Andrew let his head fall against the cement of the Gold Court. He blew smoke towards the sky as he gazed at the sun through tinted lenses. The east coast didn’t give him many reasons to use his prescription sunglasses. Ironic that they rarely saw the light of day.
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.
I fear I have lost the plot but I’m still enjoying the reading ride 💪