” Nathaniel said, barely getting them past his tight throat.

“Lucky for you, I am not Riko. I can think logically. I have no issue killing Moreau. He is a means to an end. I will be out a couple hundred million, but there are other ways to make money.” Nathaniel waited to see if Ichirou would continue. When he simply stared at Nathaniel on his knees, Nathaniel knew what to do.

“You said ‘compliance,’ My Lord?” Nathaniel asked. Ichirou raised a single eyebrow.

“Loyalty, Nathaniel. Loyalty to me. I don’t like to buy my partners. True loyalty cannot be bought,” Ichirou said. “We can have a mutual relationship. You will find, Nathaniel, that I’m a fair person.” Nathaniel didn’t want to hear what Ichirou was saying. He’d been in the mafia world for too long to not know what losing his free-will looked like. He couldn’t feel it though. Not yet. “You are mine, Nathaniel. I want you willingly. I will even help Day, in addition to Moreau.”

“You– really, My Lord?” Nathaniel asked, his breaths suddenly coming in short bursts.

“I know why you care about him. I know about your previous relationship. I know that you had an argument in mind for him, as well. Am I correct in that?” Ichirou tilted his head in a way that meant he already knew the answers. Nathaniel felt naked. It was becoming apparent that he couldn’t hide from Ichirou.

“Yes, My Lord,” he said. Ichirou just looked at him expectantly. This, if nothing else, was something Nathaniel knew how to talk about. “Lord, if I may, I would be eternally grateful if you released Kevin. He can become the best striker in the world—he will stop training for nothing. Kevin Day will get there. He will not get there if he is brought back to the Nest.” Nathaniel paused for a split second. “Riko doesn’t deserve him. Riko broke him in the first place.” Ichirou looked at him with almost a sad expression.
“You truly care about him.” It wasn’t a question, so Nathaniel didn’t answer. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” Nathaniel said. He almost wished he had enough self-preservation to at least hesitate. He didn’t.

“I can give you more, Nathaniel. I can give you more than any of them. I will free Kevin of his Raven contract, forever. He and Moreau will be under no obligation to the Moriyama’s until graduation.” Ichirou paused, seeming to debate something. “We might as well keep you out of Riko’s hands while we are at it. You’re no use to me broken, either.” Nathaniel felt the hands on him loosen and slip away.

He didn’t get up and run.

He didn’t have anyone to run to.

He didn’t have anywhere to run.

And he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Part of him wondered why he felt so sick after getting exactly what he wanted. More than what he wanted. He couldn’t picture a world without Ri–

“Don’t worry about logistics. Riko and my uncle are petty, but harmless. Stupid, but powerless,” Ichirou said.

Nathaniel wanted to hide, and found that he couldn’t. It didn’t scare him like usual. He absentmindedly wondered how out of it he truly was.

“And what will you give me, Nathaniel?” he asked. He felt the hands fully leave his body.

“Loyalty. Compliance. Partnership–”

“We do not have a partnership, Wesninski. Partnerships are bought.” Nathaniel looked into the onyx eyes and almost felt free. He wanted to be free. He wasn’t—far from it—but he didn’t have the willpower to tell himself to keep fighting.

“Relationship,” Nathaniel said. Ichriou motioned for him to stand.

He knew he answered correctly.

Nathaniel got up, and took a few unsteady steps towards his Lord. He was shocked when none of his bodyguards went to interfere. Nathaniel stopped just outside of his space. Ichirou put his glass on the table next to him and brought his hands towards Nathaniel.

He flinched, involuntarily, and immediately tensed, bracing for the blow. Ichirou just stood there, waiting for Nathaniel to calm down. He didn’t fault him for it. Ichirou eventually brought his hands to rest lightly on his neck, almost feeling out the new dynamic.

Nathaniel didn’t move. He was so far out of his depths. It was weird to be near someone only a few years older than him, but infinitely more powerful. Ichirou raised his chin slightly and Nathaniel did his best not to panic. It was taking all of his effort to focus his attention on Ichirou’s near-indecipherable mask.

When nothing happened, Nathaniel swore he saw disappointment flash across Ichriou’s face. Going on instinct, Nathaniel brought one of his hands up. He felt all six bodyguards in the room tense, but Ichriou signaled them off by lightly motioning with two of his fingers.

Honestly, Nathaniel was shocked by the trust Ichirou was putting in him. He was probably stupid to think that—his mother would’ve killed him.

Nathaniel kept moving his hand, bringing it up to barely rest over Ichirou’s on his neck. When Ichirou’s mouth moved the slightest, Nathaniel pressed a little harder on his hand. The whole ordeal took at least three minutes, but Ichirou seemed pleased.

“Call me Ichirou, when it’s just us,” he said. Nathaniel knew it would take a bit before he stopped fucking shaking. “Can I call you Nate?” Nathaniel did a full-body flinch, making some of the bodyguards reach for their guns. He shook his head. Nathaniel could’ve sworn that Ichirou almost looked angry.

“I– I mean yes, My L–” Nathaniel cut himself off and took a breath. “If you’d like, Ichirou.” The name felt weird on his tongue, but Nathaniel didn’t think it would be that way for long.

Nathaniel was exhausted. Mentally, physically. His brain was trying to take in everything new, and he didn’t know what he was doing. Nathaniel had no idea. He knew, in the back of his mind, the difference between a partnership and a relationship, but he refused to see it right then. He didn’t trust himself.

Ichirou is helping, Nathaniel told himself. Over and over. He is. He is. He is. Again and again.

“Nathaniel, then,” Ichirou said. Then, without taking his eyes off Nathaniel, “Leave us.” Within a minute, the bodyguards cleared all of the tables and returned the chairs to their rightful places before leaving. Only Katsu and Ichirou remained in the room with Nathaniel.

Ichirou then stepped out of his space, and filled two whiskey glasses at the bar. Nathaniel clocked his every movement.

“I’m sure you’re confused, at the moment, but I’m told you adapt quite quickly,” Ichirou said. He sat on the couch and motioned for Nathaniel to join him. Nathaniel was overwhelmingly aware of the fact that he didn’t have a choice. Ichirou didn’t seem mad at him, though. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt?

Who in their fucking right mind would ever give the heir to the yakuza the ‘benefit of the doubt’?

Nathaniel sat down, and took the glass offered. One side glance from Ichirou had him taking his first sip relatively quickly.

“Riko,” Ichirou started, frowning slightly as if his brother's name was mere filth in his mouth, “has already caused some permanent damage to you.” Ichirou reached out, slow enough for Nathaniel to follow, and placed two fingers on his chin. He turned his head right and left, but not aggressively. Nathaniel’s brain had a hard time associating Lord Moriyama with ‘delicate,’ but that was the best word he could come up with. Ichirou looked at him like he expected a response.

“Yes,” Nathaniel said. What the fuck was he supposed to say? Oh, no, Riko just slipped and landed on my dick, occasionally with a knife. Ichirou raised an eyebrow.

God, Nathaniel didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. This was next to the last situation he thought he’d find himself in after he bartered Jean’s life, and that included a zombie apocalypse.

“Don’t censor yourself around me, Nathaniel,” Ichirou said. It was a threat, through and through. That, Nathaniel was sure of.

“Riko gets off on cutting into me, yes.” Ichirou exhaled quickly through his nose, and it took Nathaniel longer than he was willing to admit to realize it was a laugh.

What the fuck was happening.

“Clearly. Though your chest was already a lost cause from Nathan.” Ichirou sighed. “It’s a shame some people can’t recognize something beautiful. And why they would damage it is beyond me.” Nathaniel could tell he was starting to come back to himself. Anger crawled up his legs and laced across his chest. He took a stuttering breath to try, raging a losing battle against his genetics to keep his anger in.

Ichirou raised his chin a tad. He could tell, but he didn’t call him on it.

“Yes, what a shame,” Nathaniel said.

“Ease off the sarcasm, Nathaniel.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. Ichirou almost… smirked, and a look passed over his eyes that made Nathaniel feel nauseous.

“Both Riko and your father have faults, but marking you was not one of them. They simply never marked you properly,” Ichirou said. He began pulling up his sleeves and Nathaniel stopped breathing. “You’re not going to enjoy this, Nathaniel, but it needs to be done.”

Ichirou looked at him like he wanted to apologize, but knew he wasn’t in a position to. The heir to the Moriyamas didn’t apologize. Part of Nathaniel wanted to hold onto the fact that Ichirou wanted to, but he couldn’t. His mind would do anything, right then, to not be alone.

This wasn’t the company Nathaniel wanted, but it was what he expected.

“I am giving you more courtesy than I would anyone else in this situation. I am explaining so you know what is going to happen,” Ichirou said. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Nathaniel.”

Nathaniel didn’t know what the Hell he was supposed to do. His mind was beautifully, sinfully blank.

“Katsu,” Ichirou called, never taking his eyes off Nathaniel. It felt like he was inspecting a new package he got, examining it and memorizing its features. “Tie Nathaniel up.”

A dam broke in his head.

All of the emotions, all of the disgusting anger, all of the fear; it came rushing back. His mind, flying high on blood loss and adrenaline, came crashing down.

Nathaniel knew the last thing he deserved was peace.

What’s worst? Nathaniel didn’t know what Ichirou was going to do. If he just told Nathaniel what he wanted, he could figure this out. He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

“Please, Ich–” Katsu was in front of him—Nathaniel didn’t know when that happened—motioning for him to stand. Nathaniel’s instincts were lit ablaze, but his need to please won out in the end. If he did what they wanted, it would hurt less. If he didn’t move when guests were over, his father wouldn’t cut him. If he didn’t show when he was in pain, his mother wouldn’t hit him.

It never changed.

Ichirou talked while Katsu grabbed his elbow and pulled him off the couch, leading him towards a door at the end of the hall. When Nathaniel started to thrash, he felt terrified for an entirely different reason. Nathaniel knew that listening to Ichirou was his only option. He didn’t want to be resisting, but he couldn’t help his natural reaction.

“I’m sorry, Ichi–”

If you apologize, Nate, I might forgive you for disobeying.

“I know,” Ichirou said. He fought like a feral cat, but for Ichirou’s personal bodyguard, it didn’t matter. Nathaniel didn’t want Ichirou to think that he was scared of him—in some fucked up way, that was really what he didn’t want. Ichirou gave him more than he asked for. Sure, he sold his free-will, but apparently, his father and Ichirou made that trade a long time ago. He didn’t want to fight.

“Ichirou, I don’t mean to–”

“I know,” he said.

“I don’t want to fight. I don’t–”

“It’s okay, Nathaniel.”

God, was this a fucked up string of emotions.

Katsu had both of Nathaniel’s arms behind his back and shouldered the door open. Nathaniel whipped his head around, trying to understand where he was. There was a bed. A bed.

Then everything went to Hell.

“No, no. No, please don’t,” Nathaniel said. He felt tears sting at the corners of his eyes and wanted to hit himself. Ichirou stopped whatever he had been talking about (something to Katsu, likely knowing Nathaniel wasn’t coherent enough to process anything).

He looked at Nathaniel, assessing. His eyes narrowed the slightest. Nathaniel didn't need a mirror to know despair was written so plainly on his face—he could see it reflected in Ichirou’s near-black eyes.

Ichirou stared at him, motioning for Katsu to continue.

Panic enveloped Nathaniel’s mind, blocking out anything but someone forcing him towards a bed.

“Come on, Nate. You don’t want us to go back to Jean, do you? Johnson was a little more aggressive tonight than he intended to be,” Baustin purred, hands lightly running up and down the sides of Nathaniel’s arms like they were affectionate lovers. Nathaniel didn’t move.

His eyes snapped up towards the bed Jean was on (under a cliché poster of a half-naked chick on a motorcycle) and Nathaniel wondered how freeing it would be to not have anyone to care for. To not have anyone care for him. To not have to feel the nauseating anger and disgust and sorrow each time this happened.
Baustin walked closer, backing Nathaniel up until his back hit the wall.

His eyes never left Jean. It felt violating to see him like this, after what happened. Jean was sixteen and they shattered him. Nathaniel’s beautiful, brainy, bastard of a partner… they broke him. After almost eight years in the Nest, Riko found what broke him.

“Will you be good for me tonight?” Baustin asked, his mouth brushing against his ear. Nathaniel’s eyes never left Jean. “I know you will. For your precious fucking partner, if nothing else.” Nathaniel didn’t know where he was; if his legs were still attached to his body.

What he would give to not care. What he would give to not have anyone care for him.

Baustin reached down and grabbed Nathaniel’s thighs. Nathaniel took the hint and wrapped his legs around his waist. His eyes never left Jean.

“Where’s that voice of yours, Nate?” Baustin whispered.

“You’re a twisted motherfucker,” Nathaniel said, deadly quiet. “Shame your whore of a mother gave more love to strangers in bars and back-alleys than she did to you.” Baustin froze, and Nathaniel smiled as he tore his eyes away from Jean’s limp, naked body.

Baustin slammed Nathaniel’s back against the wall, his fingers digging into his hair and pulling. He grabbed Nathaniel’s arms with one hand and pinned them above his head.

Nathaniel smiled. There was at least one benefit to the paranoia he inhereted from his mother—he knew almost everything about everyone who fucked with him.

“Keep my mother out of your goddamn mouth, Wesninski,” Baustin said. Nathaniel’s smile stretched more. His father smiled when he inflicted pain, but not Nathaniel. That backfired, because Nathaniel? He smiled when pain was being inflicted on him.

Baustin opened his mouth, but a yell tore through the hallway.

“What did you do?” Nathaniel’s world tilted on its axis. He heard a crash, a choked sound. “I swear to fucking God, Riko,” Kevin said. In his entire life, Nathaniel had only heard Kevin sound like that a few times. “Now you tell me where. He. Is.”

Oh. Nathaniel suddenly understood why they weren’t in his and Jean’s room. Riko was sick of Kevin interfering.

After practice, Tetsuji asked for Jean. Riko must’ve known that was going to happen (or had asked his pathetic uncle to do it) and told Johnson and Bautsin to grab him. It didn’t take long for Nathaniel to figure out something was off—not having Jean around for over five minutes, for one.

He knew what happened to Jean would’ve happened no matter what. He had gotten over his guilt about trying to ‘stop’ the pain years ago. Even if he couldn’t prevent it… Nathaniel could still make it worse, and that was what killed his fight the most.

Another crash came from within the hallway, rattling the door to Johnson and Baustin’s room in its lock.

“That was very stupid, brother,” Riko said, his voice barely above a whisper. Nathaniel knew that voice, that tone. He unconsciously jerked, trying to move out of Baustin’s grip. His arms tightened around Nathaniel, handprints bruising their way into his wrists.

“Feisty, aren’t we,” Baustin taunted. They heard flesh connect with flesh outside the door. “Your boyfriend is here to save you. Do you want Day to join? Would it help if you could look at him while I fuck you?” Nathaniel stilled. “Or would it be better if I fucked him while you watched?”

A near growl-like sound tore out of Nathaniel's throat and he pulled on Baustin’s grip, stretching the ligaments in his wrists. Baustin wouldn’t get permission to put his hands on Kevin—Riko was far too possessive—but Nathaniel wouldn’t put it past him to try. And sometimes, Nathaniel knew, just the ‘trying’ would be enough to fuck him up forever.

There was a yell of pain outside, and Nathaniel clenched his teeth. He knew Kevin could hold his own in a fight, but Riko never played fair.

“I don’t know who the Hell you think you are, Kevin, fighting against me.” Two more hits. “You are second.”

“I kn—“ Kevin's voice cut off as a loud slap echoed through the hallway. Oh, what Nathaniel would give to kill Riko.

There were a few moments of silence.

“I know,” Kevin gritted out. Nathaniel didn’t know what position he and Riko were in, but he could guess.

“You will never be better than me,” Riko spat.

“I know.” Kevin knew how to handle Riko’s possessiveness by then, but Nathaniel wondered how blurry the line was between what he said to keep Riko placated and the truth Kevin held for himself.

“So forget about your fuck-toy. Don’t ruin your career with this. I own them, Kevin.” Another hit, another grunt of pain. “They are mine. And where are you?” Nathaniel felt disgusted.

“Below you,” Kevin said. Another slap.

“Say it again.” Nathaniel wanted to make Lola so fucking proud that people wondered if they were related.

“Below you.” Slap. Nathaniel was going to be sick.

“I know you, Kevin. Put a little more effort in and say it like you mean it.” Nathaniel heard someone spit on the ground. He assumed it was Kevin’s blood.

“I’m below you.” Kevin’s voice was starting to slur.

“That’s fucking right. See what happens when you tell the truth? You should be glad Kayleigh died, because then I got you. You were nothing without me.” Nathaniel’s heart was breaking. “You’ll never find him. And if I catch you looking for them, I’ll make sure you remember where you belong.” Riko paused. Baustin seemed satisfied to listen to Riko and Kevin’s argument for the moment, but his hold on Nathaniel never relented. “That tattoo would look nice on other parts of your body too, wouldn’t it?”

Nathaniel saw red. He ripped one hand from Baustin’s grip and swung for his face. It hit home and Baustin let him slip to the ground.

“I suggest you keep quiet,” Baustin said, getting both hands around his neck before he could reach the door. “Unless you want your fucking boyfriend to find his way in here.”

Nathaniel knew he was right. He would’ve fought harder. He was Nathan Wesninski’s son—he could’ve found his way out of Baustin’s grip, if he wanted it. If it would’ve done anything but cause damage.

Some part of him needed to fight, though. He needed to remember that his entire soul hadn’t died. Nathaniel looked at Jean as he heard Kevin try to stifle sounds of pain… and he put his hands up.

His heart kept breaking and breaking; and the only person who knew how to put it back together was doubled over in the hallway, feeling the exact same way.

What he would give to not care. What he would give to not have anyone care for him.

“That’s my boy,” Baustin said. He grabbed Nathaniel’s hand and led them towards the bed. His panic was strong, but he was running out of fight, and he had to save some for Kevin and Jean.

“Front or back?” Nathaniel asked. Baustin gestured and Nathaniel got on his back.

This, Nathaniel thought. This is what I’d give. And I’d do it over and over.

Again and again.

Nathaniel snapped back to the present once Katsu started moving towards the bed again.

“Please,” Nathaniel said “Please don’t do this to me. Please. Not– no. Please.”

You’re so stupid, Nate. You never learn.

Ichirou’s gaze stripped him bare. His head tilted a fraction to the side, studying him. His eyes tracked towards the bed Katsu was dragging them towards, and then back to Nathaniel.

Ichirou seemed to realize something. The surprise was short-lived and quickly replaced by a look of disdain, but it was there.

“Katsu,” Ichirou called him to a stop. Nathaniel almost sobbed in relief. Ichirou walked forward to stand in front of him and placed his hands on the sides of his neck. “Tsk. It seems Riko fucked you in more ways than I thought.”

He looked at Nathaniel, almost disgusted, but it took a moment for Nathaniel to realize the disgust was towards Riko, and not him.

“My brother is an idiot,” Ichirou said. He didn’t say it to Nathaniel; just a simple fact. “The couch, Katsu.”

Ichirou released Nathaniel, and he slumped against Katsu. They had a much easier time moving towards the grey couch in a small seating area next to the bed.

Nathaniel wasn’t stupid enough to think they couldn’t do the same amount of damage on a couch, but he had no fight left. If only Jean were here to finally see it.

“Marking and branding are two very different things,” Ichirou said. Katsu had Nathaniel kneel on the couch. “My family’s kamon is well-known. There is, however, a small circle in the main branch that wears our kamon. There’s less than ten of us.”

And this, of course, only applies to the mafia, Nathaniel thought. Only the fucking mafia.

Nathaniel looked at Ichirou, watching the situation unfold from somewhere above himself.

“Nathan certainly doesn’t. Katsu does,” Ichirou said. Nathaniel wanted to laugh. He was above Nathan. “It’s sacred.”

He understood what was happening.

Katsu pushed Nathaniel down so he was face-first on the couch. He didn’t struggle. Katsu grabbed Nathaniel’s hands and pulled them above his head, tying them together before looping the rope through a ring embedded in the ground. Convenient, Nathaniel thought.

Ichirou knelt beside Nathaniel’s head, who turned to look at him.

“This has to be done. Afterwards, it will be very clear who you belong to. Who you are with. People will think twice before touching you,” Ichirou said. Honestly, the thought hadn’t crossed Nathaniel’s mind. He knew Ichirou wasn’t protecting him… but Nathaniel was so, so tired.

He was so tired.

“Do you want your legs tied as well?” Ichirou asked. It didn’t sound like a threat or an insult—it sounded genuine. Nathaniel shook his head. Ichirou stood. “Luckily, Tetsuji did the bare minimum and kept your neck and shoulders relatively unscathed. Your face, too.”

Ichirou sighed and walked away. Nathaniel heard him mumble something to Katsu, before a drawer opened and closed.

“Nathaniel, bite down,” Ichirou said, putting a leather strip in front of his face. Nathaniel didn’t want to think about how he had that ‘on-hand.’

Nathaniel bit down.

“Turn,” Ichirou said. Nathaniel placed his forehead against the fabric of the couch. Ichirou pressed a hand to the back of his head to keep it in place. “Katsu.” Nathaniel jerked when he felt Katsu straddle the back of his hips. Ichirou gently ran a hand across his shoulders. “Breathe, Nathaniel. Follow my hand.”

He tried to focus on the rhythm. Ichirou’s hands were rough, but not exy rough, which helped Nathaniel more than he wanted to think about. He even felt Katsu shift so he wasn’t putting as much weight on his back.

Nathaniel matched the rhythm, inadvertently trying to show Ichirou that he was listening, and, against his better judgment, actually helping.

“Breathe in.” Nathaniel took a breath. He didn’t want to think. “Exhale quickly in two. One, and two.”

Something burning—burning—hot landed against the back of Nathaniel’s neck, right in the center. His jaw clenched down as it started to sear its way into his skin. Nathaniel bit down so hard he heard his teeth creek, and Ichriou forced his head further into the couch. Honestly, the lack of oxygen was helping.

Nathaniel could feel the iron sink millimeter by millimeter into the back of his neck. Blood beaded down his skin and gathered at the base of his chin, dripping into the couch.

“Nathaniel. Breathe in,” Ichirou said, his voice left no room for argument, cutting through the forest fire working its way through Nathanie’s head. “Exhale in two. That’s one, and two.” Katsu shifted his weight and pressed the iron deeper. A scream tore from the back of his throat, tears staining the couch along with his blood. He knew what they were doing. He knew what it took to scar—but Ichirou didn’t want this to simply scar, he wanted it to brand.

It wasn’t going to be one of those faint lines you could only see in certain lights. It wasn’t going to just be puckered flesh on the back of his neck.

It was going to become part of him—deeper than the ones his father carved, stronger than the ones Riko crafted.

This was art. A brand that was a different shade than his skin, and raised a few millimeters.

“Wesninski,” Ichirou demanded. “Breathe in.” Nathaniel tried, but he failed quite spectacularly. Ichirou didn’t speak until he pulled a stuttering breath through his lungs. “Breathe out in two. Keep biting down. One, and two.” The iron pulled off the back of his neck. The pain got worse. Nathaniel’s hands pulled on the ropes, his wrists scraping against each other. Luckily, he already had scars there, the nerve endings were pretty dull, so the pulling didn’t hurt.

A cloth was placed against the back of his neck, before a liquid was poured over it. Nathaniel didn’t last long after that. He went in and out of consciousness as Katsu worked on the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure what proper burn treatment was, but they were doing something to ensure it would scar but not get infection.

The tension in his shoulders and jaw went away at some point, though Nathaniel wasn’t sure when.

For some reason, Nathaniel knew how to deal with this.

Pain. Hurt. Ownership. Being owned. Hell, this shit was like his middle name.

The blood-loss had to catch up to him at some point, he supposed. And someone moving him from the couch proved to be just the time. The fabric pulled at his old wounds, opening up a few of the weaker ones. Nathaniel vaguely remembered Katsu picking him up, the angle causing the blood from his neck to fall into his mouth.

Neil flinched when something hit his back. He then realized that it was Jean’s sweatshirt he left on the floor—one that Minyard so eloquently threw at him—and quickly pulled it on. His cuts slid against the fabric, lighting a fire across his chest and back.

Neil glared at Minyard, who was leaning against the wall to Jean’s bed—wait, hang on. Jean’s old bed. His vision made truly pathetic attempts at clearing.

“What the actual fuck are you doing here?” Neil asked. Minyard just shrugged. Neil didn’t have the time nor the patience for that. “Leave. Get out.”

“What, no thank you?” Minyard asked. Neil saw his blurry, painted-on smile and shuddered in sympathy, knowing the effects that drugs can have on you. Riko had tried them when he was younger, but later learned that he liked seeing the true reactions of the people he tortured. His words, not Neil’s.

Neil pushed himself up on the bed, hissing in pain. Minyard didn’t move, for which Neil was very grateful. Jean’s sweatshirt then slipped off his shoulder, and as Neil went to pull it back up, he physically felt Minyard tense. Neil traced his eyes across the ground, looking at the tension that he held across his shoulders.

Neil went to lock eyes with Minyard, wanting to gauge his reaction. They locked eyes–well, not really. Minyard wasn’t seeing Neil. He was looking at him, but Neil knew that empty, slightly glassed over gaze like the back of his hand.

Andrew wasn't in the room.

Neil didn’t know where he was—obviously no place good. Minyard’s right hand went under the cuff of his left sweatshirt and started to scrape at the skin there.

Then Neil had major deja vu.

He knew where he had seen that look before—and not just on his own face. He’d seen that process so many times to have it down to a science: trigger, dissociate, violence (back when Neil had known him, it was typically self-harm). Neil had seen that, for almost four months, in a disgusting cell that lacked personal space, in a tiny town in California. The realization made his brain short-circuit, yet by the time he looked back at Andrew—oh my god, it’s Andrew—he still wasn’t in the room. Neil wondered how much blood he lost if it took him that long to notice.

“Drew,” Neil said. Andrew, wherever he was, didn’t hear him. Neil pushed himself off the bed and leaned against the adjacent wall as his vision frayed because of the pain.

Once his vision cleared, Neil started to worry. He could only think of a few things to snap Andrew out of the state he was in.

“Andrew Doe. Tell me five things you hate about exy,” Neil said. Andrew then blinked and Neil watched his shoulders slightly relax. It was never truly that easy, but for someone who didn’t care enough about exy to hate it, that one question was very out of place for Andrew.

They locked eyes. Neil couldn’t believe that they were in the same room together again. That they weren’t dead. At least, not yet.

In the Nest, to steer clear of Kevin the past year, Neil avoided the press like the plague. He obviously knew that Andrew Minyard had joined the Foxes, and knew every single stat that Andrew had, courtesy of Riko. But when Neil knew Andrew—correction, when Spencer Green knew Andrew—he was Andrew Doe. And because Minyard also avoided the press with more effort than he put into life, Neil only ever saw him with goalie gear on.

Even then, in that room, Andrew looked different. Minyard, now, was built like a fucking wall. And Neil knew that it wasn’t just because he was a Class 1 goalie.

It was all very Daisy Buchanan meeting Gatsby again, no?

“My, Abram, what red hair you have,” Andrew said. “And what blue eyes.” Neil snorted.

“Asshole,” he said.

“Right back at you,” Andrew responded.

“Not an asshole, a ju—”

“Junkie. You, Abram Green—or so you said—are a junkie,” Andrew said. His eyes narrowed on Neil’s neck. Neil didn’t have the energy to go swap Jean’s sweatshirt for one that actually fit to help hide the bruising on his neck. Despite his efforts, Neil was never able to hide from Andrew. Even if he tried, Neil didn’t know how to. “Fate is a bitch.”

Neil scoffed.

“Karma is a bitch. We knew I wouldn’t make it far,” Neil said.

“Fine. We will discuss this later. We have to go,” Andrew said. “Can you walk?” Neil was then thrown back into reality. He looked around, noticed Riko lying on the ground, and remembered that his reality hadn’t changed.

“I can’t leave,” Neil said.

“Why.” Neil shrugged. “Elaborate, Abram.”

“Because the main branch will kill me if I do. Just go, Drew,” Neil said.

“It’s ironic that you thought those words would work a second time,” Andrew responded. Neil felt like he got punched. They stared at each other. Neil had tried hard to forget Andrew, but by God, he missed him.

“I can’t go. Riko is about to wake up. You need to leave,” Neil said, sentences clipped. Neil knew that Andrew could tell that something was wrong, other than the obvious.

“Do you really think I’ll walk away after what I just saw? This is Hell. Don’t even try to tell me otherwise.” Neil clenched his jaw. Andrew knew his uncanny ability to ignore pain to survive.

“We don’t have a deal,” Neil said. “And if you stay here one minute longer, the person who you do have a deal with is going to march his ass down here.” Andrew said nothing, burning hatred behind his eyes. So Neil’s assumption was accurate. Andrew had a deal with Kevin. And with that, Neil knew the only way to make Andrew leave without him.

Neil watched Andrew clench his hands into fists.

“I promised Kevin that I would not let you die,” Andrew said.

“I won’t die. I have a plan,” Neil said. “A very time sensitive plan that requires me to not pass out before I execute it.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Andrew said.

“I’m not,” Neil gritted out.

“I promised him.”

“And I promise you that I won’t die,” Neil said, then relented, “... unless something diverges from the plan.”

“Promises are shit if you don’t mean them,” Andrew said.

“I’ve had them broken too many times to believe them, too, and fuck you for thinking I would mean anything less.” Neil’s words were dripping with venom.

“I never thought that,” Andrew said. “Only that your martyr addiction tends to outweigh it.”

What a way to repeat the past, Neil thought.

“Fine,” Neil relented. “I have a burner phone.” Andrew considered that before nodding. Neil was ready to jump out of his skin with anxiety, because Riko, though unconscious at the moment, was still a major threat in the room that he’d rather remove. Andrew started walking towards the door.

“You call me so I know you are alive,” Andrew said. Neil told Andrew his number, knowing he wouldn’t forget it.

“Fine,” Neil said. He watched Andrew turn away, getting another major deja vu from when Neil was dragged away from him in Oakland. “Wait.” Andrew turned his head to the side to show that he was listening. “Tell Kevin that I want to leave but I can’t. Main branch issues. He’ll get it.”

Andrew nodded.

“Andrew,” Neil called. “My real name is Nathaniel.”

Andrew turned around and slowly looked at him. Neil didn’t feel like he was being watched, though. The weight of his gaze wasn’t uncomfortable like most are.

“Even now, you’re still lying,” Andrew said. Neil furrowed his brows.

“I’m not—”

“Really?” Andrew asked. “You want to be Nathaniel? Who named you Nathaniel?” Neil couldn’t find any words. There was something different about Andrew. Neil couldn’t see the psychopathic, apathetic, manic asshole Riko made him to be in Neil’s mind. He couldn’t even picture them being the same person. Andrew was apathetic when he needed to be—when he was forced to be to survive—but doesn’t everyone do that? When the situation forces it?

“Neil,” he said. “Neil Abram.” Andrew looked at him and nodded.

“Unfortunate to meet you, Neil,” Andrew said. “Andrew. Andrew Minyard. Nothing else.”

Neil knew that he heard him and would tell Kevin exactly what he said. Andrew didn’t look back and Neil didn’t expect him to. Neither of them were fortunate enough to have the privilege of feeling regret.

Neil shoved anything he felt about Andrew down where he put all of his emotions. He could think about that after he finished everything he needed to do for Jean.

He would text Kevin the number for the burner phone later, too.

Okay, Neil thought. Ignore it. Focus. Time for step two.

—

Andrew walked out towards the car, seething as blood dripped from his clenched fist. Abram was alive. He told himself that he wouldn’t ever see him again. That Abram would die or leave or abandon him like all the other people in his life. He did end up leaving, didn’t he? Andrew knew it wasn’t voluntary, but his mind had a fun time telling himself that it was for the three months he had been left in juvie by himself.

If it weren’t for Kevin, Aaron, and Nicky, Andrew would drag Neil out of the Nest kicking and screaming. Yakuza be damned.

He ascended the steps of Hell and part of him (the part that wasn’t thinking about Neil) thought that it was too easy. Yet with mama birdie taken out for the time being, and post-game celebrations underway, Andrew thought that was possible.

He saw their car. Thanks to Kevin, it was the same model that all of the Ravens got, rendering it less suspicious. Andrew felt nausea envelope him, his veins screaming for drugs that he didn’t want to give them. He stumbled and landed against the side of the car, doubling over his knees and retching.

Throwing up in the bushes outside the Nest was the least of Andrew’s problems. He almost preferred it if he did.

Wymack threw his door open, but Andrew signaled him off, squeezing his eyes shut and willing his world to stop tilting on its axis.

A couple minutes later he got in the car. Wymack pulled directly out of the parking lot and hit the suburban roads going fifty. Technically, he wasn’t far enough over the speed limit to be pulled over by a cop. Andrew then remembered the French bastard they actually went into the Nest to get and turned around in his seat. Kevin and a reluctantly angry Jean were arguing in French. The romance language made it sound much more poetic than Andrew assumed their conversation actually was.

The French bastard was a sight. He was objectively handsome; reaching 6’6” with black hair and built like a professional athlete. He had the stare of a natural-born asshole, which just added to it, if you asked Andrew.

Kevin cut off abruptly, seemingly too wrapped up in their bickering to notice that they had left. He looked around the car, and Andrew could see the panic behind his eyes, though subtle. Andrew knew that mask was practiced. Or forced, depending on how one looked at it.

“Andrew,” Kevin said. “Where–”

“He’s not here. I have a plan. Don’t ask me again,” Andrew said. Kevin, who Andrew had learned was very protective and fond of Neil, looked ready to argue. “I will tell you later. You know that.” Kevin took that for the truth it was.

Andrew then looked over at Frenchy, who was doing his best to stare at the receding trees outside the window. Andrew raised his eyebrow at it before looking over at Kevin.

“I just told him,” Kevin started, “that I came to get him out. I know Riko too well.” Kevin then turned to Jean. Raven number two had much more of a spine than people gave him credit for. “You know him, Jean. You couldn’t possibly think that the second he heard of my transfer, he wouldn’t kill you. And Kengo is getting sick, which won’t help.”

Jean turned on him, mild surprise flickering over his features before he quickly buried it.

“I get that, Day,” Jean said. “What I do not get is why you left Nathaniel in there. What the fuck are you thinking?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to get you both out. And, the main branch can kill you, not Nathaniel. We have a plan to get him out,” Kevin said. He was practically yelling. Andrew could tell that Jean’s words were hurting him more than he let on. They all understood, though, that if Jean knew it had been Neil who got him out of the Nest, he would go right back. His situation needed to look like it was out of both Jean’s and Neil’s control.

Andrew made a mental note to ask Wymack how he managed to keep Jean in the car for so long.

“That is rich, Kevin, really,” Jean said. His face was a war, wanting to defend Neil but not share anything he shouldn’t.

“We will get him out, Jean. You had to be first. The main branch would kill us if three out of their four star players left the Nest within the span of a year.”

“He could die in there, Kevin,” Jean snapped. Andrew knew which side of the war just won out.

“No. He won’t,” Kevin argued, though Andrew knew Kevin didn’t truly believe it. Kevin had broken down too many times over it for him to truly believe anything else. “He–”

“You have no idea what it has been like since you left,” Jean said. “You left the man you loved, Kevin—who loved you. It nearly killed him, do you know that? I found him, twice, nearly dead in our bathroom without help from Riko. And you just came and took me away from him. Tell me, Kevin. Who is looking out for him right now? You and I both know that it certainly is not himself—so who?”

Andrew felt like he was drowning. Sinking ships in flames.

“I was the only person in there who cared enough about him to keep him alive. Do you remember why there is a partner system in the first place? The real reason? You know, Kevin. You know better than anyone that it is impossible to survive the Nest by yourself. Nathaniel does not leave the court without me there to pull him off. He does not make it out of the locker room unless both of us are there to fend off Riko and his players. He does not fucking eat without me constantly reminding him to. The only reason he refuses to torment Riko is because he is afraid that it will turn around on me. He does not give a damn about himself.”

This wasn’t all new news to Andrew. He had seen some of it in juvie. Just like back then, anger still enveloped Andrew’s entire being.

He wasn’t lying when he said he had a plan. That plan, he believed in. Whether or not Neil would agree to the plan, is a different story.

Neil? Andrew wished he had more faith in Neil than he did. Andrew would put his life in Neil’s hands, but not Neil’s own.

Kevin clenched his left hand repeatedly, a near indecipherable wince covering his features every few times. Andrew could nearly hear the creak of the steering wheel as Wymack tightened his hands around it.

Andrew turned around and grabbed one of the plastic-wrapped mints that you get at restaurant reception desks out of the cup holder. He threw one at Kevin’s hand, and after two more and an annoyed glare, Kevin finally got the hint and stopped hurting himself.

“He and I were together, Jean. You don’t think I know this?” Kevin said.

“But you have not lived it since you left,” Jean said.

“I get it. I fucked up. But we can only do so much this second–”

“I am not mad you left, Kevin. I am mad that you took me out.” Jean tossed a look at Kevin, brimming with contempt.

“I’m not going to waste my breath telling you that there was nothing I could do because you won’t hear me. There was one way to do this,” Kevin threw back.

“Fuck you,” Jean snarled.

“Frenchy,” Andrew cut in. Jean looked over at him. “Kevin went to get you out of the Nest multiple times. I stopped him. If you are here to yell at someone, yell at me.” Andrew felt his lungs expand and contract in uneven, labored breaths. He could feel his meds—or lack thereof—tearing his insides.

“You and what army?” Jean asked. At least the French bastard knew how much Kevin fought for something he wanted.

“Me,” Wymack said. “And every other fox. We’re not an easy group, but we’re protective.” This was news to Jean. He was more than certain that Nathaniel didn’t know Kevin tried to come back for him.

“And before you actually yell at me,” Andrew said, “listen.”

“What?” Jean snapped. Andrew looked over his shoulder and saw Wymack take the exit for the airport.

“I have contact with Neil,” Andrew said. Jean looked surprised. “I will not let him die. I will find a way to get him out, but it can’t be this second. It was either take one or leave both. I decided to take one.” That wasn’t true, but it was the next likely story.

Jean stared at him for a moment, looking for something. Andrew’s head tipped forward, the lack of drugs shutting down his system, his hand slipping from the center console. Kevin grabbed the blanket he brought and put it over the console before Andrew hit his head. Fucking striker reflexes.

Kevin handed him the pills, the sound of the bottle simultaneously repulsive and relieving. Andrew downed two dry and flipped back around in the passenger seat.

“He does not hate you,” Jean told Kevin. “I do. Only because it is easier to hate someone than it is to forgive them.” Jean paused. “I am not mad at you for not taking me with you when you got out. I am not mad at you for leaving.” Andrew heard Kevin sigh.

“What are you–” Kevin started. By the time Andrew turned around and his vision cleared, he saw Jean grab Kevin’s left hand, the gentleness of the gesture juxtapositioning with the anger radiating off of him.

Andrew almost went to throttle him, but Jean just waited until Kevin opened his hand before laying his own palm flat on top.

“What–? Why are you–”

“Shut up, Kevin,” Jean said. Andrew knew the war going on in Kevin’s head. Though Andrew wouldn’t admit it, Kevin was the person he was closest to. Kevin stared at Jean, his face intentionally blank.

Kevin spent sixteen years in the Nest.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jean said, just above a whisper. He was still staring out the window. “You do not deserve that. You never did.” And you don’t have to do it yourself.

Andrew continued to pry his eyes open for the next ten minutes.

“Minyard,” Wymack called. He looked over at Andrew when they reached a stop light. “You can sleep. I will get them—and you—home safely.” Kevin and Jean were talking in quiet French, too wrapped up to hear Wymack. Andrew cut his eyes over to Wymack, glaring at him through his half closed eyelids. “Trust me, kid.”

Andrew slowly nodded, and dropped off to sleep less than a minute later.

In the Nest, he wondered just how alive Neil actually was.

—

Neil stood in the bathroom, staring at the amount of damage Riko managed to inflict on him. It was a surprising amount, honestly, and that was coming from someone who had lived with the perverted asshole for almost thirteen years. Neil needed to start phase two of the plan now, and not think about Andrew. It was proving to be more difficult than he liked.

Neil wasn’t stupid enough to think that Kengo and Ichirou didn’t know what happened in the Nest. They just… looked the other way until it either caused a slight annoyance or had an effect on Moriyama's income. Neither of which had fully happened yet. Riko had been ‘spoken to’ a few times—whatever the Hell that meant.

However, Neil threw a massive wrench in both of those priorities by getting Jean out of the nest. And he knew it, which meant that he had to make Ichirou believe that it was necessary.

That, and negotiate a deal that would never, in any mafia book or movie, actually happen.

Piece of cake.

He pulled off his sweatshirt and cursed when he saw that some of his wounds had already clotted. Biting down on his toothbrush and bracing against the bathroom sink, he started to pull the half-formed scabs off all of the cuts Riko made. They immediately started bleeding, which was the intended purpose. Neil needed to look like Riko attempted to reenact a scene from The Shining on him. And he did, which was good. It didn’t take too much effort, after all.

It hurt like absolute Hell.

Neil limped his way out of the bathroom. He looked down at Riko, still passed out, and gave him an extra kick in the head to make sure he didn’t feel like waking up before Neil finished with Ichirou.

He stumbled his way out of the room and drunkenly attempted to find his way to the East Tower. Neil had been there enough to know it by heart. Luckily, he wouldn't need to fake passing out if the black spots surrounding his vision were anything to go by.

He got to the elevator and left a bloody handprint on the button for the proper floor. The only floor, really, that this elevator went to.

In and out. This is for Jean. Just breathe.

He knew Ichirou would be there, as he was during every game night, but the sight of him—albeit blurry—still caused Neil to flinch. He tripped on his way out of the elevator and went crashing to his knees, not even intentionally.

Ichirou turned around at the noise and Neil watched his eyes widen a fraction of a centimeter. The fact that they widened at all, though, meant he had gotten his attention. Neil leaned against the elevator doors as his vision blacked out for a few seconds, before dragging himself to his feet. He prayed to Gods he didn’t believe in that he stayed standing. Neil then made a pathetic attempt at a bow, even for his standards.

“Nathaniel,” Ichirou started. “How lovely to see you, interrupting my private time, in the beautifully appropriate state you are.”

Neil tensed, righting himself. Muscle-memory had his eyes searching for the exits, despite knowing that the only one was behind him. He noticed six bodyguards positioned throughout the room, with drinks scattered on the wet bar and various side tables. Neil wondered how long ago the others left.

His eyes snapped up to the faces of the bodyguards, and let out a slow breath when he didn’t see any of his father’s men. The relief was short-lived, because two of the guards weren’t staring at Neil like he was a threat. Their eyes ran up and down his chest, a dark hunger pooling behind their badly concealed sneers.

Just like that, Neil didn’t think he belonged there anymore.

And Nathaniel didn’t care enough to mourn how quickly Neil died. If anything, he was thankful, because his father taught him that death itself isn’t the worst part of dying.

“My Lord,” Nathaniel said. There was no way around it. “Jean–”

“Is no longer in the Nest,” Ichirou interrupted him. “I am aware. You played quite a significant role in that, I heard.”

Nathaniel didn’t know how Ichirou knew everything; simply that he did.

“I also know that Jean would never leave the Nest of his own accord. If you are here to plead your case, you might as well get on with it.” Ichirou didn’t turn away from the court, as if Nathaniel wasn’t sharing anything important, as if… as if Ichirou already had a plan for Jean.

Shit.

Nathaniel wanted to look down and see if his feet were still touching the floor. He knew better than to move. Ichirou’s men wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. If they did, Ichriou would likely kill them himself.

“Riko has some… difficulties dealing with hard emotions,” Nathaniel said in Japanese. He kept his voice steady. “He didn’t take well to Kevin’s announcement, My Lord. He would have killed Jean tonight and you would have lost an asset. I ensured that didn’t happen.”

Ichirou clinked his nails against the whiskey glass he held, but didn’t say anything. Nathaniel hadn’t expected an answer.

“My Lord, I believe Moreau will bring in more revenue if he finishes his collegiate career at a different university. He isn’t suited to the Nest. He is made for someplace like USC, where he can train to become one of the best backliners in the country.” Nathaniel took a breath. When no one shot him, he took that as permission to continue. “Moreau is a good player, and if he stayed here, that is all he will ever be. He has the chance to be great, My Lord, and USC can provide that.”

“Katsu, inform Nathan that Moreau is his next job,” Ichirou said. Nathaniel felt the air get sucked from his lungs, and they refused to expand. Red painted his vision, blending with fear and creating a mix of emotions that Nathaniel didn’t have the energy to properly deal with.

“Do you really think it’s more productive to have Jean fertilize soil instead of making you over a hundred million dollars a year while pro?” Nathaniel had never been able to control his anger. He felt someone grab his shoulder and slam a steel-toed shoe into the back of his right knee. The bodyguard pulled his left arm so far up his back that he worried it would dislocate. Nathaniel fought through the pain, trying not to gag at the hands touching his bare skin. “...My Lord.”

A hand grabbed Nathaniel’s hair and wrenched it back. Ichirou hadn’t moved, except for one finger that was no longer touching his glass. Nathaniel wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t find it in himself to apologize.

Can you blame him? Nathaniel didn’t know who he would become if he killed Jean. He didn’t trust himself to not become some sick twist of Lola and DiMaccio.

Ichirou looked over his shoulder, his black eyes pinning Nathaniel to the ground. The bodyguards didn’t even need to hold him—he couldn’t move if he tried. Nathaniel saw the right side of Ichriou’s mouth pull in a small, lethal smile.

“Send me to Nathan, My Lord. Moreau is more important than I’ll ever be,” Nathaniel said. Ichirou turned to fully face him.

“There is only one way to stop this, Wesninski,” Ichirou said. Nathaniel knew, without a doubt, that he would agree to whatever Ichriou said. “You, more than Moreau, deserve to die—but I don’t like to kill my things if I don’t have to.”

Nathaniel’s world narrowed to include himself and Ichirou, nothing and no one else.

“My Lord?”

“Your father sold you to me, Nathaniel,” Ichirou said, as if discussing the weather.

“Well I’m here, aren’t I?” Neil said, sneering, once Riko was out of ear-shot.

Then the buzzer then sounded, and Neil felt his mind shifting into all things exy. He planted his feet, knowing Jean was directly across from him. The buzzer went off again, and Neil truly smiled. He knew exactly what he was doing.

—

The game went over as smooth as can be. The Ravens were overly aggressive and the opposing team cowered as they lost. It finished with Neil sending a pass to Riko that settled the score 19-0. He and Jean, like they always do, didn’t let any goals–it wasn’t even a near thing. Seriously, the lack of faith Riko had in them was pathetic.

For the handshakes after the game, Riko was smiling. Not his I’m going to enjoy cutting into you smile, but his I scored well over half the goals in this game and I’m trying to act like I’m not better than you… when I’m clearly better than you smile.

So, with Riko sitting on his high horse, Tetsuji sent him, Jean, and Neil off to the press. They were walking out of the court as Riko sauntered into the press room when Jean bumped his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Jean asked.

“Yeah. Just worried about the press,” Neil responded. Jean knew how high the stakes were for the press that night. Neil watched his brows furrow, concern edging itself across his forehead. Neil shrugged in response, looking up at Jean with confidence. “I’m fine, Jean.”

“I know,” he said. Jean’s eyes darkened and Neil could tell that he said the wrong answer. “We can watch a movie tonight, if you want. Some French films that you hate.” Neil smiled. To Jean’s knowledge, this would be the first time that Neil would have to talk about Kevin, likely watch videos of Kevin, and get berated with questions since he left the Nest.

“Are there monsters under your bed again, Jean?” Neil asked.

“I was just saying,” Jean mumbled and Neil smiled at his palpable annoyance.

“I’m fine,” Neil responded. Jean raised an eyebrow in a very, ‘Are you sure?’ type of way. Neil shrugged. “I’m a big boy, Jean.”

“Yes, but that is still new,” he said. Neil rolled his eyes at the insinuation.

“Angel, I have been dumped before,” Neil said. Well, at least figuratively, by multiple people in his life.

“Not by Kevin,” Jean responded. Neil knew what he meant, yet didn’t want to think long on it. No one just dated Kevin. Day didn’t date—you were either in a relationship, or you weren’t. And Neil, swinging how he does, didn’t do one-time things. He found no point in them. That was why their relationship worked out so well. Because when they were in a relationship, they were in a relationship. Neil and Kevin had known each other for almost thirteen years–since Neil went to the Nest.

“No,” Neil said, “not by Kevin.” Neil looked up at him to show him that he was fine. “I can handle it. I have for the past two years. The process is still the same.” Jean clenched his jaw and Neil could tell that he was clearly losing this battle. “Don’t worry, I’m cool.”

“Oh, I know you are cool,” Jean said.

“I’m not as sappy as you are, French bastard.” Jean scoffed and shot his eyes skyward, and though Neil knew that Jean didn’t believe he was alright, they were better.

“Shut up, you annoying human being. Just for that, we are going to watch French films. In black and white, nonetheless.” Neil groaned, despite knowing that would never happen.

Actually, that would never happen again.

Neil shut down that thought as quickly as it entered his head. He knew that he would break too soon if he thought that. Jean will be in a better place, with the Jeremy ‘fucking ray of sunshine, contagious happiness, and team health—along with mental health—is of utmost priority’ Knox in LA. Neil knew everything was a two-way mirror, but he figured it was a good place to start. Well, if all went according to plan.

“Moreau, Wesninski,” Tetsuji snapped. Both Neil and Jean slightly flinched, though no one but themselves would be able to tell. “Get in the press room, now. Don’t make me say it again.”

“Yes, Master,” Neil said. Jean bowed, and his elbow shot out to Neil’s ribcage a second later to make him do so also.

“Asshole,” Neil whispered.

“Nathaniel,” Tetsuji said. “Not another word. I’ll see you in my office later if so. Now go, both of you.” Neil and Jean started to walk away, backs straight and completely in their Raven mind-set again. “Three and Four.” They both paused and looked over their shoulders. “That performance was adequate. We need to work on that.”

Need to work on that my ass, Neil thought.

“Our apologies, Master,” Neil said. “We will fix it.”

They didn’t allow for a single goal to pass them and they still sucked. Would they ever be good enough? Neil didn’t even know why he asked himself such a stupid question.

Neil wondered, not for the first time, if that had been what Kevin felt on a daily basis–especially the year before he left the Nest. Neil knew it was, but Kevin had it on an entirely new level of insanity—degrading remarks, public humiliation, abuse, forced self harm. Even the thought made Neil see red.

They both nodded and went down the black and red hallway to the press room. Jean opened the door and they walked in, taking their ‘rightful places’ by Riko’s side.

“We will now take questions and comments. Nathaniel, you can start,” Tetsuji said. Nathaniel – no matter how many times he did it, even disregarding the temper tantrums Riko often threw after – honestly hated doing press. He smiled. The three of them, to the innocent eye, looked like they were standing on top of the world. Best college team in the country and arguably three of the best exy players out there. Now, would Riko be considered in that list if Neil and Jean weren’t handing him passes all of the time… they’ll never know. Well, actually, Nathaniel planned to expose that eventually.

He was going down to Hell pretty soon, especially when Jean leaves, and he planned to drag Riko with him. Neil didn’t care if he got burned or killed in the process. He wasn’t going to die, however, without taking away everything Riko loved first. And that starts with exy. Neil, as brilliant as he was, would be putting that plan into motion that night: Jean getting out of the Nest. Everyone with half a brain cell knew that Jean was one of the best backliners in the country, and Neil knew that he could be the best if he wasn’t beaten to Hell and back every other day.

“Yes?” Neil asked, making eye contact with a reporter in the front row.

“Amazing game, Nathaniel. All three of you are unstoppable on the court. Could you shed some light on your training?” they asked. Neil slightly relaxed at the basic question, knowing Tetsuji likely paid them.

“Thank you very much. The Ravens are just what people think we are. A group of people that have an unbelievable love and dedication for exy. And without our amazing captain, that is all we would be—college students that like to play. With Riko Moriyama’s encouraging and concise leadership, and our brilliant coach, Tetsuji, they are able to form us into a well-oiled machine. Into a team that is unstoppable on the court, and a family off of it,” Neil lied. He went through his mental checklist: acknowledged the players, said the Ravens were the best, gave all of the fucking credit to Riko, referenced the petty uncle, and died a little bit inside.

Yep, he got everything.

As usual, Jean took the next question. It was about his technique, and he responded according to the checklist, also. Then Riko took most of the questions, luckily. They answered the typical questions on Kevin, and didn’t give them any more information. Neil held his breath hoping that was all they would ask about Kevin.

Near the end of the press conference, a reporter from the back elbowed their way to the front and Neil felt his stomach drop.

“Number one,” he called. “Riko.”

“Yes?” Riko asked, all sharp smiles.

“There is rumor that Kevin Day has signed with the Foxes to play next year. Do you think that he will pose a threat to your team as he might be the best striker in all of exy?” the reporter asked. Neil saw Jean tense in his periphery. Neil didn’t need to see Riko’s expression to know that tight-lipped smile, fists clenched in his pockets, and eyes that were ready to draw blood. He let his hand fall to the small of Jean’s back, an empty gesture of support.

Riko’s hand then found its way to Neil’s opposite shoulder, his nails digging into the flesh there. Neil clenched his teeth against the sting.

“I am very happy that Kevin has managed to recover enough from his unfortunate accident. I want him to play and be the best player he can be,” Riko paused, and Neil gazed into the cameras, knowing a general idea of what Riko would say next. “It is going to be very hard, though, watching my brother make another useless attempt at playing. Having been so close with him… I don’t want to see him go out and fail because I know he will. I just want to protect him, and no matter how far away he is. Because, Kevin, you are never out of my reach.”

Neil looked off to the corner of the room, away from the reporters. The stupid, idiotic press were nearly tearing up at Riko’s love and devotion to his brother. Neil and Jean—and certainly Kevin—knew exactly what Riko meant. Riko declared that Kevin was still directly under his thumb, no matter how many states away he went, and he could still reach him. If Kevin didn’t surrender now, Riko would ensure that he suffered to every end.

Like Hell Neil would let that happen.

Neil knew Kevin better than anyone. He knew Kevin’s dedication like the back of his hand. It wouldn’t be amazing from the start, and Kevin would undoubtedly work harder than most people can even imagine, but he will not fail. Kevin had a passion for exy that rivaled Neil’s.

Kevin would go all in and wouldn’t let himself fail. He had a support team that wouldn't let him fail. Neil wouldn’t let him fail.

When Kevin and Neil trained together a few years ago, they always said that it’s either everything they have or nothing at all. Both of them had–and still do have–a hard time putting in less than 150%, and it’s completely unproductive if they try to. There are good and bad sides to that, but it was all or nothing for them. Either max out on effort or none at all.

“I am sorry to interrupt,” Jean said, flashing a smile across the room. “Yet we have a win to celebrate. We wish every other team the best of luck and thank our opponent today for putting up an enjoyable fight. Excuse us.”

A timer went off in Neil’s head.

Minute one.

As the three walked towards the door and into the hallways, Neil popped his head back into the press room.

“And one more thing,” Neil said, watching as every camera turned towards him. “For Kevin Day: no regrets–” Neil felt a hand on the back of his jersey rip him from the room.

There was a non-zero chance that Neil would die that night. He knew that. But non-zero was still a number.

—

Minute two.

Riko wrapped his arm around Neil’s waist, successfully crushing him to his side. Riko leaned in, his breath right on Neil’s ear, making him want to cringe away.

“Oh, Nathaniel. That was very stupid,” Riko growled. “I’m going to have fun with you tonight. You’ll be begging before the clock strikes 12, and at that point, we would have only started.” Neil turned to look at him. “I heard Nathan is good at dragging out torture, no?” Neil went cold.

“How poetic,” he responded.

“In the locker room, Wesninski,” Riko said, shoving Neil against the wall and storming off. Neil knew that he had ten seconds—at most—before Riko came looking for him, so he turned a serious expression on Jean.

“Are you okay, mon cheri?” Jean asked. Neil nodded in return.

“Jean. Tetsuji told me to send you to the cars.” Confusion spread across Jean’s face but Neil didn’t have time for questions. “He said something about Court or sponsors wanting to talk to you. That’s why I was a minute late to the game.”

“Why are you not coming?” Jean asked. Neil feigned innocence.

“I don’t know. You’re hotter, I guess,” Neil said. “No idea, Jean. Riko is about to march his petty ass right back out here and beat my ass to the ground–”

“More reason as to why I should not be leaving right now–” Neil knew he was running out of time. He stepped closer to Jean as some of his teammates passed in the hallway and pinned him with his gaze.

“I’m more than confident in Riko’s ability to torture both of us. Go, Jean. Tetsuji is going to be pissed at you, and then me, if you’re late.” Jean nodded seriously, giving Neil that look he always had when he didn’t want to leave Neil alone. Jean grabbed Neil and pulled him into his chest, putting his nose to his hair and breathing. Neil refused to show how much pain that one gesture put him in. Jean let go and walked away without looking back. He was a stoic, cold asshole, in all honesty.

You didn’t survive in the Nest if you turned back. You couldn’t care about people. That was how it always worked.

Neil figured that he hadn’t thought about the full implications of his actions as he watched Jean walk away. He thought about everything that mattered. Yet, like per usual, he couldn’t—well, more like refused—to think about the impact it would have on himself. It was just like everyone said; they were partners. They won together, they lost together, they triumphed together, and they were beaten together. Every loss was their own, every pain shared. They matched bloody scar for bloody scar.

Neil shook his head as if trying to get the thoughts out of it.

Neil made his way to the locker room and figured that he would have an easier time explaining why his eyes were red after he took a few punches. He didn’t have time to think about Jean leaving.

Minute three.

Neil swung open the doors to the locker room.

“Riko,” Neil called. “Just because Kevin is bett–”

And Nathaniel was thrown against the metal lockers.

Sometimes, Nathaniel thought, Riko was just too easy.

—

Andrew Minyard contemplated how he got himself into that situation. Honestly, he did not have the mental capacity to see past his manic haze and figure out that reason. Did it drive him to absolutely no end? Yes. Was it even more frustrating when the artificial chemicals in his brain tried to switch topics the second he got deep enough in his own thoughts to make progress?

More… than… anything.

His mind kept him on the surface, and Andrew didn’t have the luck in life to only see the surface in every situation.

Including the one he was in right now.

Especially the one he was in now.

Trying to avoid mama bird as he descended from the top of the tree and into the Nest.

Mr. Kevin Day—himself—asked Andrew if he would go in and save a little no-name birdie from all of the bad traumas. Though, if he had been there as long as Kevin said he had, the birdie was well on his way to being in a mental hospital before next Christmas.

Do they celebrate Christmas in the Nest? Probably not, right?

Well, maybe there is a different holiday they celebrate.

Possibly Easter. There was some satirical irony about birds that Andrew didn’t bother to figure out.

Andrew finished his descent into Hell and looked around. Kevin really wasn’t kidding about all of the back. Andrew, because he wanted to, only wore black, but there was something about the black of the Nest that was more suffocating than relieving.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Andrew thought. Ha.

Andrew tried to shove out his drug mania as he walked through the Nest, looking for a certain redhead. That had been all Mr. Day had told him about this rescue trip he was currently executing. Andrew hadn’t even let the thought of Kevin going in himself pass his mind, yet once Kevin showed more spine than Andrew had ever seen in him, he reluctantly agreed.

Was it because he was slightly curious about this no-name redhead birdie that seemed to remind Kevin of ghosts every time he was mentioned? There was something about this specific birdie that even Jean and Kevin didn’t have. Something that Andrew couldn’t quite figure out yet. They hadn’t seen each other in almost two years, Andrew knew that much.

His mind snapped back into the present when he noticed Tetsuji walking down the corridor. Luckily, the bird tamer turned before he noticed Andrew.

He remembered everything Kevin told him with his mind’s stunning accuracy—a blessing and a curse. Kevin told him that the redhead would be behind the second door on the left of the perfect court’s hallways. Andrew weaved his way through the Nest, honestly hating every minute of it. There was something about the Nest that sent so many alarm bells off in his head. And with the right reason.

Andrew arrived at a red hallway with black doors, too many to be the perfect court. He continued until the hallway bifurcated. The right side headed to the hallway that led to the court, Andrew assumed, and the left had a different kind of hallway. It was all black, with four red doors.

Andrew then noticed a flaw in their already majorly-flawed plan. The hallway opened at both ends, which would mean that the left side could be either, depending on where you stood.

He clenched his fists and stared at them. His drug induced mania was at its final edge of his consciousness, almost fully out of his mind. Andrew felt that clarity already and sighed in relief. He knew he had about thirty minutes before the nausea kicked in.

He was swimming in time.

Oh, which to choose. There was a 25% chance of choosing the right door, and then about a 33% chance after that if it turned out to be the wrong one, and then an even better chance if that turned out to be the wrong door and he switched.

One door was propped open, but Andrew assumed mama birdie liked to play with his hens out of sight, out of mind. Maybe, though, breeding flightless birds wasn’t the best way to stay inconspicuous.

Unless Riko was into humiliation. Andrew would have to check his porn-hub history.

Then someone screamed behind one of the doors and Andrew’s whole body tensed. He drew his eyes to the last door on his right and knew that his chances just neared 100% accuracy.

The problem was not only the scream itself, but that type of scream. It was agony, it was pain–it was someone pushing his head into a pillow.

Andrew’s hand was on the door in seconds and he shoved it open so aggressively that it crashed against the back wall with a bang.

The following sight—half a second, at most—would be embedded into Andrew’s head for the rest of eternity. It wasn’t like he could block it out.

Riko had someone who he assumed to be redhead face down on a black bed. Redhead’s hands were cuffed and crossed at the headboard, both ankles chained to bottom posts on the bed. Riko was straddling the back of Redhead’s thighs, the hilt of one knife in his mouth so he could transfer his other knife to his right hand. The truly sickening sight that had Andrew questioning if his drugs had worn off a long time ago, was Redhead’s back. There were light and deep gashes, thin and wide ones, short and long slices. The blood to skin ratio had to be at least 2:1. Redhead was bleeding to the point where it completely saturated the top of the mattress and was dripping off the black frame of the bed, making a constant tip, tip, tip, sound on the floor.

Andrew was starting to understand all of the black. And his mind was able to get all of that in less than a second. A beautiful curse.

Andrew threw himself at Riko before he had the pleasure of noticing, his own knives slipping into his hand. Andrew swung right for Riko’s face, having the advantage of surprise, anger, and so much more skill. A slash cut across Riko’s right cheekbone, causing him to drop his own knife onto Redhead’s back with a resounding splat. Riko’s hands flew to his face and Andrew swung again, cutting across his fingers before grabbing Riko’s shoulders and throwing him on the floor.

Anger was coursing through Andrew’s veins, making him feel high on something other than chemicals.

Andrew pulled Riko up by his hair, then his collar, and slammed his back into the post of the bed. Andrew knelt and put a knife directly on Riko’s jugular, wanting to see the fear in his eyes as he realized he was going to die.

“I will see you in Hell,” Andrew said, pressing the knife in slowly enough for him to feel it. If Riko deserved anything in life, it was a slow death.

“Stop,” someone croaked. Andrew froze his knife, barely a centimeter into Riko’s flesh, and flashed his eyes towards Redhead. He truly looked two seconds from passing out.

“You cannot possibly be telling me to stop,” Andrew said. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t have to listen to you, and I have reason to kill him.” Riko tried to speak and Andrew pressed the knife a little deeper.

“If you kill him, I will die,” Redhead said.

“How convenient,” Andrew responded. “I have yet to hear a valid reason to stop.”

“If he dies, the Moriyamas would have no use for me. They would kill me, and likely Kevin,” Redhead breathed. “No Ravens, no money, no use.”

Andrew clenched his jaw, staring Riko down. He remembered his promises, and wouldn't break them. But he also thought that the world was a much better place with one less dictator. Well, he supposed he could postpone his killing. Despite not knowing the redhead, Andrew knew that he was right.

“Just this once,” Andrew intoned to Riko. “But I do promise–and I truly mean this–that I will kill you next time I get the chance.” Riko looked to be seething in anger.

“You–” he started.

“Shut up.” Andrew then swung a fist for Riko’s face. His skull rebounded off the metal post behind his head, effectively knocking him out. Andrew had been trying to concave his nose, but he figured that unconsciousness and the immediate swelling around Riko’s face was enough.

For now.

Andrew really hated him.

“Minyard,” Redhead called. “Back left pocket. There should be a pair of keys.”

And Andrew felt nauseated again, yet for an entirely different reason. He then looked over at the redhead and locked eyes.

Only one thought popped into Andrew’s head at that moment.

Run, boy. Run.

It was Tuesday and Neil planned to get Jean out on Friday, after the first game of the season. The timing couldn’t be better, because Neil also heard that Kevin signed to play with the Foxes and the announcement is coming out Thursday. Riko and his spoiled-brat-self would not react well and he tended to get a little stabby when things didn't go his way. Neil knew that Tetsuji would prevent Riko from doing anything before the first game of the season on Friday, which meant that the weekend would likely be Hell for anyone in the Perfect Court.

And honestly, Neil had no faith that Riko wouldn’t kill Jean. Neil was partially protected by the main branch so he wouldn’t go to Hell until he wasn’t useful anymore. Yes, Jean was protected, but the main-branch also saw Jean as replaceable. The only good thing that came of being blood-related to the Butcher was that Neil wasn’t. So, in other words, Neil’s plan was just in time.

Hearing about Kevin’s announcement wasn’t much of a shock to Neil. If anything, it made Neil smile. As much as he loved pissing Riko off, Neil was happy that Kevin was playing again. Did it sting to realize that Kevin was moving on completely and seemed to have forgotten about Neil? Maybe, but as per usual, Neil wasn’t going to address that. Neil couldn’t blame Kevin for going back to a sport that Neil himself couldn’t live without. Pride was a unique emotion for Neil.

So, without his partner to tell him otherwise, Neil’s plan to get Jean out morphed pretty quickly. He knew that he was sending Jean to the Foxes because they were the ones who knew the truth about the Moriyamas (well, Neil assumed they did). He had plans for Jean beyond that, but the hardest part of the plan was getting Jean out of the cult.

Neil knew he couldn't do it himself because Jean wouldn’t leave him. Fucking French idiot.

He would never ask Kevin—Neil would die before he put Kevin anywhere near this.

And that left him with one option.

After dinner and night time practices, everyone was sent back to their rooms. Neil waited four hours into their eight hours of sleep, threw on one of Jean’s hoodies, then walked out of the room. He wasn’t too worried about getting caught in the hallways or the court because people in the Nest weren’t blind. Tetsuji knew what Riko did to Neil and Jean when they went back to their rooms and the rest of his players knew that Neil and Jean marginally never slept. Everyone steered clear of them.

Neil made it to the court, using his freaky ability to make no noise when he moved, and went over to Tetsuji’s office. It was empty and Neil grabbed his lock picks. After getting the door open, Neil opened the cabinet that held two of the Raven-issued phones supposedly distributed to every player when they signed. Yet Neil was a flight risk and Jean was a possession, so who were they to have phones? Truthfully, Riko didn’t take Neil’s phone until two years ago when he caught him making an outgoing call.

Slipping back out of the room was easy, getting back to his own room was easy also. Neil knew he was risking everything, and that this was his one shot to get Jean out. If he got caught, Neil would be sent to his father. No one knew what would happen to Jean

Pushing those thoughts out of his head, Neil made his way to the bathroom and turned on the shower before opening the phone. Neil then dialed a number he had memorized nearly six years ago but never truly thought he would call. First time for everything, right? It rang seven times, which made sense because Neil honestly had no idea what time it was in the outside world.

“What the fuck do you want?” Wymack’s angry voice rang through the phone, making Neil involuntarily flinch. “Anyone there?” Neil took a breath and only thought of Jean.

“Wymack,” Neil said. There was a pause across the line. Shuffling. It sounded like a door clicked shut.

“Who is this?” Wymack asked.

“Nathaniel, sir,” Neil responded. He was met with dead silence for a few seconds.

“Wesninski?” Wymack asked, his voice softening—or, as much as Wymack’s voice could soften. “Jesus Christ, kid.”

He… he sounds relieved, Neil thought, his body going still. What did Wymack have to be relieved about? Neil imagined the Foxes, of all teams, shouldn’t be relieved to hear from a Raven. Neil wasn’t blind to the fake phone calls, attacks, and vandalism they endured, mostly from the Ravens cult-like fans. It got even worse, once word about Kevin leaked.

“...kid?” Wymack asked. By the way he said it, Neil assumed it wasn’t the first time.

“Yes, sorry,” Neil said.

“Something’s wrong,” Wymack said before Neil could open his mouth again. Neil heard his tone shift–it was the same voice Wymack used on the court when one of the Foxes got unfairly checked.

“No shit.”

“You need help, kid?”

“Jean does,” Neil said.

“Moreau? What’s his problem?” Neil almost laughed.

“His problem? A spoiled brat with a delicate ego that won’t be too pleased to learn that Day is back on the court.” Neil sighed. “Look, Riko gets stabby when things don’t go his way and Kevin signing with you is going to piss him off. There is an uncomfortably high chance that Riko will kill Jean, slow and brutal–”

“I get it, kid, don’t worry,” Wymack said. Neil hadn’t been too concerned with Wymack agreeing. As confrontational as he seems, Wymack truly has a bleeding heart for broken children. Even without knowing he was Kevin’s father, Neil still would’ve taken him there. “How are we doing it?”

“Can you get to our game on Friday?”

“I can make it happen.”

“Good. Exactly three minutes after press, I am going to send Jean out to the cars and you need to take him then get out. Keep going and don’t look back. Understand?” Neil asked.

“Yeah, I can handle that.” Wymack sighed, pausing. Neil then realized that he was probably thinking about team logistics.

“Oh, uh, I have a plan for him. After. I just need you to take him to Palmetto for now. I’ll update you on the rest later.”

“That’s fine. Why three minutes?” Neil knew not to be offended by his gruff tone.

“One minute to wrap up the press, one minute to convince Jean to go out to the cars, and one minute to piss Riko off.” Wymack was quiet for a long time. Neil started going back through the conversation in his head to see if he missed anything.

“What about you?” Wymack asked.

“Someone needs to keep Riko distracted,” Neil said dryly. “I just happen to have a natural talent.”

“That’s not gonna go well, kid,” Wymack responded.

“Someone has to.”

“I can’t just leave you there.” Neil froze.

“I’m fine,” Neil lied. He really put no effort into that one. It was a natural reaction, more than anything.

“No one’s ‘fine’ in the Nest, least of all you. I’ve tried to buy your contract from Tetsuji–”

“What?” Neil whispered.

“Kevin told me that’s not how it works with you guys, I know, but I had to try.” In all the ways Neil imagined the conversation going, never once did he think Wymack would offer to take him out. Reputation aside, Neil still didn’t understand why he would spend time arguing this.

Wymack sighed like years were being taken off his life.

“Wesninski, I haven’t liked the idea of you being in the Nest since you dropped Kevin off.”

Oh. Oh. Neil had blocked out everything Kevin since that night, and he didn’t even consider—he should’ve known better, logically.

“You can’t go back, kid,” Wymack said. Nathaniel refused to hear the words. He was a castaway, and he couldn’t afford to think differently.

Nathaniel tore his eyes away and looked at Kevin, unconscious on Wymack’s couch. He passed out before they even made it to the car; but not before Riko shattered his hand, because that would be too kind, right?

He felt his mouth twitch, itching to pull into his father’s smile and wear his mother’s eyes. Nathaniel could see the ligaments and pink muscles of Kevin’s left hand. There were few times Nathaniel wanted to make Lola proud, but it was almost always over Kevin or Jean.

Apart from his hand, Kevin’s body was battered. Without his shirt (Nathaniel tore it off while driving to wrap around his hand), Kevin was lethal beauty, and a map of pain. While it didn’t look like Nathaniel’s patchwork mess, or Jean’s graveyard of words… his beauty was carved from abuse.

Nathaniel knew what today’s bruises covered. Kevin did too many shirtless photoshoots for there to be anything remotely noticeable, but it didn’t matter. Day was pure muscle, crafted from a statue by a diet suited for someone six inches shorter. He saw the faint lines the Master made Kevin inflict on himself everytime he wasn’t ‘good enough.’ Everytime Kayleigh would’ve ‘disowned him’ if she were alive. Tetsuji was smart, though. He never made Kevin cut himself in the same spot twice, or do it deep—just something that would be red for a week and fade over the course of another. Something Kevin would have to remind himself throughout the day.

Even broken, he was beautiful.

“Nathaniel, we can find a way.” Nathaniel brought his eyes back to Wymack’s.“It’s not worth…” Then he watched the words die in his mouth. He wasn’t sure what Wymack saw in his eyes, but Wymack seemed to have some sort of dawning realization. He didn’t bring it up again.

“Thank you,” Nathaniel said, speaking through the tightness in his throat. “I have to go.”

Nathaniel turned before Wymack could say anything else; before he could look at his face again and see the regret that he caused.

Kevin was the only one getting out of the Nest. It was Nathaniel’s home. It was Jean’s home. There was no way out. Little did Riko know that his tantrum created the only opening any of them would likely ever see.

Nathaniel let the screen door slam shut, got in the car, and drove to the nearest gas station. He went on a spontaneous eight mile run. He got back in the car.

He drove. He parked. He went running. He got back in the car.

He drove. He parked. He went running. He got back in the car.

He drove.

Nathaniel made the choice to bury his love, and he stuck by it.

“It’s fine. I’m fine in the Nest. I don’t want to leave,” Neil said, snapping back into the moment.

“Bullshit.” Wymack called. Rightfully so, but Neil didn’t mention that.

“You can’t get me out. I don’t want to leave.” Out of everything he said, Neil didn’t know why this felt like the biggest lie he’s ever told. “There is only one person getting out on Friday. Jean needs to be that person.”

“Not this again. Kid, I’m not letting–”

“Wymack!” someone called. Neil’s world slowed. “Have you seen your fucking team?” Neil knew that voice, and it was getting louder. “They’re a mess, and the most untalented, uncooperative group of people I’ve ever met. You need to get back out here.”

“One minute,” Wymack murmured. Neil distantly heard him yell at Kevin and Neil bit his lip. A door opened and closed, then Neil heard Wymack sigh in defeat. “You’re on speaker.” Fuck. He could hear Kevin breathing.

“Coach, what? We’re extending practice because of this,” Kevin said, clearly exasperated, and Neil almost rolled his eyes. It was so unbelievably Kevin. He was right there. Neil hadn’t heard Kevin’s voice in two years–that included interviews, because Jean always managed to keep Neil occupied during them and never see them.

“Nathaniel, want to pipe in here?” Wymack urged and Neil let out a shaky breath.

“Wait–what?” Neil heard Kevin say to Wymack.

“Kev,” Neil said.

“Nate?” Neil winced.

“Don’t call me that—it’s just Neil, now,” he said. He had to force his mind back on topic. “Can we, uhm. Can we focus?”

“Jesus Christ—fine,” Wymack said and Neil sighed in relief.

“So are we all set?” he asked.

“All set with what?” Kevin asked.

“We’re getting Jean out of the Nest on Friday. I will fill you in later,” Wymack said. Neil wanted to hit him for letting Kevin into the room. A small part of him, however, wondered if Wymack was working above his paygrade.

“But we’re leaving him there.” Kevin’s voice fell flat. Neil thought it was ironic how different Kevin and Wymack sounded when they were angry. Kevin yelled when he was annoying and frustrated, but not angry.

“Kev, you can’t get me out,” Neil said. “And Coach Wymack, Jean is more important.” Neil was sure Kevin heard the unspoken ‘than I am’ at the end of that sentence.

“We could find a way. If we’re getting Jean out, we can get you out,” Kevin said.

“I can’t leave. There’s no point in trying,” Neil said. If Kevin hadn’t tried to get Neil out of the Nest for a long time, Neil didn’t think that was going to change now. Neil didn’t want Kevin to get him out anyway. There was only one way for one of them to get out, and Neil was going to ensure it was Jean.

There was a slight pause over the line, and Neil should’ve known Kevin knew him too well.

“You think I haven’t tried to get you out–” Kevin started. That was news to Neil; something he didn’t have time to unpack then.

“Stop. You know yourself that Riko is going to be fuming after hearing about you signing. There is no way in Hell we are both just going to waltz out of the Nest. He can’t kill me, Day. You know this. But he can kill Jean and pass that off as an accident.” When Kevin didn’t immediately respond, Neil knew he won. “Wymack?”

“What?” he asked, clearly not pleased with the situation either.

“Kevin can’t come on Friday. Promise me that you won’t let him anywhere near the Nest. Have him stay back with someone—maybe Andrew—and do not let him out of his sight.” Neil knew a decent amount about Andrew, courtesy of Riko, and it wasn’t that he trusted him, but Neil was pretty sure Andrew and Kevin had some sort of relationship.

He also understood that when in a fight, Neil would rather be working with Andrew than against him. To Neil’s understanding, Andrew didn’t let anyone touch the people he cared about. If Kevin was on that list, Neil couldn’t picture a better option.

“No problem,” Wymack said over Kevin’s protests.

“Ok. Shit. I need to go. Do we have a deal?” Neil asked.

“I’ll see Jean Friday, kid,” Wymack said.

“Thank you,” Neil said. “I mean it. Really, thank you. Just—one more thing.”

“What now?” Wymack asked.

“Don’t let Jean come back. It’s going to be miserable trying to get him to leave in the first place and he is going to want to come back. For me, if nothing else. Do not let him.”

“We won’t, Neil,” Wymack said.

“If you need to tell him that I had nothing to do with it, then do so. I think he’ll be more complacent—well, at least a little more. He probably won’t believe it, but try. Come up with whatever story you want. Leave me out of it,” Neil said.

“Coach, can I talk to him for a second?” Kevin asked.

“Fine. Two minutes and I need you back at practice,” Wymack relented and Neil heard him hand the phone over.

“Kev,” Neil said. “Before you say anything, I need you to understand that there is no way for both of us to leave on Friday and the only way Jean can get out is if you don’t come. Tell me you understand that.”

“I know. I understand the first part,” Kevin said. “But I don't understand the second.”

“Kevin,” Neil said. “Baby. If you come here, I will leave with you. I won’t stay. And if I try to do that, neither Jean nor I will get out, ok? We won’t get out, Kevin. I have thought this through.” Kevin paused.

“Fine,” he said. There was some silence. “Neil?”

“Yeah.”

“I did it to protect you,” Kevin said. Neil stood there in awe and bit his lip to prevent himself from making a noise.

“I know,” he said.

“I was doing it to protect you.” Neil blinked up at the ceiling of the bathroom.

“Get Jean out. I might just make it if you promise me that you will.”

“I will. I trust Wymack,” Kevin said.

“No regrets, Kevin,” Neil said and he pictured Kevin’s face, remembering what Neil had said to him after they kissed for the first time.

“You and me, US Court. I will get us there. We will get there.” Neil clenched his fist, drawing the pain away from his heart and into his hand.

“I know,” Neil said.

“I want you out.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need to leave,” Neil said. He had an undeniably harder time lying to Kevin than he did to Wymack.

“Then come back for me.” Neil almost didn’t hear it. “I went back for you. I know you probably convinced yourself otherwise, but I did.”

“I didn’t sign up for this when I called,” Neil let himself slip back into Nathaniel. It was his default when Neil felt too strong. It wasn’t that Neil felt too many emotions—Abram could never feel as many emotions as other people—but when he felt the few ones that he did, he felt too strongly. “I wish we never fell in love,” Nathaniel said, scoffing at his own idiocy.

“Stop,” Kevin said. “Don’t do this.” Neil knew that Kevin wouldn’t leave without some sort of answer. Neil folded his arms on the counter of the bathroom and rested his forehead on them, closing his eyes, and spoke.

“I owe Jean everything. He saved my life, Kevin. I know you don’t know about this, and whenever I see you again—maybe when we’re Court—I’ll tell you about it. But right now, focus on Jean.” Neil wouldn’t let Kevin know that he wanted to leave. Kevin couldn’t know what happened to Neil when he pulled away from him all those years ago in the Nest because then Kevin would come back. And more importantly, Neil couldn’t know anything about Kevin because he was a runner, always had been and always would be.

He would run right back and it would get him killed.

“Ok,” Kevin said. Neil let out a sigh of relief. “And Wymack, he doesn’t know. You’re probably wondering. I haven’t been able to–”

“It’s fine,” Neil said.

“Come on. Don’t–”

“I’m fine, Kevin,” Neil lied. The masochistic part of him hoped that it gave Kevin comfort, or gave him pain. Either one. “I’ve been here all my life. What’s another two years?”

Neil felt sick just thinking about it and hung up without a second thought. He returned the phone to Tetsuji’s office before taking off running laps around the court. He managed thirteen before his body dragged him back to his room from exhaustion. Neil was too tired to think when he went to bed.

Mission accomplished.

Exactly what he wanted, for once in his life.

—

The days leading up to the game were exhausting, as usual, but thankfully quiet. Jean came back from the interview in one piece and Riko was in an oddly content mood–meaning Neil and Jean actually got a rare chance to sleep. He wished he was exaggerating.

Neil was good enough at keeping lies at that point in his life for Jean to have no idea of his plans. Well, in addition to the plan itself, Neil couldn’t help but feel a little proud with how well it came together. As long as he didn’t think about the fact that it would be leaving him in his own personal Hell for years to come, everything was smooth.

It was the Friday of the game and all of the Ravens were eating in the dining hall. It was the usual pre-game meal; grilled chicken, bread, protein smoothie with spinach.

Neil was in the middle of moving his food around the plate when a bread roll hit him in the face.

“Fuck you,” was his eloquent response. Neil looked up to see Jean scowling at him, yet only Neil would be able to see the slight concern in his eyes.

“Nathaniel,” Jean said. He refused to say ‘Neil’ in any place where the other Ravens would be able to hear it and use that name against him like every other name Neil had. After that night, though, Nathaniel was less triggering than ‘Nate.’

“What?” Neil asked, raising an eyebrow at Jean.

“You are not eating,” Jean responded. “You need to eat.”

“I don’t want to. Back off,” Neil snapped. Jean was surprised at the outburst. Neil knew why he wasn’t hungry but it wasn’t like he was going to tell Jean that because he was a stubborn asshole.

“You have not eaten enough this week. You cannot make it through the game if you do not. You almost passed out two days ago,” Jean rebutted. “I’m worried.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be. I’m absolutely fine,” Neil said, dropping his fork and crossing his arms. Jean gave him the look—the look that usually got Neil to do whatever he wanted. It was somewhere between ‘I want to make sure you’re as healthy as possible in these conditions’ and ‘If you don’t do it you can’t wear any of my sweatshirts.’

But there was something about that day, knowing that Jean wouldn’t be there to give him that look tomorrow. Neil reminded himself that he would be with Wymack, not under the power of Riko’s hands.

“I’ll see you at the game,” Neil said, pushing away from the table.

“Nate–”

He walked back towards their room, not needing to turn around to see the shocked expression on Jean’s face.

Neil flopped down on his bed and groaned. He was excited about the game, as per usual, but for anything after? He didn’t know.

Neil truly and wholeheartedly prayed that part of him wasn’t hoping for someone to save him. He had learned that he wasn’t worth saving a long time ago. It was why he was there, right? It was why his mother ran without him, wasn’t it? Likely why his dad cast him off to the yakuza until he could take his place. At least the main branch thought that he was worth something.

Wow, Neil thought. Isn’t that sickening.

Jean eventually opened their door and scoffed when he saw Neil face-first on their bed. He came over and sat on the bed next to Neil, running a hand through his hair. Neil ignored the spark of pain in his chest and sat up, looking at Jean. He still looked concerned, but not as much as before.

“Neil,” Jean said and switched to French, “What is the problem?”

“Nothing,” Neil responded, and after a nod, Jean pulled Neil towards him.

Oh that bastard knew how to get everything he wanted.

“I'm just tired.”

Jean hummed in response.

“Of what?” Jean asked and Neil sighed, leaning his head on Jean’s shoulder.

“Riko. Waking up. Living,” Neil mumbled. Jean’s hand stilled in his hair for a split second before continuing. Jean’s other hand then reached down and grabbed Neil’s from where it was clutched into the pocket of Jean’s sweatshirt. He ran his thumb over Neil’s palm until his fist loosened, before slipping it beneath the cuff of Neil’s shirt. It went back and forth over his wrist a few times, then a little farther up his forearm, before Jean pulled away and moved Neil’s hand back to where it originally had been.

Jean was not nearly as subtle as he thought he was.

“I’m fine, Jean. I wouldn’t do that, let alone before a game.” Jean snorted and Neil smiled. It hurt a lot more than he cared to admit.

“You have a one-track mind, Neil.”

“Like you’re any better,” Neil mumbled.

“I am not nearly as addicted as you are.”

“You don’t have to be an addict to love the sport,” Neil said, breathing in.

“True. I love the sport when we are properly fed and not bleeding out, ripping stitches, and crashing against the plexiglass.”

“You do realize that you crush opponents against the plexiglass, right? You’re one of the best backliners in the country. Have some empathy. How do you think they feel?” Neil asked.

“Well, I am assuming it is not very good.” Neil pulled back from Jean as a smile drew across his face.

“Actually, you do like getting shoved into the plexiglass,” Neil said, very matter of factly.

“Excuse me?” Jean asked.

“Well, when Jeremy Knox and his 5 foot 11” tan self is the one pressing you into the– ”

“Neil, you absolute asshole,” Jean cut him off. Neil didn’t miss how his face slightly warmed.

“How does it feel when Knox puts his hands on you to shove off? Does he say anything to you? Like, ‘Jean Moreau, you are stunning and sexy–’’” Jean put his face in his hands before looking back up. Neil suppressed a smirk.

“What do you want from me, Neil? He is hot. And the fact that you cannot see it–”

“I can see it,” Neil defended. “I’m just not attracted to him like you are. I don’t know him well enough.” Jean snorted and shook his head.

“Keep talking, Neil, and–” Their door then slammed open and both Neil and Jean leapt off the bed. They whipped around to face the door and saw Riko.

“Three and Four, in the locker room. Get changed. Do I need to remind you that the game starts in an hour?” Riko spat.

“You just did, thanks. I would have forgotten,” Neil said.

“Just for that, you’re on press duty with me, Wesninski. No goals tonight, either of you, or it’s going to be a very long night.” Riko turned and walked away from their door. Neil’s plan was in progress.

Neil flipped the bird to the open door before Jean grabbed his hand and started to drag him out of their room.

“Fucking bastard. Riko should take his reminders and shove them so far up his–”

“Nathaniel,” Jean warned.

“Yeah, yeah,” Neil mumbled, closing their door behind them. “When have we ever let goals through?” Jean sighed when Neil pulled him to a stop. “No, seriously, Jean. When do we ever let goals through?”

“We never do,” Jean relented.

“Right. Thank you,” Neil said. Riko was a bastard, but insulting their game was over the line.

“It is because we are both too stubborn to do so,” Jean said.

“Exactly. Are you ready?” Neil asked, the smile that only came out during games started to spread across his face.

“Let’s do this,” Jean said, using Neil’s shoulders to turn him around and push him towards the locker rooms.

“Nate,” Jean breathed out in quiet French. “Stop it. Get the fuck back down.”

Nathaniel never fully understood Jean’s need to please Riko—well, honestly, that wasn’t true. He assumed his motives weren’t much different than Nathaniel’s himself: to have the greatest chance of survival. That had always been Nathaniel’s goal, from the second he was born (don’t worry, he wasn’t blind to that irony). Yet Nathaniel had never been very good at keeping his anger down. Just another wonderful thing he attributed to his fantastic father.

And, just to be clear, Nathaniel meant the ludicrously far-fetched definition of fantastic, not the extraordinarily brilliant one. There was nothing brilliant about Nathaniel’s situation in life.

Despite not being able to keep his anger in-check (thank you, genetics), Nathaniel knew that Jean’s ability to keep his pointed inward wasn’t an innate talent. Nathaniel wasn’t blind to the pure hatred in Jean’s eyes every time he had to stitch Nathaniel up or sit with him as he came back to himself. It was in the way he had to shake out his clenched fists before he could grab the needle. That resentment was never there when Nathaniel had to do those things for Jean, though.

The other Ravens didn’t understand Jean—they always thought his submission made him look like a coward. Jean was many things, an annoying arsehole, for one, but he wasn’t weak. If anything, Jean was stronger than Nathaniel because he was smart. He knew when to give in. Nathaniel, though, wasn’t as lucky. Both methods have their positive attributes, however, and Nathaniel will always point that out.

Jean would tell him that he still didn’t understand how Nathaniel hadn’t learned his place in the Nest. What Jean didn’t realize was that he had. In fact, Nathaniel would only have to look in the mirror to remember his place as fourth from Riko.

Nathaniel knew getting up after a beating like the one Riko just graciously delivered would only push Riko to continue while standing over them laughing. But Nathaniel never felt very safe under Riko, or the people he put over him.

He watched bleary-eyed as Riko walked away.

“Fuck you, Riko,” Nathaniel spat. He smiled as Riko turned around and shoved him back to the ground. Nathaniel collapsed onto his back and Riko straddled his hips to get better leverage to choke him. The lack of oxygen was a relief from the pain. Riko’s cruel smile curled on his face when Nathaniel winced after taking his hands off his throat. Riko then reached down and grabbed Nathaniel’s hair to haul him up before slamming his head into the court wall.

Now that was the final straw. Nathaniel allowed his head to rebound and lull against the black wood of the court when Riko dropped him. Riko stayed on him for a few more seconds before shoving off. Though Nathaniel couldn’t get his eyes open, he doubted the hesitation was anything good.

“Number three,” Riko called once he reached the court door. Jean didn’t move. “Handcuff Wesninski to his bed when you both get back.”

Riko then closed the court door and locked it with a click. The lights shut down a second later. Only then did Nathaniel open his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t see anything different than if he kept them closed.

Nathaniel and Jean listened to each other's breathing as they slowly bled out for about seven minutes before Nathaniel even tried to get back up. He pushed up to his knees, coughing on the floor, unable to help the cruel smile that drew across his mouth.

“Jean,” Nathaniel said. He knew Jean was conscious by the sound of his breathing, but his slight verbal response confirmed it. “Get up.”

Nathaniel dangerously swayed once he made it to his knees and used the court wall to shove himself into a vertical position. He was breathing heavily after standing. He held out a hand for Jean. He and Jean had been together for too long to not have a sixth sense for each other. Jean’s hand met his own a few seconds later and Nathaniel stabilized his arm as much as he could for Jean to pull himself up.

It took some work to get Jean on his feet but once they were standing, they leaned heavily on each other.

“We have to get out of here,” Nathaniel said, switching to French. No one was around to hear, but it felt safer, somehow.

Nathaniel had been trying to come up with a plan for years, but nothing short of a Hail Mary would help them. He hoped that once he joined the college team—if a year early—an opportunity would present itself. Two years in, and nothing had. Nathaniel had to—no, needed to—come up with something.

If he dropped his standards and didn’t think about it too much, then a plan would work. Nathaniel, theoretically, would be able to live with himself if he just got Jean out. Whether or not he could continue living with Riko was something Nathaniel refused to think about. Part of him knew that answer, yet thinking about it would validate it, somehow.

Nathaniel was like a burner phone—it has one use, then it’s thrown out. At this point, getting Jean out is all Nathaniel thought he was useful for–

“I know,” Jean said. The difference was that Jean had no intent on making a plan. He only said it anymore to address what Nathaniel said, and Nathaneil knew that. Both of them wanted to get out, it wasn’t a matter of that. They both went through the same torture, and had been for years. Jean made other plans, just never one for escape.

Nathaniel nodded in the dark before following the edge of the court to the door. He had been left there too many times to not know the way out like the back of his hand.

They made it to their room with Jean only tripping once. Nathaniel twisted the doorknob and felt something off about it. He stopped in his tracks and turned on the lights.

“That motherfucker,” Nathaniel said. The lock on their door was missing. Not that it had ever been useful, but they knew what it meant; despite locking it every night, Riko found his way in easily. It was more of a warning than it was an action.

“Nate,” Jean whispered, Nathaniel scowled as he walked into their room. His eyes zeroed out on the handcuffs hanging off the edge of his bed.

“It’s not like it’s going to make a fucking difference,” Nathaniel said. Jean walked up and stood next to him. They had both been through what Nathaniel was inevitably going to go through that night. Riko’s torture was unpredictable when he was bothered or maybe a little mad.

Riko had patterns, though, when he was really upset—they had been together long enough for Riko to dig up the best way into their minds. Knowing what was going to happen didn’t make it any easier.

When they had first shown up, neither he nor Jean listened to what Riko had told them to do. They had even fought him together, but when you have a whole team at your back that is too scared to do anything but fight with you, Riko won with a floor show.

“I’m not going,” Nathaniel said in French.

“I know,” Jean responded. “He’s going to kill you if you don’t.”

“I’d like to see him try,” Nathaniel said.

“Nate– No. You would not.” Jean turned to look at him.

“It can’t be any worse than what’s going to happen.”

“Yes, it can, and you know that,” Jean responded, harsher that time. Jean knew better than to tell Nathaniel to give up.

“He’s not Nathan.”

Jean sighed and held his arms up for Nathaniel. He didn’t think twice before walking into the embrace, despite the sting that their cuts caused. Jean wrapped both arms around Nathaniel’s shoulders and let his fingers run through his hair. Nathaniel buried his face in Jean’s neck, breathing in the comfort it brought.

Nathaniel and Jean had a weird relationship; they weren’t siblings, but they were as close to brothers as they could get. They were partners, in the true Raven sense of the word. Neither of them knew what family was beyond indifference and pain, so the Raven system was the only description that suited them.

“We’re getting out of here, Jean. This isn’t living,” Nathaniel said.

“You know what will happen the second you leave,” Jean whispered, always the realist. Before he and Jean had come up with some sort of alliance, Nathaniel had thrown it in Jean’s face that he was a coward. That he could run any time he wanted. That he didn’t have the Butcher as a father, waiting for the second Nathaniel inevitably tried to disappear. That Jean’s parents were all the way in France and couldn’t care less about what he did.

Jean could have left whenever he wanted. He knew it didn’t work like that, but if Jean was desperate enough, he could’ve done it. Nathaniel might have even helped him, just on principle.

Nathaniel liked to think that it was because Jean was weak. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He refused, now, to believe that Jean wasn’t willing to leave him there by himself. Jean would have left, during their first years together. Not currently, though.

The feeling was mutual—it was either both of them or neither. Until that night, this was the one moral Nathaniel never thought he would bend on.

“Tomorrow,” Nathaniel whispered into his neck and Jean tightened his arms around his shoulders.

“We can’t leave tomorrow,” Jean said.

“You’re right. Our best chance is during a game. More press-faces and less attention from person to person.” Nathaniel paused before pushing away. “You smell like blood. You need to clean your cuts.”

“I will after,” Jean said. There was only one person in the world who Nathaniel trusted more than anything, and it was the person in front of him, pressing a kiss to his hair before fully stepping back. He knew Nathaniel had reached his limit.

Nathaniel couldn’t help his stomach from bottoming out and the wave of nausea that overtook him. Riko knew what he was doing when he forced Jean or Nathaniel to be the one to hold or tie the other down.

“Riko is going to be back soon,” Jean said.

“I don’t want to,” Nathaniel said.

“I know.” He refused to look in Jean’s eyes and see the pain they held. All of that pain for Nathaniel, never any for himself.

“I want to kill him.” Jean shut up at that. Nathaniel was sure that Jean wanted Riko dead also, but he had most of the want beaten out of him years ago.

Nathaniel winced on his way over to the bed. He was sure he would get blood on the sheets but it wasn’t like it mattered. The sheets were black, for starters, and they looked so tie-dyed by then that it wouldn’t have made a difference if he bled out completely.

Nathaniel laid on his back, ignoring Jean’s look, and tried to calm his breathing. He crossed his wrists in a much too familiar manner. Jean reached for his wrists and Nathaniel cursed himself when he visibly flinched at the touch.

Jean withdrew his hand immediately, closed them behind his back, and waited until he calmed down.

He wasn’t Nathan, but Riko knew the damage he caused.

Jean went back a minute later and clicked the cuffs around his wrists. A spark of fear ignited in Nathaniel’s stomach, lacing its way through his veins before enveloping his throat and closing his vocal cords. He made his best attempt at ignoring his panic at being completely trapped, sprawled across his own bed.

Nathaniel and Jean indirectly hurt each other in so many ways, but they also kept each other alive.

“Je suis désolé," Jean said. He said the same thing every time that happened. Nathaniel didn’t think he or Jean knew why he still said it, much less what it was supposed to mean.

“Jean.” Jean got up and left his bed. “Go to bed,” Nathaniel said. “I don’t give a shit, but you’re going to put yourself through more torture if you watch.”

Nathaniel then turned his gaze to the door and waited.

He had to get out.

Nathaniel then heard four sets of feet in the hallway.

He needed to get out.

The door opened and Riko’s sickening smile was the first thing he saw, clearly looking forward to the show. It made Nathaniel sick. Three other Ravens flanked him.

“So sweet of Jean to get you all ready, Nathaniel. It’s nice to have two playthings,” Riko said. Nathaniel weighed his options, realized that it could only get so much worse, and let his father’s smile stretch across his own face.

After all, his mother taught him where to sink the knife to kill someone and his father showed him how to twist it to cause the most pain. He didn’t have a knife, but he could do them justice in other ways.

“What a pity, Riko, that you can’t touch me yourself. Daddy said no, right? Wait, nevermind—Kengo doesn’t talk to cast-away, side-branch mistakes. Ironic that he cares more about me,” Nathaniel said. He didn’t like labeling himself—despite the truth it was—as a possession, but the way it wiped Riko’s smile off to a clean slate was well worth it. Nathaniel knew he hit home when it took a little longer than usual for Riko to snap back to himself.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, Wesninski?” Riko asked as he moved forward, holding the door open for three senior players to walk in. Nathaniel felt sick at the sight of them. Each of them had tens of pounds of muscle and height over Nathaniel.

“It doesn’t matter, Riko. You’re not allowed to kill me.” It wasn’t his best comeback, and Riko knew it, if his smile was anything to go by. Nathaniel didn’t want to take his eyes off of Taylor, Johnson, or Baustin. Riko then walked up to Nathaniel, knelt by his head, and used the tip of his knife to turn his head to look him in the eyes.

“You know there are worse things than death.” Nathaniel didn’t answer. “And I’m going to show you that, number three.” Nathaniel hated how Bautsin’s eyes seemed to light up in disgusting need. Nathaniel took a breath before speaking again, staring right into those sadistic, satanic eyes.

“While you do this, Riko, I want you to remember that no matter how much you torture me, or how painful you make my nights, I am not going to back down and I am not going to quit. And no matter how many petty, stupid insults you throw my way, or how many lines you carve into my body, at the end of the day, no one will care when you die. The only people who show up at your funeral will be people too afraid to do something different. Not Ichirou, and definitely not your father. It’s not like anyone actually cares about you,” Nathaniel said, digging his own grave. He noticed Jean sit up in his bed in his peripheral vision, willing him to stop with the weight of his gaze. Nathaniel had never been one to follow orders well. And the pain was on him tonight, not on Jean, so did it matter? “I bet Day won’t even take one step in your direction, dead or alive.”

Nathaniel hated how he loved the truth of that last statement.

Riko seethed with such clear anger that Nathaniel smiled, almost laughed. He knew the torture he was going to go through that night would be as bad as it could have been regardless; provoking Riko was just a little plus. It didn’t make anything worse. Well, at least not too much worse.

“You’re going to regret that, Nathaniel,” Riko gritted out. “I’m going to have you begging me to make it stop, begging me for my generosity.” Jean got off his bed, moving to intervene. Riko smiled at his movement. “And if not, I’ll turn this over to Jean.” Nathaniel froze at that. Taylor and Johnson walked over to Jean, grabbing his arms before he could make it to Riko, and then Johnson started throwing punches. Nathaniel knew Jean could take it, but Riko also knew how to make Nathaniel listen.

Riko knew how to make Nathaniel beg, and Nathaniel resented him for it.

Jean groaned at a brutal hit to his abdomen, doubling over his stomach if not for Taylor holding him. Nathaniel didn’t need to turn and look.

“Stop,” Nathaniel said. Riko did nothing to stop, just looked at Nathaniel and raised his eyebrows. Jean’s knees hit the ground, the sound echoing through Nathaniel’s head. “Stop, King.” The name tasted like bile in his throat yet caused Riko to smile, knowing how much Nathaniel hated saying it.

“Where are your manners, Nathaniel?” Riko asked, because of course it wasn’t enough. Nathaniel gritted his teeth.

“Please, King. Stop hurting him. Hurt me instead,” Nathaniel said and Riko finally held up a hand, calling a halt to his players. Taylor shrugged and let go of Jean, causing Nathaniel to wince when he heard Jean collapse on the floor, gasping through clenched teeth.

“I know how to break you, Nathaniel. Now tell me that you deserve to be punished for what you said,” Riko commanded.

Nathaniel had seen it all from Riko, had seen or experienced every terrible thing that Riko had done, but using his own words against him almost seemed worse. It was something Riko recently tried out, and it worked-–oh, it worked. When everything else was stripped away from him, constantly and whenever Riko felt like it, he should have control of what he does or doesn’t say. Jean knew how much it tore into Nathaniel when his own voice was used against him. After a few particularly brutal nights, the sound of Nathaniel’s own voice made himself flinch. His own fucking voice.

“I deserve to be punished,” Nathaniel said. He felt himself slip away a little.

“Why?” Riko asked, always amused yet never pleased.

“Because I disobeyed my King.” He slipped a little further with each word. Riko then motioned for Baustin to come over before nodding at him. Baustin then straddled Nathaniel’s waist and the panic enveloped his senses despite the walls he tried to build around himself. He was always too late.

“Good boy. Now tell me that you deserve this, Nathaniel,” Riko said, grinning all the while. Nathaniel felt like he was going to vomit. He hesitated. “Tell me that you deserved this and thank me for making it happen.”

“Non,” Jean whispered, earning him a punch from Riko himself. “Do not do it. I will take it.” Riko then backhanded Jean, causing him to groan where his head collided with the post of his bed. Riko didn’t like to be left out of conversations.

“Say it or I’ll do that again, Nathaniel,” Riko said. He could hear Jean trying to stifle any noises of pain.

Nathaniel knew Jean could handle it. He knew that Jean didn’t offer himself up blindly, or stupidly. He knew when to back down, yet he knew when to try and save his partner.

“I deserve this. Thank you for this, King,” Nathaniel said. He wanted to scream. And worst of all, he knew he was going to

“A new toy,” Riko taunted. “Remember that I own both of you. You are possessions, Moreau and Wesninski.” Riko then walked back to the wall and leaned against it. “You can start whenever you like, Baustin.” Nathaniel glared at the backliner as he leaned down, running his hands under the hem of his shirt before traveling them upward. His shirt was cut off quickly and Baustin reached the waistband of Nathaneil’s pants, slipping his fingers under the bands before ripping them down. It was when Baustin then reached to undo his own where Nathaniel really started to panic.

Riko laughed.

“It’s okay,” Baustin whispered in his ear. One of his rough hands held Nathaniel’s head while the other played with the lines of his scars. “Shh. It’s okay. You look so pretty, exactly where you belong. You’re so good, Nate.” Nathaniel did a full body flinch at the name. Only Jean ever called him that. Riko laughed out loud, obnoxious in his ways.

Nathaniel didn’t even hear Baustin when he said it again, too busy gagging over the side of his bed. He eventually pulled in ragged breaths, his throat tightening. Nathaniel caught Jean’s eyes. He could see the misery in them.

“Come back to me,” Jean said. “Do not leave.”

Sometimes, Nathaniel wished he stopped fighting.

All Nathaniel knew was that he had to get out. He never managed to stop struggling.

After seeing his reaction, Baustin–then Johnson–got full use of calling him Nate, Riko smirking the whole way through, never taking his eyes off him and Jean.

He needed to get out, because Nathaniel didn’t know how much longer he would last.

–

Jean heard and watched everything. He heard four people walk in. He heard Riko taunt Nathaniel. He heard Nathaniel’s ingenious yet stupid remarks soon followed by Jean’s own attempt to protect him. He was never really able to stop himself when it came to protecting Nate, despite it having helped them only once or twice.

He got beaten until his vision started to blur before Riko hit him one more time himself. His head colliding with the post of his bed ensured a concussion he was trying to avoid. He shut up at that point, knowing it would only bring them both more pain.

Jean tried not to scream as he watched Nate—his Nate—get raped in front of him. He vomited beside his bed twice, once Nate started pleading. Nights this bad didn’t happen often, but they were frequent enough that Nate’s mind wouldn’t block it out.

Riko knew the exact torture it put him through, considering his glances at Jean every so often. Jean then heard the cries Nathaniel tried to muffle in his sheets. He heard Riko laugh. He heard them talk about what they planned to do to Nathaniel if he ever said a word, and what they planned to do to Jean. He watched Nat—no, not anymore—his partner white-knuckle the headboard as if it was a lifeline he was afraid to let go of.

Only Jean knew that he actually was. Throughout everything, this idiot was still scared to die. Jean did not understand.

He thought about a new name for him. His partner had always struggled with his names. He used to flinch every time someone called him Nathaniel, and after he got used to that, every time Riko called him Wesninski. Clearly, Riko had gotten bored as his partner no longer flinched at that either.

Riko and the seniors eventually left, throwing the keys to the cuffs at Jean. He saw the kick coming but his processing speed had slowed throughout the night. It landed on his ribs, throwing him back into his desk. The sudden movement jerked his already blurry, fading vision, but the pain that spidered across his ribs made the darkness take over.

—

Jean woke up sometime later, not sure how long it had been. There was no clock or window to tell, but most of his cuts had clotted by then, so he assumed it was a while. It took a moment for him to get his limbs relatively coordinated. He sat up and froze when his vision swam. His disgust towards sudden movements overpowered his need to throw up.

He eventually made his way over to Neil, without feeling most of his body.

“Neil,” Jean said. It took Neil a minute to understand the name-change. “Can I touch you?” Neil nodded his consent. He had once told Jean that he no longer had to ask him, but Jean never planned on stopping.

Jean reached up and slowly pried Neil’s hands off of the headboard. He then undid the cuffs. They both stilled for a couple minutes, Jean unwilling to move Neil until he was ready. It gave him time to fully take in his partner’s condition; he was lying limp in his bed, his face bloodied and his eyes barely open, with a partially split lip, one of his eyes red from where Riko had nicked his eyeball with the knife. Bruises were forming on his wrists and thighs, blood and other things soaking into the sheets.

If it wasn’t for Neil’s shallow breathing, Jean would have thought he was dead.

“Neil,” Jean said, wanting to move Neil’s arms that were still above his head. A cruel smile drew across Neil’s face and Jean winced. “Fuck, Neil. Can you not do that?”

Neil then pushed himself on one of his elbows before leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Jean’s neck.

“Can I?” Jean asked.

“Yes,” Neil mumbled, voice strained, before lightly flinching at the sound. Jean then latched onto Neil and had to bite his lip when he heard Neil quietly cry into his neck. No one would have noticed, Jean was not even sure if Neil was truly crying, yet his shoulders wracked with unsteady breathing. Jean hated how much he could understand it.

Jean subtly pulled up the cuffs of his sweatshirt, letting his scarred wrists run over Neil’s bare back as his hands traced up and down to help steady Neil’s breathing. They all played exy—everyone’s rough hands felt similar. Jean hated why he knew that.

“Can you walk?” Jean asked. Neil slightly nodded before pushing away from Jean. He then swung his legs over the side of the bed and relied heavily on Jean as they both limped to the bathroom. Neil was shaking. Jean got Neil in the shower, gave him privacy, and went back into the bathroom until he heard his name.

Jean handed Neil sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt that he knew Neil liked but was actually one of his own. Jean was shirtless at that point and had been stitching the wounds he was able to while Neil showered. Neil slowly sat on the counter once he was dressed and they looked at each other.

“Let me help,” Neil said, barely a whisper. Jean nodded, handing Neil the first aid kit and two pills. Jean bit his lip and ran his fingers through Neil’s hair as he stitched a particularly deep cut on his side.

“You need to learn how to actually do your hair,” Jean said and Neil huffed.

“Now why would I do that when I get the pleasure of you complaining about it every day?” He ignored how void their voices sounded. Neil barely spoke, but Jean was used to reading his lips by then.

“So I do not die an untimely death due to the eternal annoyance of this mop that you call hair.”

“Fuck you,” Neil said. “At least I don’t look like a stuck up private school kid from the 1800s.” Jean scoffed just as Neil finished tying off the stitch.

“I’m leaving today and I’m going to kill him tomorrow,” Neil said. Jean passed him a flat look. “The time frame might be off, but it’s going to happen. I’m not living like this anymore.” Jean winced once Neil started laughing and he reached up to run a thumb over his cheekbone.

“Can you see out of your left eye?” Jean asked.

“N–not important,” he responded and Jean sighed. He had known Neil long enough to not push that topic. Neil moved to hop off the sink before Jean held up his hands in a questioning gesture. Neil rolled his eyes yet nodded, allowing Jean to pick him up off the counter. Jean did not miss his wince as they walked back into the room.

Jean turned off the lights, sliding into his bed and against the wall. He then pulled open the covers for Neil, who got in next to him. Jean did not move until Neil reached back and grabbed his arm, pulling it over his stomach. Neil moved back and settled against his chest, and Jean physically felt him relax. Jean tightened his arm out of protectiveness and took a deep breath.

They both knew Riko was done for the night, so they had relative privacy for a few hours.

Neil and Jean started sleeping in the same bed about two years ago, after Kevin left. By that time, they had gotten close, and neither of them had been sleeping. Neil had let it slip that he could not sleep not only because they weren’t safe, but because when he was on the run with his mother (though a short time it was), they always slept together. He liked knowing that she was safe and pressed against him.

Jean felt unbelievably more secure sleeping with Neil—not safer, because nothing was ever safe in the Nest—but having the wall at his back and a protective asshole in front of him took some of the fear away. It did not take the two of them long to fall into the habit. They somehow managed to keep it from Riko.

Neil pressed a little more into his chest as Jean let his forehead lean on Neil’s shoulder.

“Where are we going?” Jean asked, entertaining a thought that Jean had never let himself before. Neil talked about leaving the Nest a lot, but Jean had always been too afraid to leave. If it got Neil safe, though, it did not matter. And at this point, Jean was starting to get desperate. He did not know how much more a person could take.

Neil was the reason Jean was still alive. Neil had pulled him back from the ledge multiple times; even after he had jumped off it a few of them. Jean knew he would make it to graduation–Neil, though? He would make it, but Jean did not know how much of him would be left.

“Follow the Kevin-brick road,” Neil said. Jean was outright surprised by that answer.

CH12—currently in progress

Information

All for the Game by Nora Sakavic fanfiction, read the books first.

Cross-posted on AO3: Sleeping At Last

Russian translation by Lynier on Ficbook: SAL Translation

Beta reader (CH2-CH10) is aridantesimp (AO3)

Playlist: SAL

Introduction

Welcome to Sleeping at Last.
Take a leap of faith. It’s a wild ride. I love many Raven!Neil fics, but none had exactly this. Updates are fairly consistent. There are POV switches. All content warnings for Sakavic’s series applies here.

AO3 Summary

“And what will you give me, Nathaniel?” Ichirou asked.
“Loyalty. Compliance. Partnership–”
“We do not have a partnership, Wesninski. Partnerships are bought.” Nathaniel looked into those onyx eyes and almost felt free. He wanted to be free. He wasn’t—far from it—but he didn’t have the willpower to tell himself to keep fighting.
“Relationship,” Nathaniel said.
The right side of Ichirou’s mouth pulled into a small, lethal grin.
Nathaniel knew he answered correctly.
-
Nathaniel Wesninski makes a deal with Ichirou to get Jean out of the Nest after Kevin signs with the Foxes.
Neil could've survived Riko for two more years—then he (re)met Andrew.