Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wh-what is going on?” Jean asked, voice cracking as he forced his eyes open.

The world around him spun, shapes swimming in and out of focus. His whole body ached with the familiar aftermath of another brutal practice — another punishment. He pushed himself upright in bed, a sharp sting tearing across his abdomen where Riko’s latest blade had kissed his skin. Jean winced but bit down the sound. Pain was expected. Pain was routine.

Standing in the dim light before him was Nathaniel Wesninski. But something about him was wrong. There was something in his face Jean had never seen before.
Fear. Real, bone-deep fear.

"Riko broke Kevin’s hand," Nathaniel whispered, stepping closer. His voice was shattered, frayed at the edges. "I'm going to help him get to the car. He... he can't stay here. Not anymore. He's as good as dead. We all are." Nathaniel’s hands shook violently as he raked his nails down his arms, a nervous habit he'd tried and failed to kill. His eyes darted around the cold stone room, the place they'd all been imprisoned for years under the illusion of training. "Pack your things, Jean," Nathaniel said, voice low and urgent. "We're leaving."

As if summoned by the words, the door creaked open.

Jean froze, blood pounding so loudly in his ears he almost didn’t register the figure standing there. But it wasn’t Riko as Jean feared.

Kevin.

Jean could barely process what he was seeing — Kevin’s left hand was mangled beyond recognition, fingers bent at grotesque angles, blood soaking through the torn fabric of his sleeve. His usually unshakeable face was contorted with agony, his green eyes red and swollen from crying.
Kevin Day had cried.
Jean would have sooner believed the walls bleeding than witnessing that.

Nathaniel spun around, scowling. "I told you to wait by the car. It’s not safe," he said in a flat voice, hiding the tremor underneath.

"I don't want to be there alone," Kevin murmured, voice so fragile it barely carried across the room. Even broken, Kevin’s tone still carried the echo of authority — of someone who expected the world to bend before him.

Nathaniel turned back to Jean, desperation darkening his features. "Grab your stuff."

"Where would we go?" Jean hissed in French, the words cutting sharper than intended. "Where can we run that they wouldn't hunt us down?"

Kevin answered without lifting his gaze. "My father. The Foxes. We can make them sign us." His breath hitched. "We'll make it work."

It was one thing for Kevin to dream.
It was another thing entirely that Nathaniel — reckless, impossible Nathaniel — was taking it seriously.
Jean’s stomach twisted with fury. He hadn't survived four years of Evermore’s cruelty to die chasing after fairy tales.

I am Jean Moreau. I know better than to hope. I know better than to run.

"My place is here," Jean said, the words heavy with finality. "At Evermore. Neil," he added sharply, voice cracking on the nickname only the three of them ever used in private, "tell me you're not actually considering this."

"It’s a chance out. A real one," Neil said, and for a second, Jean saw something frighteningly alive in his partner’s eyes — something bright and foolish; hope.

Le diable never knew when to quit.

Of course Neil would believe it. Neil, who dreamed of blue skies and open roads, of oceans and the wind on his face. Neil, who never knew when to stop hoping. "It’s a good chance," Neil repeated, almost to himself. "Kevin’s injured. They can’t cover it up. The Foxes love a sob story. We are more than good enough for their excuse of a team,” he said with a snort.
Kevin is injured. We are not. They’ll never let us leave. Jean wanted to say it, but he knew it was pointless. He saw it — in Neil’s face, in the trembling, reckless hope radiating off him — that it was already too late.

Neil had made up his mind.
There was nothing Jean could say to pull him back from that cliff.

"I’m not leaving," Jean said, cold and final.

It shattered something in Neil. "What?" he said, like he hadn’t heard right. Like Jean had slapped him across the face.

"I told you!" Kevin barked, voice hoarse, panic seeping in. "I told you he wouldn’t leave! Neil, listen to me. If you stay, they’ll kill you. Your father, Riko, Ichirou — they’ll destroy you."
Kevin's bloodshot gaze snapped to Jean. "Please, Jean. Please come with us. He won’t leave without you. We need you. I need you."

Jean shut his eyes against the desperation in Kevin's voice. Against the crushing weight in his chest.
"I am Jean Moreau," he whispered, forcing the words through a throat tight with something dangerously close to grief. "I will endure. My place is at Evermore."

He heard the soft hitch of breath, the heavy silence that followed.

And then — the door closing with a soft, merciless click.

They left me.

They left me here to rot.

Jean pressed his palms hard against his eyes, willing the tears back into the hollow pit of his stomach.

Running was never an option.

Freedom was not for the likes of him.

Kevin might have been his brother, but he would never understand — not really. Not what it meant to belong to someone else. To be owned.

The door opened again, and Jean's heart lurched painfully in his chest. Neil stood there, trembling, his whole body wound so tight he looked like he might snap. Without a word, he crossed the room and climbed back onto the bunk above Jean’s.

Jean stared at him in stunned silence, guilt pooling inside him like rot.

He had chained Neil here.

He had condemned him too.

Jean opened his mouth — but Neil beat him to it, voice barely a breath.

"Kevin got out," he said. "You were right. Where would we go? It was a stupid idea." He let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded like it hurt. "There’ll be another chance. Someday. It’s fine." They both knew it was a lie. Whether he was lying more to Jean or himself — neither of them could say. "We're partners," Neil said, voice steadier now, like he was stitching himself back together with sheer will. "We leave together or not at all, right?"

"Right," Jean echoed hollowly.

He closed his eyes, sinking back into the suffocating dark, and wished the guilt — the hope — would disappear.


**


Jean Moreau came back to himself in pieces.

The first thing he noticed was that his thoughts were heavier than usual, like dragging stones through mud — a sure sign he wasn’t on the normal dose of ibuprofen Josiah usually slipped him after a round with Riko.

His nose and cheekbones burned like fire under his skin. Jean lifted a hand that felt more like dead weight than flesh to check the damage; when he realized his nose was broken — again — a dull certainty settled in his gut: the next few weeks were going to be nothing but survival.

He and Neil—

The memory hit him like a blade to the ribs. Kengo’s death.

The hollow, unbearable waiting after he sent the text — only softened by the distant, fragile comfort that Neil wasn’t there, summoned to Ichirou the day before.

Then Riko’s hand, a crushing band around his throat, the sick, scrambling terror of trying to claw himself free, the knowledge that he was seconds from dying.

The rules shattered that day under Riko’s hands, no more lines, no more mercy, just violence.

And then — softer, more broken than Jean had ever heard him before — Neil's voice echoing in the ruins of his mind. keep him safe for me.

Neil. Neil. Neil. His mind screamed it.

He fought to open his eyes, already knowing — already fearing — that the injuries he could feel weren't the worst of it. His legs wouldn’t respond. His hands trembled with every heartbeat. None of it mattered, though. Not if he couldn’t figure out where he was, or where Neil was, or how much he'd already lost.

When he finally pried his eyes open, his stomach plummeted.

The room was too bright — a harsh, natural brightness, even with a blanket thrown desperately over the window. It was a far, brutal contrast to the dim hell he'd grown used to surviving in these last five years.

Panic surged like a living thing inside him. Jean tried to sit up fast, too fast.

He regretted it immediately.

Pain exploded through him, paralyzing and sharp enough to black out the edges of his vision.
He bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood — though he wasn’t even sure if it was from now or from before, when Riko had kicked him like a broken doll until the world went black.

Breathe. Breathe.

He sucked in a breath, then another, fighting the rising wave of terror.

I am Jean Moreau. I will endure. I will endure. I will endure—

"I wouldn’t try that again if I were you," a voice said softly, close to him. "How are you feeling, Jean?"

He forced himself to open his eyes again, his heart pounding in his ears so loudly he could barely hear. Renee. Sitting by his side, too calm, too steady. He barely registered the room — some stranger’s bedroom — because it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Jean didn’t know what madness had made him text Renee, waste the only goodbye he might have given Neil or Kevin. No. Instead, he chose to waste it on a pretty face.

Teach me French, a whisper rose from the depths of his broken mind.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers hard against them.
He knew. He knew exactly where he was. He knew exactly how much he had fucked up. The guilt was a monstrous thing inside him, clawing its way through his ribs and stomach and throat until he thought he might choke on it.

He opened his eyes again, voice hoarse and broken."Where am I?"

Renee held his stare without flinching. "South California," she said.

The words meant nothing at first — just static rattling in his ears. He didn’t remember falling. He didn’t remember deciding to leave. All he could see was auburn hair, a crooked smile, ice-blue eyes burning with hope — hope that had no place inside a place like Evermore. 

There were hands on him. Jean flinched instinctively, a sharp jolt of panic, until he realized it was just Renee, gently pushing him back to the bed. He hadn’t even heard her move. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his skull, all he could feel was the hollow ache in his chest where something precious had been ripped away.

We leave together or not at all, right?

The nausea rose too fast to fight.

He turned his head and vomited onto the floor, bile and blood spilling out of him. Renee barely managed to avoid the splash.

Jean’s hands hit the cold floor, supporting himself as his body heaved once, twice. His ribs burned like they were being stabbed, his broken nose throbbed in time with his frantic heartbeat, his legs screamed at him with every tiny movement.

None of it mattered.

Nothing mattered.

Only one thing mattered.

Nathaniel Wesninski was alone in the Nest.
Nathaniel Wesninski was alone with Riko.
Jean Moreau — weak, broken Jean Moreau — had left Nathaniel Wesninski to die.

Keep him safe for me.

"Jean, I need you to let me pull you back to the bed," Renee said, her voice soft but firm.

He turned his head too fast, a violent, dizzy motion, and the black spots returned to dance before his eyes. He didn’t care.
"You left him there," Jean hissed.

Renee froze for half a heartbeat, but then she said, calm and steady, "Jean, you need to lie down."

He let her pull him back to bed because he had nothing left to fight with. But the rage was still there, smoldering, growing, eating him alive.
"You left him there," he said again, voice thick with hatred, "you left him there to die."

"Try to get some sleep, Jean," Renee whispered, something cracking in her voice, something softening. "We’ll talk when you’re stronger."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to scream and tear at the walls and demand they take him back. But sleep was dragging him under like a riptide, and he was too broken to fight it.

Jean closed his eyes and dreamed of blood, of broken things, and of icy blue eyes begging him to come back.

Chapter Text

Kevin Day was a coward. 

He’d heard it from his team, read it in some hard-core Raven fans headlines dressed up as analysis. He felt it in the way reporters angled their questions, like he was a soldier who walked off the battlefield too soon. Like he was a fallen hero.

Or not a hero at all. 

They didn’t understand. They never could.

Cowardice wasn’t walking away from the Raven’s court. It was surviving it. It was waking up the next day and still being able to fight. But nobody saw it that way. He knew what people thought of him — cold, arrogant, spineless. Words he’d grown used to. They didn’t know what it was like to be Riko’s first test subject. Didn’t know what it meant to be reduced to nothing, a doll built for someone else’s game. Or to watch it happen again, to someone else a — boy with fierce eyes and quieter screams — and realize you could do nothing to stop it.

“There’s always a choice,” Neil always told him.

“You think surviving is a choice? It’s not. It’s punishment,” Jean had said, the night Kevin almost lost him and were the source of most of his drinking. 

“You’ll always be number two,” Riko whispered in his thoughts like a curse, soft and invasive.
“Number two doesn’t matter. He holds the line until someone more important arrives.” That voice lingered in the back of Kevin’s mind, even when he was awake.

The world thought bravery was loud. Kevin knew better. Sometimes bravery was just breathing. Sometimes it was leaving. And sometimes—just sometimes—it was shutting the hell up before your voice got someone else hurt. That was a lesson Neil never learned.

Still, the word stuck.

It echoed loudest on nights when Jean didn’t answer his messages. When Neil disappeared off the grid and Kevin was left wondering if this was the moment his spinelessness would cost him. If this was what cowardice looked like, in the end; alone and broken. 

Kevin knew one thing for certain; cowards lived longer than the ones who fought back.

—

Three missed calls. Twelve messages from Neil.
That’s all it took to break Kevin into pieces.


3:54 Missed call from Neil

3:55 Kengo’s dead. Jean’s next
3:56 Kevin.
3:57 ???????

3:58 Missed call from Neil

3:58 Kevin answer the goddamn phone.
4:01 you have to get him out NOW.
4:05 please. i can’t do this alone.
4:06 Kevin, Riko wasn’t invited to the funeral
4:09 My uncle said to stay out of it, he won’t help. you know i can’t
4:10 I can’t do this

4:12 Missed call from Neil

4:15 please
4:20 please
4:21 please

Breathing felt like a cruel joke; his lungs had forgotten how to function. His hands trembled as he picked up the phone, eyes locked on the number flashing on the screen. He knew what would happen when he dialed it.

But it didn’t matter. He pressed the call button anyway.

Disconnected.

The world tilted. He needed something—anything. A drink, a sharp edge, a scream. His body was already screaming, but his mind was distant, detached—like it was standing just outside his skin, watching the wreckage of who he’d become.

If he could stop shaking... if he could just remember how to feel something that wasn’t panic. Remember the walls he’d spent years building for moments like this.

The phone slipped from his hand as if it burned him, landing with an empty thud on the bed.

Was Jean dead? Was Neil gone, too? 

Riko wasn’t invited to the funeral 

Kevin stumbled, his fingers brushing the doorframe as if he could steady himself on something, anything. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to feel this. He needed to be numb. He needed the liquid that would sink him into oblivion. To forget that he was somewhere he would never truly belong miles and miles away from the Nest. He needed to lock it all away, to vanish into the familiar silence and the cold. 

He walked toward the kitchen, chasing the sound of voices without meaning to. The monsters were already there — gathered like nothing in the world had changed. Kevin barely even noticed them through the haze, until Andrew’s voice was in his ears, sharp and almost mocking. "Kevin, Kev. Just in time. We were just about to wake you up."

Kevin’s body didn’t react. His legs kept moving like they were supposed to, but his brain was already halfway gone. Nick’s face, showing a bit of concern, was a distant blur. "You okay? You look like you got hit by a train."

Andrew’s laughter echoed around him. "Well, I guess he knows already. Renee told you?" The words were a blur, too. 

Aaron looked between them. “What is going on? What’s Renee have to do with anything?”

“Kengo—” Kevin began, but his voice died in his throat.

“Ding dong, the king is dead! Now, guess who’s out saving her broken bird from the Nest?”

“Renee went for Jean?” Kevin asked, his words feeling foreign, like someone else was speaking. The disbelief settled deep, and the guilt quickly followed, twisting in his stomach. He hadn’t even thought about getting Jean out. Not once.

And Kevin still let himself call Jean his brother.

“What?” Aaron frowned, “she can’t be serious.”

Kevin’s head spun, the room tilting unnervingly. But through it all, Andrew’s eyes never left him—steady, focused, studying him like some broken thing he was meant to fix. The empty amusement in Andrew’s gaze burned through him, and something darker lingered there. Only later would Kevin recognize it as rage.

“Day,” Andrew’s voice cut through the fog, slow and deliberate. “Got something to share with the class?”

The air felt too thick. Kevin’s chest felt too small for his lungs. His heartbeat pounded in his throat, but he couldn’t catch it. He couldn’t catch anything. You’re number two, Kevin. Riko used to tell him, You’re meant to lose.

Kevin shook his head, his vision fuzzing like he was underwater. “No.”

The cold press of the knife to his neck was something he should’ve expected, something he should’ve anticipated if he wasn’t so far gone, but he wasn’t in his right mind. His body was numb. A fractured mess. Aaron stiffened beside him, hands tightening into fists but staying at his sides and from the corner of his eye he could see Nicky taking a step forward, opening his mouth like he might say something—but then closing it thinking better of it. 

“Kev. Kev. Day.” Andrew’s voice was smooth, dripping with a kind of cold, unshakable confidence. "You know how I feel about lies, right?”

Kevin’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything else. His eyes flickered to Andrew, nodding numbly as the world around him blurred, voices shouting at Andrew, distant and muffled, fading like they were from another world. Kevin couldn’t hear them, couldn’t even feel his own heartbeat against the deafening silence.

Andrew tilted his head, the blade sinking just a little deeper, drawing a thin line of blood. The sting barely registered as his mind reeled in a haze. “Then why do you lie to me, Kevin?”

“I’m not—” Kevin tried to speak, but his throat clenched with the pressure of the knife, cutting off his words, choking on his own hesitation.

Andrew’s eyes gleamed with something darker, something more dangerous. The smile that tugged at his lips was a predatory thing—sharp and cold. “Let’s try this again. Which birdie told you about Kengo?” His body leaned in closer, and Kevin’s breath hitched, his vision narrowing. But the blade, that sharp edge, was nothing compared to the suffocating weight of Andrew’s gaze. “I’m trying to keep you alive, Kevin. Don’t make it harder for me.”

And then, as the words hung in the air, it hit Kevin with brutal clarity. He’d just given Neil away. Out in the open.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked, his chest tightening with fear, but he couldn’t break the promise. He couldn’t betray the last person who’d trusted him enough to keep their secret. Not even for Andrew. “I made a promise. I won’t break it.”

The laugh that came from Andrew was dark and mocking, a low, cruel sound that seemed to vibrate through Kevin’s bones. It cut through the tension like a blade, and Kevin winced as the knife dug in just a little deeper. “Day, Day Day. Now, you choose to grow a spine?” Andrew chuckled, “You know how much I hate surprises.”

The blade pressed harder, a warning, a threat of far worse things if Kevin didn’t comply. His breath caught, shallow and painful, but it was nothing compared to the storm churning in his gut; the fear, the guilt, the rage.

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to break. Not now. He clenched his jaw, fighting the tremors that were threatening to take over his hands. He couldn’t let panic win. “I won’t tell you. I won’t—he’s the reason I’m here, Andrew. Just give me a little more time.”

Andrew’s eyes locked onto his, unwavering, unblinking. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, the air thick with tension. But for the first time, Kevin didn’t look away. He stood his ground, every ounce of strength focused on not breaking. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting, but he refused to give in. For once, he would do something right. For once, he wouldn’t let Andrew win.

It must have been that flicker of defiance, that small ember of resolve in Kevin’s gaze, because Andrew seemed to notice it. With a final, mocking push, Andrew slowly eased the knife away from Kevin’s throat. His lips didn’t curve into a smile, but there was something in the way they twitched—a subtle satisfaction, like he’d just won some silent victory.

“I’ll let you keep this for now,” Andrew said, his voice cold, low, like a cruel favor. “A condolences treatment.”

He shoved the knife aside as though it were nothing, the motion casual, almost dismissive—like he hadn’t just held Kevin’s life in his hands.

“Run along with your booze, Kevin,” Andrew continued, the mockery clear in his voice, each word dripping with venom. “I know you’re dying to drown yourself in it.”

—

Renee showed up at their doorstep in the early morning on Sunday. 

Kevin wasn’t surprised to see Andrew trailing behind her. The smile Andrew usually wore was absent, which, in itself, was enough to unsettle Kevin, even if just a bit.

Before he could stop himself, he asked. "How is he?"

They all knew who he was talking about. Renee’s expression turned grim. "He’s not well," she said quietly, "but Abby is doing what she can for him."

Not well. Kevin's stomach turned. Not well was an understatement. He knew what Riko was capable of. He was his father's son in name only—His real goal had never been about anything but validation, to earn recognition from a father who never truly saw him. And now, it was too late for that. Far too late.

"Tell me the master wasn’t invited to the funeral either," Kevin whispered, his voice trembling. If he at least wasn’t invited either-

"He was invited." Renee’s tone was flat, detached, and Kevin could do nothing but stare at her blank face, already knowing where this was going. If Ichirou had skipped Riko, straight to his uncle… 

Jean. Oh, Jean.

"Mr. Andritch let me take Jean away when he saw the state he was in," Renee continued, her words dragging through the silence. Kevin barely registered the name of their campus president. "Jean is unwilling to name names or press charges."

"The petite bird is trying to fly, fly, fly back to the Nest," Andrew said cheerfully, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. "Makes you wonder why, don't you? Maybe something to do with that birdie of yours you insist on hiding away from me. Tell me, why is that? Is it because he’s too broken to fly, or is it because you don’t want anyone seeing the mess you’re trying to cover up?"

The words hit Kevin like a punch to the gut.

Renee’s jaw tightened, and she shot Andrew a sharp look before turning back to Kevin. "I need you to convince Jean to transfer."

He can’t, was the first thing Kevin thought. "Jean won’t agree.”

"Perhaps you can talk him into it," she insisted, though there was an edge to her voice. "It could help a lot."

"I won’t do it," Kevin said, his voice low. "He isn’t safe with us. I won’t give him false hope."

"Some hope is better than none at all," she replied.

Kevin wanted to laugh in her face, but the sound died in his throat. He had seen what hope did to Neil—what false hope could do to anyone. He would never wish that on Jean. He clenched his fists at his sides. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. I stayed because of Andrew, not because of some fragile hope. You don’t stay in this world just to hope. You stay because there is something solid enough to keep you from falling apart."

"And I’m done freeing birds out of their cage," Andrew said.

Renee glanced between them, then nodded toward the door. "Andrew, can you wait outside? I need to speak with Kevin. In private."

Andrew raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that all-too-familiar smirk. "Renee, that’s bold—even for you. Is this about the mystery bird Kevin been hiding from me?"

Renee considered him for a long moment before answering, "Yes."

Andrew’s lips twitched, and for a second, there was a flash of something—amusement or understanding, Kevin wasn’t sure—but he didn’t press further. Instead, he gave Kevin a mock salute. "Keep me updated, would you, Day?" And with that, he turned on his heel, his footsteps echoing as he disappeared down the hall.

Renee stood there, waiting in silence, watching the door until she was sure Andrew was gone. Then, without wasting a moment, she turned to Kevin. "I need you to convince him. The Raven I saw there—number four—can he convince him?"

Kevin’s chest tightened at the mention of Neil. Neil—god, what had he gotten himself into? "You saw him? Was he… was he okay?" His voice cracked, and he hated himself for it, but it was there, raw and vulnerable, impossible to swallow.

Renee met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "He was there when we got to Jean. Checked his pulse. Then he turned around to find Riko and—" she paused, the words hanging in the air like a threat, "delay him. I don’t know what happened after that. I’m sorry."

Neil, you stupid idiot. What the hell were you doing?

"I can try," Kevin said, his voice tight with every word, "but I won’t promise anything. The Ravens—" Neil—"they’re all Jean has." The words slipped out before he could stop them, his mind racing with thoughts of Neil, but he wouldn’t let the rest of it slip—not yet. Not now.

Renee nodded, her eyes softening for just a brief moment before she spoke again. "Thank you," she said, her tone a little gentler now, like she was pulling back the walls she’d built. "And… he told me to tell you to keep Jean safe. And yourself. Your number four." She stopped at the door, then turned back to him, her gaze lingering, knowing but not asking. "I don’t know why you don’t want the others to know about him yet, but I won’t say anything. Not even to Andrew."

With that, she left, closing the door behind her softly, leaving Kevin alone with his thoughts—and a whole new set of fears gnawing at him from the inside out.

Chapter Text

It was black.

Everything was pitch black.

Then—

Drowning.

He was drowning.

No air. No light. Only pressure—suffocating, crushing, endless. It weighed on his chest like stone, dragged him downward as if the earth itself was trying to bury him alive.

Neil—

His limbs wouldn't move. His throat burned, full of water. No sound. No breath. Just—

Broken.

“Jean.”

A voice. Muffled. Distant. Soft.

He blinked—or thought he did. Light bled in through the cracks of his mind .Bright and sudden. Too much. His first instinct was to shield his eyes, but his arms were leaden, useless at his sides. Heavy. Painful.

“Jean.”

Brighter this time. Sharper.

He tried to speak, “Where—when…” he mumbled, but he was already slipping again, the black rushing up to reclaim him like it missed him.

“You’re going to be fine. Tu es en sécurité, rendors-toi*. ” The voice whispered close. He felt a hand—warm, careful—gently brushing his hair back behind his ear.

He let himself fade away.

—

Jean heard a woman’s voice, clinical and focused.

“The wounds are healing, but I need to check his throat…”

But he was already gone. 

—

The next time he opened his eyes, the world was clearer. Still blurred at the edges, still distant like he was seeing it from underwater—but this time, he recognized the shapes. Light. White light. The ceiling above him was sterile and too bright. Not black. His chest clenched. Not black.

His hands scrambled for something solid; sheets, maybe a blanket. Something real. He choked on a breath like it was the first he’d ever taken. The panic was instant, feral. He was not in the cage. He was not under the water. He was not—

“Jean.”

He turned toward the voice, too aware of every muscle that screamed in protest. Kevin’s face hovered close by, pale and tight with sleeplessness.

Jean tried to sit up, slower this time, his body still a battlefield of bruises and torn skin. He closed his eyes and counted under his breath in French—

zéro, un, deux, trois, quatre…

Hoping it might ground him, might slow the spiraling sense that something was wrong.

When he opened them again, Kevin Day was still there. Behind him stood someone else, hesitant, her posture wary. Jean’s eyes met hers, and whatever flicker of emotion had started to rise twisted into something sharp. She flinched when he looked at her, just slightly—but enough. He saw it.

He turned his gaze back to Kevin like she didn’t exist.

“When did I come here?” he asked in French, his voice rough. He tried not to focus on how wrong it sounded. He didn’t ask where he was, he already knew. The Nest was far behind him—too far. And so was Neil.

Kevin hesitated. “A day. You’ve been in and out for a couple of hours. Do you remember that?”

Jean ignored the question. It didn’t matter. “You know she shouldn’t have brought me here, Kevin. Take me back to Evermore.”

It had to be the damage to his head. His mind was foggy. Maybe it was the drugs. But all he could think was: Kevin will fix this. He’ll take him back. Jean will apologize to the Master. If he was lucky, they would only punish him lightly. Maybe he’d be forced to practice until he bled. Maybe Neil would patch him up again, quietly, like always.

Neil always—

“Jean,” Kevin said, quiet but steady, “you’re not going back there.”

Jean blinked.

His brain must be worse off than he thought. He stared like he didn’t understand the language anymore. “I’m thinking I am more hurt than I thought,” he muttered, glancing down. His arms trembled when he tried to move. His ribs screamed. Something in his legs felt wrong—like a fire barely tamped down. “I thought for a second you said no.”

“I did. Jean—”

He cut Kevin off.

Right. It was a nightmare. That had to be it. Kevin Day would never say that. He would understand.

He slid his legs toward the edge of the bed. From the corner of his eye, Renee moved. He tried to test his weight—

And pain exploded. It was like lightning. Acid in his lungs, fire in his gut.

He bit down on a scream.

“Jean,” Renee said, firm now, close, “I’d rather you stayed put.”

He didn’t look at her. Only Kevin. Always Kevin. He sat on the edge of the bed, glaring at him. “You couldn’t have become that stupid in just a year,” he said. “Take me back.”

“No.”

He clutched the edge of the bed, every inch of him shaking. Fine, he’d go alone. He’d been through worse—he knew pain. There was someone waiting in a place full of blood and silence, and he’d be damned if he left him there alone for more than a day. Even if Kevin had already forgotten.

They couldn’t stop him. He told them that.

“I promise, I can,” Renee said gently. “It’s for your own good. You’re in no shape to be moving.”

“Just give me money for a bus,” Jean said through gritted teeth. “I’ll get there on my own.”

“You can’t.” Kevin’s voice dropped. “The campus president banned you from coming back.”

Jean froze. “My—” He looked between them, and something like dread curled slow and acidic in his stomach. “What have you done?”

Renee opened her mouth, but Kevin spoke first. “She made sure you were out. For good, Jean.”

The words echoed like a blow to the gut. He should have felt gratitude. He should have understood how much Renee had risked. She barely knew him. But she’d seen something more than the shattered thing the Nest had created. She’d believed in the possibility of someone else, someone more .

But all Jean could feel at that moment was rage. Blazing, helpless, consuming rage.

Because there were only three people in the world Jean had ever truly loved.

One was across the sea, waiting for him in Marseille.

One was standing in front of him, looking at him with bright green eyes. 

And the last was waiting in a place that knew no mercy. It felt like something vital had been torn from him. Not pain—worse. Emptiness, the kind that echoed in the hollows of his ribs and made the room feel too bright, too loud. Like a limb cut clean, leaving behind a phantom that would never stop aching.

“Get out,” he said. His voice was cold, serrated with hate. “Both of you.”

“Jean—”

“Out!” he roared, the word breaking from him like a blade unsheathed.

They flinched. For a moment, no one moved.

Then Renee took Kevin’s arm and pulled him back. The door clicked shut behind them. Jean sat in the silence they left behind, heart hammering, breath ragged. His nails dug into the mattress.

It was black again.

—

“I am a Raven now and always,” Jean said stiffly, voice dry and hoarse to Coach Wymack who stood nearby, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The team nurse—Abby—hovered beside Jean, trying to examine him with the gentleness of someone who already knew they were tending to something broken.

Jean had been awake for hours now. At some point, someone had left food for him on the bedside tray. He hadn’t touched it.

Kevin and Renee were nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah, kid,” Wymack said with a sigh, “I heard you the first four times.” He glanced at Abby. “How bad is it?”

“He’s got a rasp in his voice,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before moving her hands carefully toward Jean’s neck, “but it doesn’t seem like it’ll be permanent.” Jean stopped resisting her touch and simply gritted his teeth as she checked his neck, her hands not as soft as she probably thought they were.

Teeth, Jean thought bitterly.

Tastes like whey protein and oat milk.

He dug his nails into his thigh to stop his hands from going to his throat.

“Get away from me,” he muttered.

Abby blinked in surprise and stepped back, her hands falling to her sides.

“I want to go home,” he said, louder now, daring someone to argue.

Wymack did.

“After what they did to you?” the coach asked, brows raised. “You enjoy being a punching bag?”

Jean pressed his lips into a hard line. His jaw ached from clenching. He knew what he was supposed to say. Knew the script. So he said it. “No one did this to me. I was injured in scrimmages.”

They both stared at him like he was a malfunctioning machine spitting nonsense.

“Jean,” Abby said, exasperated, “I’m a nurse. This?” She gestured to the swelling around his throat, the bruising near his jaw, the dried blood behind his ear. “This is not from a scrimmage.”

“Do the Ravens usually scalp each other during drills?” Wymack added it with a dry scoff. “Even with helmets on?”

Jean flinched. Without thinking, his hand went to the back of his head where the skin had been torn and the hair ripped out. The area throbbed beneath his fingers. He bit down on a gasp that threatened to become a scream.

It was like stepping back into the Nest. Fourteen years old. On his knees. Trying not to cry. He lowered his gaze. His fingers curled, and he caught sight of the bite marks still raw on his hands. A wave of nausea hit him hard and fast. He swallowed it down, throat burning.

“You need to eat,” Wymack said, his voice softening just a bit. “You look like you crawled straight out of the cemetery.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Right.” The coach exchanged a glance with Abby. “You done?”

She gave a small nod. “He needs to take his pills. I’ll go get them.” The door clicked shut behind her.

Wymack turned toward him again, quieter now. “I spoke to Coach Moriyama last night.”

Jean didn’t mean to flinch, but he did. If he'd thought what they’d done to him already was punishment, this—this was worse. The Master would be grieving. Which meant he’d be furious. And Jean and Neil, always firsts in line, would pay the price for his anger.

Wymack must’ve taken his silence for curiosity.

“I told him we’d pay for everything,” he said. “Sounds like he’s in hot water with the board after what happened. Honestly? Serves him right.” He stepped closer. “Kevin thinks they’ll let you transfer. Same as he did. Said someone on the inside will confirm it soon.”

Neil.

Jean’s chest went tight. He didn’t think—he just said it: “Take me back. Take me back now.”

Wymack stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“You don’t get it,” he said finally. “Kevin told us what happened. Not everything, maybe. But enough. Your ‘master’ and that psychopath nephew of his belong behind bars. But the world doesn’t work that way, does it?”

Jean kept his gaze on the floor.

“I know they convinced you Edgar Allan was the only place for you. That without them, you’d be worthless. But that’s a lie. And I swear to you—I will never let you go back. They won’t get another chance to break you. I will burn that place to the ground before I let that happen.”

Jean closed his eyes.

He already knew Kevin had talked. Renee’s messages in January made that clear. But Kevin hadn’t mentioned Neil to the Foxes, Jean realized. That part he had kept. Which meant Kevin had moved on.

Forgotten him. Them.

Just like that.

“You don’t understand,” Jean whispered. “Take me back. I’m not staying.”

“Too bad,” Wymack said. “We know what it might cost us. We’re still not sending you back.”

You don’t know what it’ll cost me, Jean thought. But he didn’t say it.

“Give me my phone.”

“No.” Wymack’s voice was sharp now. Unforgiving. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to stay here, focus on healing. And if I find you out of that bed again, I swear, I will tie you to it myself. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” Jean said, though it didn’t feel like his voice at all.

Just then, Abby came back, holding a bottle of pills. “This’ll help with the pain,” she said, carefully shaking two into her palm.

For the first time since he arrived, Jean obeyed without protest.

He took the pills and swallowed them dry.

—

Jean woke up looking for Zane’s bed.

Instead, he found green eyes and dark hair watching him from the chair across the room.

“I don’t want you here,” Jean rasped, his voice low and cracked. He closed his eyes again, already reaching for the nothingness that had swallowed him whole these last few days. If he just stayed still long enough, maybe sleep would come and take him again. It usually did.

“I think you do,” Kevin Day said quietly.

Jean let out a bitter snort. “Brave and honest. Is that the new Kevin Day? What were you thinking? March in and tell them everything?” He opened his eyes and forced himself to sit up, ignoring the tug of his healing ribs. “What was the plan, Kevin?”

Kevin’s hand hovered, then landed lightly on Jean’s arm, careful and trembling. “I was thinking I’m not going back there. No matter what it costs.”

Jean’s laugh was humorless. “Good for you. You really think it's the same for the rest of us? For Neil?” He shook his head, dark strands falling into his eyes. “A year with the Foxes softened your memory. We’re not people, Kevin. We’re property. I am Jean Moreau. My place is at Evermore.”

Kevin met his gaze. “Not anymore.”

Jean blinked, stunned by the certainty in Kevin’s voice. “You really have lost your mind.”

Kevin didn’t flinch. “Neil called.”

The world stopped. Jean’s breath caught painfully in his throat. He stared at Kevin like the words might unravel if he moved too fast.

“He was summoned by Ichirou,” Kevin said. “With the Master and Riko present. It... didn’t go well. Neil said Ichirou made a decision. He’s letting us go. Said it’d bring too much attention to drag us back now.”

Jean’s heart pounded in his ears. He didn’t want to believe him.

“We’ll pay,” Kevin continued, eyes drifting to his left hand. “Eighty percent of our earnings—now and forever. We’re assets to the main family. It’s not freedom, but it’s the closest thing we’ll ever get.”

Jean looked away. “What about Neil?”

Kevin was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, strained. “Do you remember when Neil first got to the Nest? You hated him—just like you hated me when you arrived. But something changed. After Neil... things shifted. You started to—”

“Don’t,” Jean said, the word sharp as glass. “Don’t rewrite history just because you feel guilty. Look how easily you left him behind.”

Kevin flinched. A real wound. Jean knew he was being cruel.

He didn’t care.

“I won’t agree to this.”

“It’s already done,” Kevin said, voice clipped. “We don’t get a say anymore.”

“You don’t understand,” Jean hissed. “You weren’t in the Nest after you left. You don’t know what it became. You don’t know how much worse it got, Kevin. Far worse.”

Kevin’s voice broke around the edges. “I’m sorry. I am. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry you think I stopped caring. About you. About Neil. You think it was easy, Jean? You think I just walked away and forgot you?” He took a breath that shook. “Every damn day I wake up and wonder—did you sleep last night? Did Neil say something stupid enough again and got punished for it? Are you still driving around in that car we all loved so much?” His voice cracked. “You made me a promise to live, Jean.”

Jean’s face twisted. “You don’t have the right to hold that over me.”

“But I will,” Kevin said, rising to his feet. “Because I care. Because Neil cares. Fuck, Jean—what do you think Neil will feel if you go back? You think he’ll be relieved? Grateful?”

“It doesn’t matt—”

“It does matter!” Kevin exploded. “That’s the thing you keep refusing to see. Staying in that place, suffering together—it’ll break you. Both of you. And Neil—he’s strong, yeah. He’ll survive. But it’ll tear him in half to lose you.”

His fists were clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were white.

Jean looked up at him. “Let me guess. He said he was ‘fine’.”

Kevin let out a hollow, broken laugh. “I swear I will die a happy man if I can go just one day without Nathaniel Wesninski telling people he’s ‘fine’.” He met Jean’s eyes. “Choose your team, Jean. This conversation’s over.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t want to leave you here.” Kevin Day had said to him right before getting in the car and driving away to a place Neil couldn’t follow. 

“You are whatever I want you to be, Four.” Riko said over and over again while he cut him open. Nathaniel fought hard not to believe it.

“I miss my sister.” Jean had whispered to him in French on the worst nights, when silence hurt more than words.

“Run. And don’t look back. You hear me?” His mother’s voice. The last thing she said before she was shot.

“Make the Wesninski name proud.” Cold eyes, sharp blades, and the voice that haunted most of his dreams. “Or I’ll remind you what we do to people who forget their place.”

“You’re a valuable asset, Nathaniel.” Ichirou told him at nights Nathaniel wanted to be anywhere but in his own body.

“You’re in too deep,”  his uncle had told him more than once. “Ichirou wants you here. Maybe in a few months—“

“In a few years—“

“When you turn eighteen—“

“When you go pro—“

“When he gets bored of you—“

Run.
Run and don’t look back.

I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t—
I can’t—
I—

“Enough.”

Lord Ichirou’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and cold in Japanese, silencing Riko mid-rant. Nathaniel stood silently beside him. “I’ve heard enough,” the lord said coldly. He turned to the master. “You told me what happened with Kevin Day was a one-time failure. Now the same thing happens with number three?”

“My lord—”

The slam of Ichirou’s whiskey glass on the table cut the master off immediately.

“My father gave you freedom. We gave you every resource you asked for.” He looked at both Riko and Nathaniel, his mouth curling in something that could’ve passed as amusement if it weren’t so sharp. Switching to English he said, “and then there were two.”

Riko tried to defend himself. “It’s not my fault number two’s a traitor and number three is an attention seeker—” Neil bit the inside of his cheek so hard he thought it might bleed. The same words Riko used after Jean’s suicide attempt. ‘Pathetic play for fan sympathy.’

Ichirou’s glare was enough to shut Riko up. “This attitude of yours is the reason we’ve lost two assets. Valuable. Profitable. Assets.”

He turned to the master. “My father is dead. I run the Moriyama empire now. Do you think I have time—or the patience—to deal with these childish things?”

The master bowed low. “No, my lord.”

“Put a leash on my brother,” Ichirou growled as if Riko wasn’t in the room, “or I’ll remove him myself. No more broken tools. No more assets slipping away like this is some common American daycare. I should’ve acted when Day got injured. I didn’t have the authority then. I do now.” He turned to Riko and spoke each word like a knife, “I do not care about your childish urges. Play with them all you want, but break another toy, and I will put a bullet in your head.”

“Brother—”

Snap.

A guard stepped forward without hesitation and slammed a kick into Riko’s gut. Not lethal — but painful enough to silence him. Neil barely held back a smile.

Ichirou took two calm steps forward, stopping above where Riko was coughing on the floor.

“Don’t mistake blood for immunity,” he said, voice like steel. “When I say bark—you bark. When I say don’t break my things—you don’t break my things. Understood?”

Riko rose slowly, face twisted with fury. “Yes, my lord.”

For a brief moment, Neil thought this might be the longest he had ever stood near Riko without wishing he’d never been born.

Of course, luck was never on his side.

“Nathaniel,” Ichirou turned to him now, and something sharp danced behind his eyes. Something Neil hadn’t seen since his earliest days in the Nest. “You helped Jean escape.”

I only stalled Riko, he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He already knew that was the same thing as helping. So instead, he bowed his head. “I did. I saw the condition he was in. He was hurt in a way that could threaten his value. I only acted in the interest of the business, my lord.”

Ichirou smiled. A cruel, twisted smile that didn’t belong on a face that beautiful. “Ah, Nathaniel,” He raised his hand, gripping Neil’s chin hard enough to bruise. “Such a pretty face. Such ugly lies. That mouth of yours is going to get you killed someday. Maybe I ought to cut out that tongue before it does.”

Neil stared him down, jaw clenched. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Riko smirking in smug satisfaction.

“You will be punished for aiding your partner,” Ichirou said.

Years in the Nest had taught him when not to argue. “I understand, my lord.”

Ichirou released his chin with a brush of fingers, then turned to pour himself another drink.

“Whore,” Riko hissed under his breath.

Neil bit down again. Hard.

Ichirou took a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth. “Can we retrieve him?” he asked, voice calm, almost lazy. “Number three.”

No one answered right away.

Then the master shifted his weight, clearing his throat. “Not easily. It happened on campus. There are too many people who know this by now—administrators, presidents, even some of the board members. Faking an accident won’t be believable. Not this time.”

Ichirou hummed, swirling the glass in his hand. “So he’s gone.”

The master didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The fire popped. Somewhere behind them, a door clicked shut but all Neil could focus on was Jean.

Gone.

Escaped.

Free.

His brother was finally free, so why, instead of being happy, did it feel like his own stomach was collapsing in on itself?

Ichirou set his glass down and turned to Nathaniel. His stare was cold—flat in a way that made Neil feel like less than a person, like something that had moved wrong on a game board. A piece out of place. “There is no more buying out of this, Nathaniel,” he said, voice low but cutting, each word measured. “Jean and Kevin will give me eighty percent. A loss, yes, but manageable. That’s a shame, truly. We could’ve gotten more out of them.” He took a slow step forward, hands clasped behind his back like he was delivering a lesson. “You will have no contact with anyone outside the Nest. No friends. No distractions. No alliances. If it becomes necessary, not even Kevin or Jean. They’re a courtesy I allow you—for now. If they prove to be too disruptive, that will change.”

Neil’s breath caught in his throat.

Ichirou’s expression didn’t shift. “You are not leaving, even if your legs break, even if you never touch a racket again. You belong to the Nest. You should’ve figured that out by now."

Neil didn’t flinch, but something twisted deep in his gut.

Of course he knew.

He’d always known. Every breath he took here was on borrowed time.

His ribs still throbbed from the night Jean slipped through their fingers. Two days had passed, and they hadn’t bothered with real medical care— just enough to patch him up, keep him on his feet, keep him useful . The bruises were turning a sickly yellow now, but every inhale still tore along the bone like glass.

Ichirou’s gaze dipped briefly, a flicker of recognition in his eyes—but no concern.

“I heard you were limping this morning,” he said with vague disinterest. “You’ll walk it off. If not… well, we’ll find another use for you. Maybe we start with media appearances. Publicity. You’ve always photographed well.”

Neil wanted to scream. He wanted to claw Ichirou’s eyes out, wanted to shatter the calm etched into his face. He wanted to break every bone in Riko’s body, grind them to dust, until there was nothing left but silence where that name used to be. The fury burned so hot it left him trembling, teeth clenched, fists curled so tight his nails cut into his palms. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Rage like this was dangerous—not because of what it made him want to do, but because of what it would cost if he gave in.

You're fine, he reminded himself. 

Ichirou tilted his head slightly, the gesture almost amused. “It’s a pity. You’re just smart enough to be dangerous… and just pretty enough to be worth the trouble.”

Behind him, Riko scoffed under his breath. “Slut’s been good at playing dress-up for years.”

Neil didn’t look at him. Ichirou didn’t either. “Riko,” Ichirou said sharply. “Out.”

Riko hesitated, looking like he wanted to stay and see how things played out, but the command in his brother’s voice left no room for negotiation. He left without another word. Once the door shut behind him, Ichirou turned back to Neil. “You chose loyalty to a boy who didn’t matter,” he said softly. He does matter, Neil thought in his head, he matters more than anything in this world. “But that’s fine. I can work with loyalty. It’s much easier to control than ambition.”

He stepped even closer, so close Neil could smell the whiskey on his breath.“Let me be clear, Nathaniel. You are not here because of your skills. Not anymore. You’re here because you’re mine. Body and bones. I own you; the sooner you remember that, the easier this will be.” Ichirou said, brushing his fingers over Neil’s cheek.

Neil didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. He just stared into the fire and kept his hands still at his sides.

You’re fine. You are still here, he told himself. Still breathing.

But it was getting harder to remember why.

—

He didn’t know why it hurt more this time.

Riko was vicious that night—but he was always like that when he was truly mad. It shouldn’t have felt any different from the last time he was waterboarded. It was the same ache, the same burn in his lungs, screaming for air, begging for the chance to breathe . The same choking panic, the same weight dragging him under. Like he was drowning. Like the surface was just out of reach— always just out of reach —and his lungs were seconds from giving out.

But he was used to that.

He was used to Riko leaving him like that—wide-eyed, shaking, pressed against the wall, still trying to convince his body that he could finally breathe. What he hated most was going back to the room after. He hated that it was their room now—his and Riko’s. Not Jean’s and his, like it had been before Kevin ran. But that didn’t matter, did it? Because no matter where they were, no matter what the lists said, Jean was still his partner. His brother.

So what if, sometimes, when his brain lagged behind the moment, he still glanced to his left out of habit—looking for safety—and found a sadistic smile waiting for him instead?
He sat on the cold floor of the showers, palms pressed to his knees, body trembling too slightly to see, but too violently to ignore. The silence was suffocating. Worse than the water. Worse than the pain. Because in silence, there were memories. And Neil couldn’t outrun those.

He could still hear the sound of the bucket being dragged across the tile. The sharp inhale before the first pour. Being chained to the wall. The way Riko always took his time—never angry at first, just methodical, like a scientist testing how long it took a body to break.

Neil had counted tiles again. It helped. A little. But when the water stopped and Riko left, the quiet was always the worst part. Because then it was his voice, taking the form of those who wanted to break him, whispering in Neil’s head.

You’re my greatest disappointment, junior.

Did you know? In Japanese, “four" sounds a lot like death. How fitting.

And then his own, quieter, crueler;

You don’t get to want things.

His fingers curled into fists, nails carving to the skin of his palms—something sharp, something real, something to hold onto-

He didn’t know how he got there. One minute he was on the cold floor, and the next—he was standing in the doorway of his old room, staring at the bed across from Zane’s.

Jean’s bed.

It was still perfectly made. Still untouched. Still his.

The sheets were taut, corners tucked with military precision, not a wrinkle out of place. Neil sat on the edge like the smallest shift might ruin it, like Jean might come back and notice. He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees. The scent was faint now—clean soap, something bitter and minty underneath—but it was still there if he breathed in deep enough.

Still Jean.

Barely.

Already fading.

It should have been a comfort.

It wasn’t.

It felt like standing in a burned house, pretending the foundation hadn’t already turned to ash. He was thankful Zane wasn’t there to see him fall apart.

Jean was gone. Kevin, too.

And Neil—Neil was still here. Still surviving. Still pretending that meant something. A week ago, he’d told himself he could take it. A week ago, he’d smiled like none of it mattered.

But tonight—

Tonight, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

—

“You miss Johnny already, Nate?” Grayson said as he was slamming Neil into the wall in the middle of practice. He said it loud, making sure the others heard. The ridiculous nickname— Johnny —sounded wrong in his mouth. It belonged to Zane. No one else. “I know I do, umm,” Grayson added with a mock moan, rocking his hips against Neil’s in a disgusting rhythm.
Neil didn’t hesitate. His fist collided with Grayson’s face with enough force to send him stumbling backward.

Blood poured from Grayson’s nose, but instead of anger, a wide, twisted grin spread across his face. “You’re all alone now, Four ,” he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Won’t be long before Riko realizes I’m more than just another player. Just wait till he gives me Jean’s number. Then it’s me and you, huh? Roommates. Partners. Think of all the fun we’ll have together.”

Neil felt panic rise like bile in his throat. His stomach twisted, the thought of Grayson getting any closer to the place Jean once slept in made a shiver crawl down his spine—but he forced it down and slipped on the mask.

His father’s smile.

“Oh, Grayson…” he said, voice low and sharp as glass. “You’ve been crawling after a number for what— three years now?” Grayson’s smile faltered just a little. He tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Grayson. “I got mine the day I walked in.”

That hit. Neil saw it land—hard. The flicker in Grayson’s eyes, the briefest hesitation in his breath.

Neil leaned in just a fraction more, making sure only Grayson could hear the next line. “If Riko liked whining, you’d have Jean’s number already. If you were half as good as Jean, you’d be on Perfect Court by now.” Then, louder—so everyone could hear, “But sure,” Neil said with a shrug, like it meant nothing. “Keep begging. Maybe if you cry hard enough, Riko’ll let you wear Jean’s old jersey and sleep on the floor.”

The other players were watching now. A few snorted. Someone let out a low whistle.

Grayson took a step forward, but Neil didn’t flinch. “Go ahead,” he said, voice still light. “Try to hit me again. Maybe this time you’ll actually land one.”

“Enough.” The Master’s voice cracked through the court like a whip, cutting the air clean in half. The room froze. “Four,” he said, voice sharp and cold, “you’re already on thin ice. Keep that mouth of yours shut, or I’ll have you running laps until you collapse. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Master,” Neil replied, steady.

He didn’t get the punishment Ichirou had promised—not yet. But Neil had no illusions. They hadn’t forgotten. They were just waiting for the perfect moment to deliver it. To break him.
He did, however, catch wind of what Riko’s punishment was going to be. And oh, the thought of it... it almost made all the messed-up things he’d had to endure to sweeten Riko’s punishment worth it.

“Back in line. Both of you.”

“Yes, Master,” they said in sync.

Grayson hesitated, seething with rage. Blood still dripped from his nose as he turned, snarling under his breath. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you, Four? Just wait. Riko’s going to see what a joke you are soon enough.”

Only once Grayson was gone did the smile fade from Neil’s face.

Let them think he was untouchable.

Let them wonder what it would take to break him.

Let them try.

He had nothing to lose.

Not anymore. 

******

Bonus: While writing this chapter, I was reminded of an old pens sketch I did a couple of years ago
Hope you'll like it! 

Chapter Text

When Jean closed his eyes, he usually dreamed of the Nest.

There were good days—fragile, fleeting dreams—memories, really— that didn’t leave him shaking. On those nights, he dreamed of a boy standing where Jean couldn’t, of someone daring to speak when silence had always been safer. He dreamed of Kevin sneaking into their room on Neil’s sixteenth birthday, juggling mismatched candles he’d picked up from roadside gift shops while traveling with Riko. Jean remembered the way Kevin handed Neil a cheap wallet, the kind you'd never expect to matter. They all knew Neil had no real money to put in it—but that wasn’t the point. It was about making him feel like he had something, like he deserved to have something of his own. Something more than just what was taken or given under threat.

He dreamed of Kevin saying, quieter than Jean had ever heard him, “Happy birthday, Neil,” before pulling him into a rare, crushing hug.

Jean remembered the quiet nights, too. The ones when Kevin stayed with him after the panic attacks, when his lungs wouldn't work and the walls felt too close and Neil was locked away in the tower. Kevin’s hands had been firm, but careful. His voice, steady. Reassurance came in small touches and smaller words. Jean used to think he couldn’t be reached, but Kevin tried anyway.

But then there were the other dreams. The ones that clawed their way in when the world was too quiet.

The bad days.

The days before Neil arrived, when Kevin and Jean were something unrecognizable. When the only bond they shared was survival. Jean dreamed of cold floors and colder faces, of Kevin looking anywhere but at him while Riko tore him apart in the name of discipline, of loyalty, of control. Kevin talking about Exy like it was holy while Jean bled into the silence.

He remembered a beautiful boy once asking him to teach him French—and then choosing someone else when it mattered. A sharp, subtle betrayal that didn’t bleed but still left a scar.

Sometimes there were hands. Too many. Coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. They pulled and pushed and broke. They followed him into waking life.

And sometimes—rarely, heartbreakingly—he dreamed of something even worse: gentleness.

He dreamed of smaller hands held in his own, trembling, warm. A girl’s quiet sobs muffled into his chest. Bright grey eyes that looked at him like he was the whole world, hanging on to every word he read aloud. Eyes that hadn’t yet learned fear. Love that hadn’t yet been twisted.

He tried hardest to forget those dreams.

Because they reminded him of who he used to be.

And who he never got to stay.

—-

If there was one team unworthy of being on an Exy court, it was the Bearcats.

Jean had played them last fall with the Ravens. The Master had made them study every team they faced—relentlessly, obsessively. They had to be prepared. Perfect.

Failure was not an option.

After facing the Bearcats himself, Jean knew: they were a disgrace to the sport. That fact became even clearer when they lost to the Foxes. But tonight, somehow, they had a stacked lineup.

They were going to eat the Foxes alive.

It was barely a game worth watching, but Jean was bored out of his mind, alone in his room. Neil had texted him earlier, promising he might call later. Other than that, Jean hadn't found anything remotely interesting in days.

So he watched. And he focused on Andrew Minyard. Watched him defend the goal again and again, giving his pathetic team a chance to win.

It was Kevin who noticed Andrew first. Kevin had wanted to make him number five. They all knew the Perfect Court needed a goalkeeper—and from the moment Kevin laid eyes on Andrew, he became obsessed with the idea.

Neil had agreed quickly. Jean had frowned at that.

Kevin was too blinded by his love for Exy to see what bringing Andrew to the Perfect Court would mean. It would be like caging him. But Neil wasn’t like Kevin. Neil would never let someone suffer as they had. Kevin had begged Riko, convincing him to go south for a meeting. Jean didn’t know what happened during that trip, only that Kevin returned in a foul mood. Riko laughed about it at first, saying they didn’t need a fifth player.

Then Neil got Ichirou interested. Interested enough that Riko suddenly changed his mind.

Jean didn’t understand either of them. Didn’t understand why Kevin tracked the Foxes’ games with such bitter anger. Didn’t understand why Neil was so desperate to complete the Court. Still, the Nest began buzzing with rumors about the new number.

It didn’t take long before the media caught wind of it. Suddenly, the whole world knew.

It was only when Zane came to him—offering protection from Grayson in exchange for Jean helping him become number five—that Jean realized what Neil had done.

“I wasn’t there when you were sixteen, Jean,” Neil had said quietly. “But I’ve been here for the last five times he hurt you. I’m not letting Grayson touch you again. Even if it means we’re no longer partners.”

At the time, Jean didn’t have a partner. He’d been separated from Neil after Kevin ran away. It was supposed to be a temporary punishment. After Zane’s offer, it meant Neil was stuck with Riko—for good. Because of Jean.

Jean turned back to the screen. Even with Andrew, the Foxes were losing. He nearly shut the game off at halftime, but stopped himself. He should try to analyze it, at the very least. Renee took her place on the backline, and Jean did his best not to stare.

Twenty minutes into the second half, the Foxes were still holding their ground.

Fifteen minutes before the end, they changed the score in their favor.

6–5.

Then, ten minutes later—7–5.

"I’m dreaming," Jean muttered to the empty room. Because really—in what sane world did the Foxes beat the Bearcats and were now headed to the championships against the Big Three?

USC. Evermore. The Foxes.

What was even real anymore?

He blinked and found himself watching Kevin Day, a microphone in his face, being interviewed post-game.

“Their season was nearly flawless,” Kevin said, speaking of USC. “There’s a lot we can learn from them. Their leadership is strong.”

“Still their biggest fan, I see,” the reporter teased. “What about Edgar Allan? Everyone’s excited to see the Perfect Court face off.”

“I’m not a Raven anymore,” Kevin replied, looking straight into the camera. It almost felt like he was saying it to Jean. “I’m grateful for my time with the Ravens, but I’ve moved on. I’m a Fox now—with a team I consider family. And with my father.”

“Your father?” the reporter asked, surprised.

“Coach Wymack is my father,” Kevin said simply. “I’m where I’m supposed to be.” He looked like he might say more, but stopped himself. “I’ll be going now. Thank you.” He pulled out his phone and walked off, as the reports ran after him, trying to get him to answer their questions. 

Jean considered it. All in all, it wasn’t as bad an interview as he’d expected. He’d been bracing for traps—questions that felt like blades, silence heavy with judgment. But it hadn’t come. The reporter had been polite, restrained, almost too careful. The questions stayed above water. No one said Riko’s name. 

His phone buzzed.

They’d let him keep it now—after Kevin had spent a solid hour wiping it clean. Every Raven contact erased. Blocked. Deleted. Kevin had handed it back with a look like he was giving Jean a loaded weapon.

“Only me and Neil,” he’d said. “And don’t make me regret it.”

Jean hadn’t replied. Just nodded.

He looked down at the screen. A message from Kevin.

23:50 p.m.
I was going to tell them I’ve never been skiing.

23:50 p.m.
I couldn’t do that to Neil.

Jean stared at the message and read it again.

And again, and again, and again.

—

The Foxes came to visit him in the morning.

Up until then, they’d kept their distance. He’d only seen Kevin, Andrew, and Renee—and that had been absolutely fine by him.

Apparently, the Foxes didn’t feel the same.

Jean knew every single one of them. Every stat. Every dirty secret. Every weakness. Riko had made sure of it. Back when Kevin left, Riko’s obsession with the Foxes had gone from passive disdain to a full-blown fixation, and Jean and Neil had been forced to memorize files on them like they were preparing for war.

He looked at them now.

On the far left, standing just slightly apart from the rest, was Aaron Minyard. Backliner. 5'0". Cold stare. The spitting image of Andrew, which was more than Jean could say about his cousin, Nicky Hemmick—Backliner, 5'11", dark skin, dark hair, built like someone who smiled too often and took too little seriously.

Jean’s gaze drifted quickly down the line.

Dan Wilds—offensive dealer, captain, 5'4", sharp eyes and sharper instincts.

Matt Boyd—backliner, 6'4", tank of a man, known soft spot for Dan.

Allison Reynolds—defensive dealer, 5'4", blunt and unapologetic.

Seth Gordon—defensive dealer, 6'2", temperamental.

Janie Smalls—striker, 5'4", quiet but fast.

“So, Jean,” said the blonde—Allison. Her tone was sugar, but her eyes were scalpel-sharp. “We hear you and Kevin are spending a lot of time together.”

Jean frowned.

“Allison,” Dan murmured beside her, a warning in her tone. She turned to Jean with something gentler. “We wanted to check in. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Jean replied, clipped.

They stared at him, like they were waiting for more. He said nothing.

“We heard you’re thinking about switching teams,” Matt said, trying to sound casual.

“Yes.”

Silence.

“That’s it?” Nicky asked.

Jean’s eyes didn’t move. “Do you need more?”

From the corner, Aaron muttered, “This is a fucking waste of time. Kevin’s dating Thea. You all know that. This is dumb.”

But Allison didn’t blink. “Then why do you and Kevin spend so much time together, hmm?”

Nicky folded his arms. “We’ve had him for one year and he’s driving us crazy. You’ve had him for how long? And you still talk to him willingly ?”

No one stepped in to defend Kevin.

Jean looked at them for a beat. “I don’t mind him.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about Kevin,” Matt joked.

Allison leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting. “So you’re saying it’s not romantic?”

Jean blinked at her.

“We’re trying to figure out if you two are dating,” she went on. “There’s a pool going. Honestly, it’s the hottest bet we’ve had in months.”

Jean stared, expression unreadable. “What?”

His tone was pure disbelief.

Seth snorted. “See? Even he’s grossed out by your faggot drama.”

The word hit the air like a slap.

Nicky flinched, actually flinched. Dan’s head snapped toward Seth like she’d misheard him. Janie looked down.

“Apologize,” Dan said, voice low and hard.

Seth shrugged. “Whatever.”

“No,” Matt said, stepping forward. “Try again. We are all sick of it, Seth.”

Seth rolled his eyes but said nothing. Dan’s jaw was tight as she turned back to Jean.

“We came to talk. To welcome you,” she said. Her voice was strained now, honest.

“We even convinced the monsters to come,” Allison added dryly, gesturing at Aaron and Nicky.

Jean frowned. They didn’t look like monsters. Not like the ones back at the Nest.

“This isn’t how we wanted it to go,” Matt said, quieter. “Kevin said you might be looking for a new team. If that’s true—we wanted you to know the offer’s real. No strings.”

“You want me to join your pathetic team?” Jean asked.

That landed. Dan’s shoulders stiffened. Matt’s face shifted. Seth snorted. “Now I get it. You and Day, both walking egos. All the Ravens think they’re gods.”

Jean didn’t look at him. “The Ravens are number one. That’s all that matters.”

“What about the game?” Matt asked. “The fun?”

Jean didn’t blink. “Fun is a child’s dream. Exy isn’t about fun. It’s about winning.” Before anyone could argue, he added, “and nothing is going on between Kevin and me. I consider him my brother.”

Seth sneered. “I hope you’re a better brother than the psycho one.”

Jean bristled—rage sparked—but then it dimmed. He realized Seth didn’t mean Neil.

He meant Riko.

“Brother?” Nicky piped up, quick to shift the tone. “That’s great! That means you’ll stay, right?”

“I’m not joining the Foxes.”

“Why not?” Dan asked, genuinely confused.

Because you’re exhausting. He didn’t say that. Instead he said, “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

Matt shifted beside her. “That’s what Day said when we asked him,” he muttered, like it meant something more.

Jean’s gaze sharpened. “Is Kevin in on this?” His voice was flat—careful.

Dan hesitated, then shook her head. “He didn’t tell us to come. But he wouldn’t have stopped us either.”

Jean exhaled, slow and worn thin. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Maybe,” Matt said, shrugging. “We’re used to long shots.”

“We’re the Foxes,” Nicky added with a tired grin. “Long shots are kind of our thing.”

Jean didn’t look at them when he said, “I need air.”

Dan nodded and turned to the others. “Come on.” One by one, the Foxes moved. Aaron first—wordless, arms crossed, unreadable. Then Nicky, still watching Jean like he was trying to figure something out. Matt followed, shoulders tight, and the door clicked shut behind them.

Jean stood in the quiet, surrounded by the Foxes’ voices still echoing faintly in the walls.

He would never be one of them. He knew that for sure. 

Not even if he played in their colors.

Not even if Kevin asked him to.

And that—

that was fine.

—

Jean stared up at the ceiling of his room, one arm flung over his eyes to block out the cursed orange curtains. He didn’t need to see them to know they were still there—loud, crooked, and offensive.

“I do not know how much longer I can stay in this hideous room,” he said viciously in French, not bothering to temper the venom in his voice.

There was a beat before Neil answered. His voice was rougher than usual—tight around the edges. “Still using the room’s curtain as a reason to leave the country?”

Jean’s mouth twitched. “It offends me,” he said. “ Orange . The color is an assault. And the curtains have no symmetry.”

A breath of laughter filtered through the speaker—shallow, stifled. Painful. Jean heard it. He heard everything in the way Neil spoke: the wince behind his breath, the lag in his timing, the quiet, calculated way he leaned away from the mic.

He didn’t mention it.

“Should I mail you a paint catalog?” Neil asked. “We’ve got black, black, black and… oh! Black.”

“Only if you include a passport and a hammer,” Jean replied.

Silence followed. Not long, but long enough to make Jean shift, rolling onto his side. Neil hadn’t hung up. He was still there. Just quiet.

Jean let the silence stretch before filling it again. “The Foxes have been getting on my nerves.”

He could almost hear Neil’s eyebrow go up. “How so?”

Jean sighed. “They asked me to consider joining the team again. Nicky cornered me with this ridiculous ‘we’re all one big family’ speech. It was unbearable.”

A pause, and then Neil, lightly, “That sounds nice.”

Jean scoffed. “Matt looked at me like I was something broken he could fix. Andrew looked like he wanted to set me on fire.”

He didn’t add the rest. He didn’t say he’d seen Kevin watching him, too—worried, silent. Like Jean might still vanish if they blinked.

“And they think I’m dating Kevin,” Jean added blandly.

He could feel Neil smile through the line. “Seriously?”

“They had a bet going on. I didn’t ask.”

Neil laughed again, shorter this time, sharper around the edges. Jean heard the stifled breath that followed—sharp and shaky. The kind you took when trying not to flinch.

Still, he didn’t ask.

Jean let the silence take over again. Let it sit heavy and real between them. He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask where Neil was, or who hurt him this time. He just stayed on the line—steady, grounding. A voice in the dark that didn’t demand anything back.

Because that’s what Neil needed.

And Jean knew how to be there for him.

Or at least, he thought he did.

Chapter Text

“How about the Bearcats?” Neil asked over the phone, voice casual.

Too casual.

Jean didn’t even try to mask the sharp snort that escaped him. “I’m not joining a team that lost to the Foxes. Twice. ”

Kevin, standing across from Jean, phone gripped in one hand, frowned. “I’m standing right here, you know.”

Jean gave him a bored look. “All the more reason to say it out loud.”

“He’s not wrong,” Neil chimed in, smug even through the receiver.

For a heartbeat, it almost felt like the world hadn’t fallen apart. Like this was just another stupid conversation between people that were normal. Like Jean wasn’t spiraling with every breath.

Almost.

“I think Penn State makes the most sense,” Jean offered, keeping his tone neutral, casual—as if he hadn’t rehearsed this line in his head for hours before the call.

“No,” Neil and Kevin said at the same time.

It was so immediate, so final, that Jean blinked. Penn State had been Edgar Allan’s greatest rival—until the Ravens moved south last year and burned that bridge along with the rest of the map.

“Absolutely not,” Kevin added, firmer. “I don’t trust you that close to West Virginia.”

Jean’s mouth twisted. “Then what? The Jackals? Please. I need a real team, not a pack of amateurs.”

I don’t need a team at all , he almost said. I don’t want a team. I want the Nest. I want home. I want—

But the word caught in his throat. 

There was a pause—weighted, long. Jean could hear Neil breathing on the other side of the line. Could imagine him leaning back on a wall, frowning as he thought about a solution. Then he said, “What about the Trojans?”

Jean barked a laugh. Bitter, too loud. It cut through the air like a blade. “The Sunshine Court? Please. They smile too much and muzzle their players. The only team that’d be more inappropriate is here.”

But Kevin didn’t laugh. He was considering it. Seriously.

Jean narrowed his eyes. “You’re not serious.”

“I could talk to Knox,” Kevin said slowly. “It’ll take some convincing, but… I know he’d want a player like you.”

A player like you.

It was almost a compliment. Almost sweet. Coming from Kevin, it might’ve even meant something. But all Jean could feel was the tight pull in his chest, the sudden flare of something raw behind his eyes.

“Of course. Knox . Can’t forget about your man crush,” Neil drawled. Jean could practically hear the grin through the phone.

Kevin flushed. “For the last time, it’s not a man crush. I’m straight. I have a girlfriend.”

“‘Man crush’ has nothing to do with sexuality,” Neil replied, voice amused now. “And I quote: ‘There’s a lot we can learn from them. Their leadership is strong. ’”

Jean tuned them out. Their banter felt too sharp, too familiar. Too painful. “I’m not made for the Sunshine Court,” he said, voice low now. “My place is—”

“As far away from here as possible,” Neil interrupted, and this time his tone was cold, lethal.

Jean froze.

“Jean,” Neil continued, voice harder than it had any right to be, “if you set foot near this campus again, I will kill you myself.”

Something cracked in Jean’s chest. Not new, not clean—just one more fracture along a fault line that never healed.

There were muffled voices in the background—one of them sharp, fast, maybe Russian or something close. Jean didn’t catch a word. “I’ve got to go,” Neil said. “Talk to you later.”

The line went dead.

Kevin slowly lowered his phone.

They stood in silence for a few seconds. Jean didn’t know where to look—at the wall, the floor, Kevin’s face.

“I’ll talk to Jeremy,” Kevin said eventually. “We’ve got a game against them in a few days. I’ll try to catch him before the match. Just… promise me you’ll talk to him.”

“I’m not—” Jean started. But the words didn’t come. Not honestly, not fully.

He weighed his options like someone holding two knives and deciding which one to fall on.

Just the thought of leaving the Ravens made his stomach twist into knots. It meant leaving behind anything familiar, anything he knew.

It meant leaving Neil. 

Who am I if I’m not a Raven? If I’m not at Edgar Allan, who protects Neil from himself?

But it was already decided. The gate was closed. The Nest wasn’t home anymore. He had no place there—and no right to want one. 

It should’ve felt like freedom. 

It didn’t. 

It felt like drowning slowly, head barely above the water.

USC would be even farther. Another time zone. Another world. The Trojans were good. Maybe too good. Honest. Cheerful. Team-first. All the things Jean had never been, all the things he didn’t trust.

And Jeremy Knox—

There aren’t any faggots on the Perfect Court , Riko’s voice echoed like bile in his ears. 

Jean gritted his teeth. Pressed the heel of his hand against his eye until the sharp sting distracted him from the memory.

I am Jean Moreau. I am Perfect Court. I will endure.

Before he could stop himself, he said, “I’ll think about it.”

Kevin let out a breath. “Good.” He nodded, almost gentle. “Talk to Renee, too. She meant well. You’re not being fair to her.”

Jean looked away.

Kevin pocketed his phone, stepped toward the door.

When he opened it, Andrew Minyard was already leaning against the frame, that unsettling smile carved across his face.

“I’m getting tired of being left out, Kevin,” Andrew said, eyes flicking to Jean. “Smart of you to speak French. What, you think I won’t eavesdrop on your little Musketeer club?”

Kevin didn’t flinch. “Just a little more time.”

Andrew tilted his head, birdlike. Cold and curious. “Tick, tock. Hear that? That’s your clock running out. You’d better make sure you’re not wasting it.”

“Just a couple more weeks. They’ll announce him soon.”

Andrew’s gaze narrowed. He studied Kevin like he was weighing his soul.

“We’re going to Columbia tonight,” he finally said, turning away. “Come on. We’re done here.”

Kevin followed without another word.

And just like that, Jean was alone.

—

True to his word, Kevin talked to Jeremy.

The call came two days later. An unknown number lit up Jean’s screen, and there was only one person it could be. His thumb hovered over the answer button. For a second, he considered letting it ring out. Or picking up and hanging up just as fast.

But he’d promised.

Try, he told himself. At least try. He answered with a sigh.

“Hey, Jean! It’s Jeremy. Jeremy Knox. Kevin gave me your number—I hope that’s okay. Is now a good time to talk?”

“It’s barely morning on the West Coast,” Jean said flatly. “Isn’t it too early for you to be this cheerful?”

Jeremy chuckled, warm and easy. “I’m a morning person. Guilty as charged.”

Of course you are, Jean thought bitterly. That tone—it was irritatingly sincere.

“I heard from Kevin you’re looking for a new team,” Jeremy continued. “I’ll admit I wasn’t sure if it’d be possible, but… our coaches took a vote. We’d love to offer you a spot on our lineup.”

Jean closed his eyes. His jaw clenched, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek before he said something he couldn’t take back. “I come with a different set of values,” he said slowly. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“We know enough,” Jeremy said gently. “But we’re willing to take a chance. That’s kind of our whole deal, isn’t it?”

Jean stared at the ceiling, searching for cracks. “I’m not sure I can be—” He paused. Good? Normal? Safe? “—enough for your Sunshine Court.”

“It’s the Gold Court,” Jeremy corrected with a laugh. “But we’ll take whatever version of you walks through our door. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to try.”

Jean bit his lip. He hated this—being reassured. Being spoken to like he wasn’t a walking landmine. “The Ravens trained me a certain way,” he said. “It wasn’t just drills or strategy. It was a lifestyle. I need structure. I need a partner for classes. I need to stay in shape. I need—” Control. Familiarity. A reason to wake up without spiraling. “Don’t expect me to sit around braiding friendship bracelets with your Trojans.”

“How about we just start with… keeping your media presence clean?” Jeremy offered. “No friendship bracelets required. Kevin told me there’d be some challenges. That’s fine. We’re not looking for a poster boy—we’re looking for someone who’s willing to grow.”

Jean exhaled through his nose. He didn’t believe in growth. Not for people like him. But there was something in Jeremy’s voice—hopeful, stubborn—that made it hard to hang up. “You’re making a mistake,” Jean muttered.

“I don’t think so,” Jeremy said without missing a beat. “We’re not the Ravens, Jean. But we will make space for you. You don’t have to earn it with blood.”

He said it so simply, like it was a fact. Like space, safety, and acceptance were things Jean could just be handed instead of bleeding out to reach. He didn’t believe him.

“You’re still staying with Coach Wymack, right?” Jeremy added. “I’ll have our coach send the contract over Monday.”

“I’ll read it,” Jean said. “But I’m not promising anything.”

“Fair enough. Call me if you’ve got questions—you’ve got my number now. It was really good talking to you, Jean.”

Jean didn’t say it back. He ended the call in silence. If Jeremy was soft enough to be offended by that, then Jean really didn’t belong on the Gold Court.

The Sunshine Court. He’d mocked it. Still did. But here he was—actually considering them. Freely.

How far has he fallen?

—--

Jean stared at the contract like it might bite him.

It sat on his desk—neatly stacked pages, crisp and white, perfectly printed. The Torjens logo stared up at him like it expected gratitude. Like he should feel honored.

He didn’t.

The words swam the longer he looked. It wasn’t the content—he could follow short blurbs, snippets, Exy stats—but long blocks of text in English still made his brain lock up. He had learned to speak it long before he ever properly read it. Not in school, not from books, but through orders. Instructions. Shouted phrases. Whispers behind closed doors.

He rubbed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

Kevin had read things for him before. Always with a sigh, always a bit too fast, but he’d done it. And Jean had let him. Trusted him.

Could he ask again?

He clenched his jaw.

No. Not this time. Kevin had already done enough. And besides, what did it matter what he was signing? 

Jean couldn’t help wondering how a team so clean, so rule-bound, ended up as one of the Big Three. Where were the bruises? The broken knuckles? The mind games? Everything about them felt… off. Alien.

Wrong. Just like him.

He flipped to the last page. There it was: the list. Jersey numbers. His number—three—wasn’t there.

He blinked. Checked again.

Still missing.

He skimmed the footnote. The Torjens reserved numbers 1 through 19 for strikers and midfielders. Defensive positions started at 20 and went up. Jean was a backliner. Which meant he would lose the number he’d worn since he was fifteen. The number they branded on his face.

His fingers drifted up instinctively, brushing the tattoo beneath his eye. It didn’t ache, but it might as well have. Phantom pain. The kind that never quite faded, no matter how far you ran.

Kevin was number two. Still two. Always two. Neil would officially be number four this season. Edgar Allan saved the number years ago when they announced a new member of the Perfect Court.

He was left staring at 25, 29, 30—numbers that felt meaningless. Empty. Like strangers.

Two digits. Impersonal. Disposable.

Worthless, whispered a voice that sounded too much like Riko. Undeserving.

A lump formed in his throat. He shoved back from the desk so fast the chair legs screeched. The papers slid sideways and fanned across the floor like spilled guts.

He couldn’t breathe.

The kitchen. He needed water. Something to cool the burning in his chest.

He padded down the hallway barefoot, pulse pounding. His fingers still twitched from the phantom contact with his face. Still felt branded. Still felt owned.

He didn’t expect anyone to be there, but Renee was.

She stood at the counter with a chipped mug in her hands, haloed in the soft light over the sink. She turned slowly when he entered, eyes catching on the tremor in his fingers and the ghost-shock in his expression.

“I take it,” she said gently, “you’re still thinking about it?”

Jean blinked. His mouth was dry. “What are you doing here?” His voice was too even. Wrong, like everything else.

“I’ve come by a few times,” she admitted, setting down her mug. “Trying to decide whether to talk to you.” She watched him a moment. Then added softly, “I can go. If that’s what you want. Or… we can talk.”

Jean didn’t move.

Jean didn’t answer right away. He looked at her and still felt the ache—still felt the betrayal—but the days apart had softened the edge. Made it harder to hold onto his anger.

“I don’t belong here,” he said eventually. “Or there.”

“Then where do you belong, Jean?”

The answer rose before he could stop it. “I’m Jean Moreau,” he said stiffly. “My place is in Evermore—”

“No,” she cut in, firm but not unkind. “It’s not , Jean. It never was.”

He blinked.

“You are not what they made you,” she said. “You are not a product of the Nest. You’re a good person—even if you can’t see that yet. The Torjens will see it. They want you there.”

Jean gave a hollow laugh. “I don’t feel like a person.” The confession cut through him like glass. “I existed in the Nest, but I wasn’t real. We only left for games. For school. Everything I know—everything I am—is Exy. And the only times I ever felt more than that were with—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. “They won’t understand me. I’ll always be too much. Too broken.”

“Maybe,” Renee said. “But they’re willing to try. Isn’t that worth something?”

He didn’t answer.

“You said once that trust is built through pain,” she said quietly.

“It is.” His voice was bitter. “It has to be.”

“No,” she said. “You survived through pain. That’s not the same as trust. Trust comes from actions. From choices. And from people who show you—again and again—that they’re not going to hurt you.” 

Jean looked away.

“I know Evermore still has a hold on you,” she continued. “And I know someone you care about is still trapped there. But Jean… you have a chance now to live. To make something of your life that isn’t just endurance. Something real. Something more.”

That word again. More.

“The world isn’t just black or white,” Renee said. “It’s sunlit fields and new grass. It’s warm light on your skin. It’s late-night kitchens and second chances. You need to find the little things. The things that remind you the world doesn’t always hurt.”

He stared at her, overwhelmed.

“If you can’t believe in yourself yet,” she added, “then believe in the people who believe in you.”

“I…” he started, but her phone buzzed.

She pulled it out, scanned the message, and sighed. “Dan needs me. Something’s happening—I have to go.”

Jean nodded numbly.

She hesitated, gave him a small smile, then turned.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

But she was already gone.

—-

He stared at the place where his name was signed.

Jean Moreau.

The pen snapped in his hand—clean in half.

We’re partners. We leave together or not at all, right?

The words slammed into him like a wave, knocking the air out of his lungs. He pushed back from the desk, stumbling until his back hit the farthest wall of the room. The silence rang in his ears as he pulled out his phone with shaking hands.

Kevin picked up on the first ring. “Jean? Everything okay?”

“I need you,” Jean said.

“You at Coach’s?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in ten.” There was a pause, muffled movement. “Andrew—” he added to someone else, definitely Andrew, “—stay tight. Bye.”

Jean let the phone drop to the floor beside him, his fingers curling loosely on the tiles.

He glanced back at the contract. He could tear it up right now. Destroy it. Pretend it never happened.

I am Jean Moreau. I am a Raven. My place is at Evermore.

But then he tried it again, without the last part.

I am Jean Moreau. I am a Raven.

And again.

I am Jean Moreau.

That one stopped him.

Because—who was he without being a Raven? Who was he outside of the Nest, the pain, the structure, the rules?

When Kevin arrived, he didn’t say anything. Just took one look at Jean slumped by the wall, eyes red, hands clenched in his lap. “Take it before I change my mind.” Jean said as he stared up at him. 

Kevin didn’t waver. “It’s a good thing,” he said softly. “It’s for the best.”

Then he turned and left, leaving Jean in the stillness once more.

I’m not a Raven anymore, Jean thought, stomach twisting.

Then what was he?

Much later, long after sleep had taken him and the world quieted—

4:50 a.m.
Neil: I’m proud of you.

---

~Just some personal note~

Thinking of Jean always makes me think of France.

The last time I visited was with a friend—we mostly stayed in Paris, and we both love art. It was my first time at the Louvre (the previous time I was in Paris was with family, and they don’t really share my love for it), and we also visited the Musée d'Orsay for the first time

I’ve always loved La Petite Danseuse de quatorze ans by Degas, and seeing it in person was incredible. I immediately took a picture of it, and once I got home from the trip, I had to sketch it.
It’s not my finest work—it was a very quick sketch—but I still wanted to share it with you :)

Until next time!

Chapter Text

“Morning, Four,” a voice sneered in Japanese from somewhere above him.

Neil opened his eyes, slowly, only to find Riko smiling down at him.

The worst way to wake up.

Riko didn’t take Jermey’s statement about Jean moving to the USC well. Neil knew from the second he saw the sadistic smile and the cup waiting for him on the table that it waa going to be a bad night. 

He tried to sit up fast, instinct overriding pain, but his ribs screamed in protest. Fire shot through his side, and he bit down a cry, teeth grinding. He wouldn’t give Riko the satisfaction. Not again. Not after last night. His shoulder was still burning. His head pounded like a drum. He was sluggish—numb. Still drugged from whatever Riko had given him the night before, when Neil refused to stay down.

“Three never needed the drugs, Nate,” Riko said with mock sweetness as he carved him open, “don’t you want to be obedient like him?”

Neil stayed silent. Breathing through his teeth.

“We’re running late, Four,” Riko added with a wider grin. “Wouldn’t want you to miss practice .” Then, adopting a fake, sympathetic tone: “Oh, but Nate—you look awful. So stressed.” Riko placed a hand on Neil’s shoulder, almost gently.  Pretending it was a gesture of comfort.

Then he pressed down. Right on the raw, bleeding spot—the one split open by his blade just the day before.

Neil screamed. Riko chuckled. He leaned in, grabbed a handful of Neil’s hair, and yanked his head back so their eyes locked. “Who owns you, Four?”

“Ichirou,” Neil spat.

Wrong answer.

Riko's fingers dug into the wound again. “Who’s your King?” Neil clenched his jaw, refusing. The pressure increased again. 

And again.

“You! You,” Neil finally cried. He hated how wrecked he sounded.

Riko smiled, pleased. “Better. Let’s go. I wouldn’t want you to miss today’s practice for the world.”

Neil frowned.

It was a school day. They weren’t supposed to have practice until evening. But there was no point arguing with Riko. He was clearly scheming something, and it wasn’t like Neil had a choice.

When he reached the court, his frown deepened. Riko was behind him—Neil could feel his stare, waiting for his reaction.

But Neil didn’t understand what he was seeing.

The court was mostly empty when they arrived. Just four players sitting on the floor in full gear. But they weren’t practicing. They were sitting on the court, writing on something Neil couldn’t quite make out from this distance.

He turned to Riko, confused. Riko just smiled. “Go ahead.”

Was this some publicity stunt Neil had missed? Had Edgar Allan turned into a poets’ club overnight? The name was already close enough to the famous poet—but this was ridiculous.

Only when he got closer did he realize what they were writing on.

Jean’s class notebooks. Neil recognized them instantly. The black covers. The careful, slanted handwriting. He’d seen them enough times in Jean’s hands, balancing school with Exy. He couldn’t read the smaller scribbles from afar, but the large block letters—WHORE, TRAITOR, COWARD—were more than enough.

Neil surged forward. “Give me that!” he snapped, trying to snatch the books away.

A hand caught his wrist. One of the freshmen. Neil hated that smug grin. “I don’t think so. We’re having fun.”

“So much fun,” another Raven echoed with a snort.

Then Riko stepped closer, calm as ever. “Isn’t it nice? We’re writing love letters to your lost puppy. He ran off to the team of rainbows and sunshine. We just want to remind him what he is.” He paused, then added with a smirk: “Why don’t you join us, Four?”

Neil turned, disgust burning in his gut. “That’s pathetic. Even for you. I’m not doing this. Give me back Jean’s books.”

Someone shoved him to the floor before he could move. Grayson. Smiling. Likes to bite, Jean used to say. Dread sank deep into Neil’s stomach.

“Come on, Natey. Don’t you want to write Johnny a love letter?” Grayson taunted, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Something sweet like, ‘You left me alone to suffer. I fucking hate you.’ Real romantic.”

Neil felt sick.

Logically, he knew he should just do it. Write the sentence. Pretend. Tell Jean later they made him.

But the thought of Jean seeing it—before Neil could warn him, before he could explain—sent something cold slicing through his chest. The idea of Jean’s hands trembling as he read it, wondering if Neil had meant it… wondering if this was how it ended—

“How about, ‘Fuck you, Grayson, you piece of shit,’” Neil spat back. 

The Ravens circled tighter, boxing Neil in. All of them wore the same expression—gleeful cruelty barely held in check.

"Five or six should do." was something Jean had told him once in a whisper like a warning.

“Oh, Four,” King said, voice silk over broken glass. “We weren’t asking. Pick up the fucking pen and write what we tell you.”

“No.”

Grayson lunged at him first, aiming a punch at his jaw. Neil managed to duck, but the world was still blurred and too slow, the drugs from the night before making his limbs heavy and his reactions half a second too late.

He stumbled backward—right into the fist of another Raven.

Then another.

Then another.

He hit the floor hard, arms trying to shield his head, ribs screaming as boots found him over and over. A haze of pain swallowed time. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been down before he heard Riko’s voice cut through the blood and noise.

“Dear brother wouldn’t want me breaking his toy,” Riko said calmly, amusement dripping from each word, “not right before the big shoot.”

Eventually, they left.

Neil lay there alone, wrecked and bleeding, the pen still untouched on the floor beside him.He stayed on the floor for a moment longer, catching his breath and swallowing down the nausea rising in his throat. He pressed careful fingers to his ribs—bruised, not broken—and exhaled shakily. That was something.

He tried to stand, legs trembling under him, and stumbled back down. His lip split further under the force of his bite, but he pushed himself up again. There wasn’t time to sit in pain. He had a few hours before practice, and he was never as good at stitches as Jean.

He limped his way down the hall, steps slow but determined, praying no one crossed his path, leaving a trail of blood behind him he knew he’d have to clean up later. For once, he was grateful to find his room empty. 

He pulled it from its hiding spot, hands steady, relieved that at least his fingers still worked. Neil didn’t know if Riko had never found the first aid kit or had simply deemed it unimportant enough to leave behind. Maybe it amused him, knowing Neil would be forced to clean up his own blood. Neil never asked. 

He stripped off his shirt, grimacing as the fabric pulled against torn skin, and looked down.

The bruises weren’t as bad as they felt—purple and black like ink spills across his ribs, but no jagged swelling. Just angry colors. The reopened gash on his shoulder bled sluggishly. Another, low on his side, would need a few stitches to hold it together and stop the bleeding.

Neil worked in silence, jaw clenched as he cleaned the cuts, threaded the needle, and started stitching. The tug of thread through skin sent sparks up his spine, but he kept going. This was normal now. This was normal for years. 

He thought, briefly, about calling Jean. About hearing his voice tell that story again—the one about the little house by the sea, and the girl who asked for the same ending every night. He could almost hear it in Jean’s careful voice, quiet and tired and safe.

But Jean was free. Jean had clawed his way out and gotten something that looked like peace.

Jean wasn’t a Raven anymore.

Jean had already suffered enough.

Neil kept sewing in silence.

—----

He caught Zane between lunch and practice—just as he was throwing out his tray and turning toward the court.

“What do you want, Wesninski?” Zane asked, not bothering to stop walking.

Neil fell into step beside him. He didn’t have much time.

“I want you to be my partner,” Neil said, arms crossed.

Zane snorted. “I like having my own room, thanks. What, getting desperate for that it again?”

“Riko won’t let you keep that room for long. We both know that.”

“So?”

“So,” Neil said carefully, “I’d be a better roommate than Grayson. Don’t you think?”

Zane slowed just enough to give Neil a look. Then he laughed under his breath. “That’s what this is about. You want me to babysit you, like I did Johnny. Let me guess—Grayson already bored with his own hand?”

Neil clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to punch him. “This has something in it for you.”

“Spare me,” Zane said. “Johnny already promised me five before he bailed. And what did that get me? A permanent seat in Riko’s shitlist. You really think I’m dumb enough to fall for that again? Your little Perfect Court disappears one by one, and the rest of us get stuck with the fallout. Funny how that works.”

“I can get you three,” Neil said. “Jean’s number.”

Zane stopped walking. He stared at Neil for a long second. Then laughed again—sharp and humorless. “Sure you can.”

He turned to leave, but Neil grabbed his arm. “Riko’s afraid of me,” Neil said, voice low. Depends on the day, depends on the room he didn’t say. “You know I’m good for my word. Be my partner, and you’ll get the number.”

Zane shook him off roughly. “Then bring me proof. And while you’re at it, tell your boyfriend he fucked me over worse than anyone. Do you know what it cost me to back him? What I still get for it? The looks? The silence? I didn’t make enemies just to be left behind with nothing. And I’m sure as hell not doing it again for you.” He smiled then, cold and deliberate. “I see how Grayson touches you under the table at lunch. Doesn’t matter how many Ravens he plants to block the view.”

Neil froze.

“Yeah. Makes you wonder how long until he moves with you to the next big thing. If you’re serious about giving me the number, Wesninski, you’d better move. Fast.”

—---

“Smile just a bit—oh, perfect!” the cameraman chirped.

Neil obeyed with his most practiced expression, an Exy racket slung over his shoulder. Riko’s arm was draped around him in a way that looked friendly to the untrained eye—but the grip was too tight, too possessive. A claim disguised as camaraderie.

The crew didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, look at the two of you! One and Four! The fans are going to eat this up.”

Riko flashed a smile at the director, all sharp edges and showmanship. “It comes naturally to us. We have a strong bond, don’t we, Nate?” He leaned in, lips brushing Neil’s ear. “You look like a slut,” he whispered. “No wonder Daddy came to see you.”

Neil’s eyes scanned the room—and found him. Ichirou Moriyama had entered, flanked by guards, expression blank and unreadable as he surveyed the shoot. A production assistant had already flitted to his side, all smiles and nervous energy, explaining something about the shoot.

Riko’s fingers dug deeper into Neil’s shoulder, right into the healing skin beneath his jersey, torn from a few nights ago.

Neil didn’t scream. He didn’t dare to move.

“Now, let’s get a few solo shots,” the director said. “It’s only right to start with the Perfect Court’s newest member.”

Neil could feel Riko’s fury vibrate in the silence behind him. But Riko only smiled, dazzling and fake. “Of course,” he said. “Let the star have his moment.”

Neil stepped into the center of the set, adjusting his grip on the racket. Lights shifted. Crew murmured. Someone dabbed at a smear of blood he hadn’t realized was on his lip.

“Look this way—yes. Over the shoulder—perfect! Serious but focused.”

He braced himself. Each breath tugged against bruised ribs. Every shutter click felt like a spotlight on his pain.

“Now crouch. Like you’re ready to strike.”

Neil dropped low, weight coiled in a position that felt more like a warning than a pose. This time, he didn’t smile.

Click.

Another flash.

And then, from the edge of the set, a movement. One of Ichirou’s guards tilted their head—just a fraction. A signal. Neil handed the racket off to a crew member as the guard approached. “Lord Moriyama would like a word. Come.”

The camera team barely noticed as Neil was led away. But Riko did. His gaze followed Neil like a brand—cold, calculating, possessive.

Neil didn’t look back.

He was guided through a side curtain into a back hallway, quieter and colder than the set. Concrete walls. Buzzing lights. A place meant for crew, not guests. The backstage bones of the building.

Ichirou stood in the shadow of an open door. He didn’t speak until the guard behind Neil had disappeared, leaving them alone.

The room beyond was a makeshift lounge: two chairs, a table, untouched refreshments. Ichirou remained standing.

“Nathaniel,” he said calmly. “You’re still breathing. That’s a good start.”

Neil swallowed. “If this is about the photos—”

“It’s not.”

Ichirou’s eyes dropped to the spreading stain under Neil’s jersey. The blood was mostly hidden by the dark fabric, but not from him. “Riko is testing you,” he said. “They all are. They want to see how far they can go before I consider it a problem. Before it’s officially breaking you rather than toying.”

Neil’s voice was dry. “And how far is that?”

“That depends,” Ichirou said, stepping closer. “On whether you plan to disappoint me again.” The silence between them pressed in like a weight. Neil’s heart pounded too loudly in the stillness. Ichirou continued. “We’ve already briefed the press. The photos. The interviews. The announcement. It’s all been arranged.”

His tone sharpened. “You will smile. You will repeat every word we gave you. No improvising. No surprises. No stray glances or off-script movements.”

Neil flinched, just slightly.

“You will not run. You will not hesitate. And you will not, under any circumstances, reveal who you are. Not to the media. Not to your teammates. Not to anyone . Is that clear?”

Because if he did, they’d recognize him. The press. The FBI. The world.

The Butcher’s son.

They’d see the resemblance. The scars. The history etched into his face. And if he gave them anything—just one slip—

He was finished. Whether by Ichirou’s hand or the chaos that followed, it wouldn’t matter. He’d be gone.

So Neil nodded.

He swallowed.

And he lied.

“Yes, my lord.”

Ichirou studied him for a moment, then leaned in slightly, his breath cool against Neil’s cheek.

“Don’t make my trip here a waste,” he said, voice soft as silk, sharp as a blade. “It’s so much more enjoyable when you remember your place.”

_____

He was sleeping, for once, when Riko stormed into the room like a hurricane.

He sat bolt upright, muscles already tensed, breath caught halfway between sleep and survival. The Nest didn’t let him rest often. The fact that he’d slipped under at all was proof of how exhausted he was. That, or the eye of the storm had finally dulled him.

But no. The storm had just walked in.

Riko.

His expression alight with a predator’s joy. Neil barely had time to swing his legs over the edge of the bed before Riko was in the center of the room, sharp and smug like a knife that had drawn blood and wanted more. He had been quiet since the last photoshoot. Four full days of an uneasy silence. A couple of slaps, a shallow cut here and there when frustration boiled over—but nothing worse. Not from Riko, at least.

Zane kept watching him from the side, calculating. If Neil wanted to win him over, he’d need to act fast. Last night, when he and Ichirou had been tangled in bed, he’d tried to say something—plant a seed—but he wasn’t sure it had stuck. The lord had been too busy with his empire to care about something as petty as Exy.

Which, all in all, explained the edge Neil was on now, standing in front of a wide-smiling Riko.

“Good news, Four,” he said, voice lilting mockingly as he tossed something in his hand—a Raven's jersey with Number 4. His jersey. “We’re going to see my dear brother.” Riko’s grin widened. “Isn’t that nice?”

Kevin, Neil thought, his heartbeat quickening. Stay calm. Don’t let him see anything. Don’t give him anything.

Riko only smirked at the silence. “We’re going to convince him to come back.”

Neil didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t trust himself to. His mind screamed a thousand things at once—Please. Don't. Yes. No. Run. Yes, yes, yes. And, finally. And, Please bring him back to me— “Delusional again, King?”

Four years in the Nest—five, nearly—and Neil still hadn’t learned how to keep quiet. It wasn’t bravery, just stubborn reflex—Riko always asked for it too much.

Riko’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened. “You’re going to behave,” he said, stepping forward. “Your handler told you already—no speaking out of turn. No looking where you shouldn’t.” He leaned in, voice low and syrupy with venom. “And especially no eye contact with my brother. You wouldn’t want to see what I’ve planned for you if you forget that, Four.”

The smile on his face sent a chill through Neil’s bones. Neil’s fingers curled around the jersey.

“You’re there to sit in the crowd,” Riko finished, straightening. “Be quiet. Be obident. And watch us win.” His eyes gleamed. “Let’s go remind Kevin who he belongs to.”

Chapter Text

Andrew was smoking on the rooftop two nights before their match against the Ravens.

The cigarette in his fingers was burning fast, smoke curling around his face like a ghost trying to get in. He didn’t even like smoking - he just liked the quiet that came with it. The pause.

Four more months.

Four more months and he’d be off the meds. Four more months and Kevin Day would have to give him a reason—something to build his life around.
So far, Kevin hadn’t managed shit. Not even close.

Andrew exhaled, letting the smoke drift lazily into the night air. He tilted his head just enough to glance at the drop below. The vertigo that followed was the only familiar feeling left—something real in the blur of chemicals still dulling his senses.

What would be left when that haze was gone? What if there was nothing underneath?

He flicked the cigarette off the edge. Watched the ember tumble and vanish into the dark like it never existed. Then he turned and went downstairs.

Kevin was sitting in the living room like he’d been carved there—elbows on knees, eyes locked on the television like it was speaking directly to him. The glow from the screen washed his face in cold colors. He looked pale, tense, like a wire stretched too tight.

The others were gone—probably asleep. Aaron was likely with his cheerleader again, thinking he was being clever. Andrew let him think that, for now. But he’d cut her off eventually. Cleanly. Quietly. She wouldn’t even know what hit her.

“Day,” Andrew said, eyeing the tight set of Kevin’s jaw. “Game’s in two days. Bit early for your press-induced panic attack, don’t you think?”

Kevin didn’t blink. “There’s breaking news. They’re about to show it.”

Andrew arched an eyebrow but moved to stand beside him. “Breaking news about Exy?” He huffed a dry laugh. “Junkies.”

But Kevin didn’t even acknowledge the jab. And something in his stare—too focused, too hollow—made Andrew stay.

Two minutes passed. Two overly polished reporters filled the screen, voices full of manufactured excitement.

“We’ve got breaking news in the world of Exy!” one of them chirped. “Joining us to discuss this explosive reveal are Denise and Joe—our top Exy analysts!”

“Thanks, Erica,” Joe said, grinning like he’d been waiting all week to spill the secret. “SportsX is thrilled to be the first to break this story. After fans mourned the end of the Perfect Court—with both Jean and Kevin leaving the Ravens—”

The crowd booed at Kevin’s name. Andrew saw the flinch.

“—we’re excited to reveal photos of the new members of the Perfect Court. And yes, the long-awaited 'missing brother’ has finally arrived.”

The crowd erupted in cheers. Kevin went statue-still.

The screen cut to a photo.

Andrew blinked.

There, next to Riko—Riko, in full king-of-the-world posture—stood someone new. Bright, icy blue eyes. A shock of red hair that looked like it had been dipped in fire. The number four inked on his face. And a smile.

Not a grin. Not a fake charm.

A real smile. One that split his face in a way that was both dangerous and magnetic, like he knew exactly how much damage he could do and had already decided you weren’t worth warning. It was the smile of someone who would carve you open and kiss you like an apology.

Andrew’s stomach twisted. There was something new about him.

Something interesting .

He was happy he wasn’t fully medicated to see that. 

Kevin hadn’t moved. Hadn’t breathed.

“Nathaniel Wesninski, everyone!” the woman said, almost giddy. “And looking sharp next to the King of Exy himself! The Perfect Court rises again.”

Andrew’s mouth curved into a slow, sharp smile. “Your mystery birdie, I presume?”

Kevin dragged his gaze away from the screen. “Yeah.”

From the television, one of the hosts jumped in, all teeth and enthusiasm. “So what do we know about our mysterious number Four?”

“Well,” the co-host said, flipping through a notepad, “he’s been training with the Ravens since he was about fifteen. From what we’ve heard, he was especially close to Kevin Day and Jean Moreau during their time at Evermore. That is before they left him behind.” The edge in their voice was impossible to miss. “But Riko stayed,” she added, almost sweetly. “We’re told Nathaniel sees him as an inspiration. Isn’t that beautiful?”

Andrew’s gaze flicked back to Kevin, who had gone pale. “Does he?” Andrew asked, mild. If he was going to have another psycho on his hands, he wanted the warning early.

Kevin’s jaw tightened. “No. Nothing like that.”

On the screen, the picture lingered—Nathaniel in sleek black, expression calm, eyes cutting through the lens like they saw too much. Andrew studied him, something prickling at the back of his neck.

“There’s more to him than this, what is it Day? I already told  you —I don’t like surprises.” Andrew said.

Kevin didn’t answer.

Andrew tilted his head, bored of the silence. “Is he an enemy or a friend, Kevin?”

It took far too long for Kevin to respond. “Ne-Nate would never hurt me. Or Jean.”

“And the rest of us?”

Kevin hesitated. “He’s not a threat. Not really. Not… most of the time.”

“Comforting,” Andrew muttered.

“It’s complicated,” Kevin admitted, rubbing his temples. “Riko’s been trying to break him for years. When I left… Nate was still okay. Or at least, he was pretending to be.”

Andrew watched him closely. “Is he going to be a problem, Day?”

“Off the court?” Kevin shook his head. “No. He’s not a bad person. He’s—” He stopped, then said more quietly, “I owe him everything.”

Andrew raised a brow.

Kevin didn’t look up. “I grew up in the Nest. It’s all I knew. When Jean came, I didn’t trust him. I didn’t want to trust him. Getting attached in there is dangerous. But Nathaniel—he walked in and it was like… I don’t know. Like something shifted.” His voice went quieter as he exhaled shakily. “He’s my little brother.”

The words hung in the air like a loaded weapon.

Andrew blinked. Kevin barely used that kind of language about Jean , let alone someone the rest of them hadn’t met.

“You said he’s not a problem off the court,” Andrew said. “What about on it?”

Kevin hesitated again. Then, “on the court… he’s a Raven. One hundred percent. A loss is not an option. He’s fast. Dangerous. Focused. He doesn’t miss, and no one could keep up with him—not even in the Nest.”

Andrew’s expression darkened. “So another junkie for Riko’s war.”

Kevin didn’t answer that.

But the silence was enough.

—--

The night before the big game, Kevin and the French birdie had a fight.

Andrew didn’t care. Not really. As long as it didn’t turn physical—and by now he knew that with Jean, the chances of that happening were close to zero—it didn’t bother him. Jean fought with words, and Kevin had always been fragile when it came to words.

What did bother Andrew, however, was that he couldn’t stop thinking about those bright, ice-blue eyes.

Too many holes in Kevin’s story. Too many pauses, too many puzzle pieces that didn’t fit together the way they should have. He was going to solve it.

Him.

“Little brother,” Kevin had called him. And yet—where had he been? All this time? Kevin had never mentioned him. Not once. Not a name, not a hint. And now suddenly, just days before the most important match of their season, the name Nathaniel dropped into their lives like a blade.

That alone rang every warning bell Andrew had.

He knew how he could have solved it easily—if Nathaniel had been here. Columbia.

A couple of drinks. A couple of questions. The right smile. The right pressure. Andrew could get what he wanted out of anyone. But the mystery birdie wasn’t here. He was locked away in the Nest—miles and miles of distance and silence. Trapped in a cage made of comfort and cruelty.

Kevin seemed so sure. So sure his little brother wouldn’t hurt him. So sure Nathaniel was still the boy he remembered. But Andrew knew better. He knew what loneliness did to people. What violence could carve into someone if left long enough in the dark. So for now, Nathaniel Wesninski was a red flag. A threat. A quiet question with no safe answer.

“I expect all of you to behave,” Coach said, snapping Andrew out of his thoughts. He was looking straight at him when he said it.

Andrew didn’t have enough drugs in his system to smile. Didn’t have enough energy to pretend to care. So he just stared back. Blank. Unbothered. And if Coach didn’t like what he saw, that was his problem. Andrew had bigger things to worry about. Like what would happen when Nathaniel is finally free from the cage.

—--

Walking onto the court, Andrew could feel eyes on him.

Not the crowd—never the crowd. They didn’t make his skin prickle like this, like he was being dissected by something colder, sharper.

He lifted his head to scan the stands—not really expecting to find anything.

Then freeze.

Blue. Ice-blue. Cold and focused, locked onto him with the kind of stillness that made your pulse stutter. Staring directly at him from across the arena, unmoving.

Nathaniel Wesninski.

Beside him, Kevin halted mid-step. The rest of the team came to a confused stop behind him, Matt nearly crashing into his back.

“Hey, man, you good?” Matt asked, frowning as he stepped beside Kevin.

Kevin didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. He looked like he’d seen a ghost—and maybe he had. Andrew watched the way Kevin’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the way his shoulders rose like he was trying to pull himself together piece by piece. Then, low and unsteady, Kevin leaned toward him and whispered, “He looks so much thinner than before.”

Oh, so Riko was going to play dirty. How boring.

Andrew didn’t reply. He just turned back to the boy sitting high in the VIP box, black-clad and still. Nathaniel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his eyes—those sharp, frozen things—were fixed on Andrew, for reasons he didn’t know.

“That’s him, huh?” Seth muttered behind them, his voice low. “Wesninski.”

“He looks like a problem,” Aaron muttered.

Nicky smiled wide, “looks kinda cute.”

Aaron wrinkled his nose at it. 

“He’s not here for us,” Andrew said, cutting them all up. 

Kevin finally exhaled like he’d been holding his breath underwater. His voice, when it came, was rough and tight. “Play your game. Eyes forward.”

But he didn’t move.

Andrew took the first step instead, breaking the hold the moment had on them. He walked across the court without another glance toward the box—at least not one anyone could see. And still, Nathaniel’s stare burned between his shoulder blades the whole way to the goal.

The game hadn’t started yet.

But it had already begun.

—

They were three points ahead.

Three points over the Ravens. And it felt good .

Not that Andrew cared about the game itself. He’d never cared enough about it. But this? Watching Riko twist in frustration? Watching him shout orders that got sloppier and louder the more the Foxes pulled ahead? Watching him lose even with the dirty trick of bringing the blue-eyed birdie here? 

That was worth it. That was better than the pills.

He was playing a full game. No half-switches. No hiding. He was going to guard the goal and block every shot and make sure the Foxes rubbed this win into the Ravens’ faces , Riko’s especially.

And maybe, maybe , it would be enough to shut Kevin up for just one night about stupid Exy. 

Right now Kevin Day was destroying the Ravens' defense like they were standing still. Andrew didn’t care. But if he did , he’d say it was satisfying.

He watched as Kevin cut through another line, dead-eyed and dangerous. The Ravens got more reckless with every missed point. Zane—Riko’s favorite little wrecking ball, according to Kevin—finally snapped. He lunged at Kevin without warning, swinging wildly.

Andrew didn’t move to help. He’d seen it coming. He just leaned against the goalpost, watching both teams explode onto the court. Zane’s teammates barely tried to stop him. If anything, they seemed pleased. Kevin shook him off. He didn’t even look surprised. Just winded. He brushed off Abby’s protests with a grunt and turned toward the sideline.

Then Grayson muttered something under his breath as he passed Kevin. Whatever it was hit Kevin like a punch to the gut.

He froze in place, spine locked, jaw clenched.

Then he kept walking. Slower this time. Shakier. Andrew watched him go. He didn’t ask. And, after a minute, the game resumed.

By halftime, they were up 4-0.

Matt was practically vibrating with excitement. “This is awesome!” he shouted, nearly knocking Seth off-balance with a slap to the back.

But Kevin wasn’t celebrating. Kevin was silent. Pale. He looked like he wanted to throw up.

Andrew noticed. He opened his mouth to say something—maybe to ask if Nathaniel was still watching, if that was what had Kevin unraveling. But his mind was starting to blur at the edges.

Withdrawal.

Playing the full game might’ve been a mistake.

Oops , well, there was no turning back now. Not with the Ravens watching. Not with Riko watching. Not with Kevin’s dear little brother watching.

“Be careful,” Kevin warned before the second half began. “They’re getting desperate.”

And oh, they were. Ten minutes in and the Ravens had stopped playing a game. They crashed into bodies with no regard for the ball. They aimed for ribs, not racquets. Andrew held the net, watched them come, and blocked every single attempt. He wasn’t going to let them have the satisfaction.

Kevin scored again, shoving through two defenders like they were paper.

Then Brayden, one of the biggest Ravens, shifted direction. Hard and fast—straight toward Andrew. He saw it too late, too focused on the blue eyes at the stand and Kevin. Matt and Janie both pushed off to intercept, but they were too far. Andrew’s hands tightened around the racquet, legs braced, but—

If he wasn’t in withdrawal, If his vision wasn’t swimming, If the armor didn’t feel like concrete and his limbs didn’t shake—

He could’ve moved. He was sure of it. Could’ve even gotten out a knife. 

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Brayden slammed into him like a train. Andrew hit the ground so hard the breath was knocked from his chest. The court spun, tilted, vanished. He gagged. Bile clawed at the back of his throat, pain crackled across his spine. He tried to push himself up, his fingers barely responded.

Matt was shouting. He heard scuffling. Brayden being pulled back. But it was distant, muffled. 

His helmet—he needed it off. His hands trembled too much to manage the strap. Useless. Shaking.

Then Kevin was there. He crouched down, voice low but edged with panic. “We need to get you off the court before you take the helmet off, Andrew.” 

Andrew didn’t respond. Couldn't.

He hated this. Hated the pills and how much he needed them—like air to his lungs. Hated the withdrawal. The crash after being sky-high, slammed back to earth. In this case, quite literally.

“Wouldn’t want the medic to find out I haven’t been a good little boy,” he muttered through gritted teeth once they were off-court, Kevin and Nicky at his sides. They were trying not to touch him, keeping their hands light, like he might shatter. He should’ve been grateful.

But between the tremors in his limbs, the echo of another body slamming into his, and the eyes—those eyes—still tracking him from the court and the crowd, he nearly pulled a knife on Nicky just for breathing too close.

“We’re just a minute from the changing room,” Nicky said gently, like coaxing a child on a long car ride. Andrew hissed—low, warning. Enough.

He knew Abby was trailing behind them, probably preparing to check him over. But all he could think about was the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue waiting for him. The pills.

His so-called “prize” for the night.

By the time they got there, Andrew managed—barely—to peel off his helmet and gloves. 

Then he vomited. Hard. The force of it bent him double, stole the air from his lungs again. He clung to the wall, waiting for the blur to stop spinning just enough to breathe.

There it was. Near the entrance.

 The bottle of pills. The whiskey. Waiting for him like old friends.

He practically crawled to them, grateful there was no one around him, for once. Alone now in the tiny bathroom, he grabbed the pill bottle with shaking fingers. It took three tries to open the cap, and when he did, some of the pills spilled to the floor. He didn’t even blink. Kevin had already unscrewed the bottle of whiskey—smart. Andrew downed the pills, swallowing them with the fire of alcohol scraping down his throat.

The world tilted. Just for a moment.

Then came the familiar emptiness. Hollow and bone-deep. A void carved out long ago.

And after that—warmth.

Not enough for the manic grin yet, the one he wore against his will like an armor, or a curse. Not yet. But it was coming. It always did. That smile that said I’m feeling something when he wasn’t. That mask that would carry him through the next four months before it all came crashing down.

“Andrew? I need to check you. May I come in?” Abby’s voice. Soft. Careful. Just outside the door.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, took another swig from the bottle. The floor shifted again as he tried to stand.

Oh yeah. He probably had a concussion. “I’m not decent!” he called, laughing—or maybe it was choking. The pills were starting to work, smoothing the edges, making everything seem almost nice . “Oh Abby,” he said, voice slurring just enough to sting, “you wouldn’t like what you find.”

But even as he said it, he knew she wouldn’t let him go without checking him.

Sure enough, a few seconds passed, then the soft click of the door opening. Abby didn’t speak right away. She just stood there, taking it all in—his trembling hands, the pills scattered like fallen teeth, the bottle of alcohol tipped on its side like a quiet confession.

For once, she didn’t say anything about that.

“I’ll be quick,” she said softly, stepping inside.

He didn’t move as she knelt beside him—her touch clinical, practiced, but not unkind. She checked the back of his head, made him track her finger, shone a light in his eyes. He let her. Mostly.

Finally, she sighed—quiet, tired. “You need to rest. I’ll tell Coach you’re benched.”

“I’ll need to go back,” Andrew muttered, his voice dry. “There’s a little idiot who might crawl back to the Nest if I’m not staring him down.”

Abby blinked. “You can barely stand.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He pushed himself upright, the room tilting violently around him. He laughed as he staggered. “See, Abby? Good as new.”

She didn’t argue. Just helped him up, even when he jerked away from the contact. Even when it cost her.

And when he stepped into the tunnel again, the roar of the game hitting him like another blow to the skull, Andrew knew one thing for sure—

He fucking hated Exy.

—

He did, in fact, have a mild concussion.

“Emphasis on mild , Coach,” Andrew said as he stepped back onto the court, ten minutes left on the clock and that familiar hysterical smile stretched across his face.

Coach gave him a hard look. “You better not be downplaying it just to protect Kevin.”

“Me? Lie?” Andrew laughed. “Scout’s honor, Coach.”

Coach exhaled like it physically pained him. In the background, the Ravens scored again—7–6, Ravens’ favor. “Every time I see you, I lose three years off my life,” he muttered. “Go sit down.”

Andrew gave him a mock salute and headed for the bench. Brayden, already seated with a red card and no regret, flashed him a knowing smile.

The fucker knew he’d done his job. He’ll deal with him later. 

Andrew’s gaze moved to the court. Renee was guarding the goal—sharp, steady, unshakable. No one could doubt her skill.

Still, the Foxes were struggling. Seth and Janie had speed, but not enough to match the Ravens’ fluid precision. Kevin was pushing hard, managing a goal to tie it up. 7–7.

Matt was trying to hold the defense together, but Riko slipped past him like it was nothing and scored. The Ravens’ crowd erupted, chanting “King! King! King!” over and over, drunk on their own arrogance.

Boring.

Even the faint satisfaction he’d felt earlier—the sharp, bitter pleasure of winning the battle—was gone now.

Boring, boring, boring. 

The game ended 9–7, Ravens’ favor.

The Foxes collapsed where they stood, exhausted but proud, clapping each other on the back like they’d just won gold.

The Ravens, by contrast, stood frozen. Silent. Staring at the scoreboard like it had betrayed them.

Like they’d lost.

Andrew didn’t move from the bench.

He watched the way Riko didn’t celebrate—just turned, jaw tight, like even winning by two wasn’t enough. Like the very act of playing against them had dirtied him.

Then he turned to Kevin, and oh, how Andrew was itching for a fight.

Riko didn’t make it one step before Andrew was in front of him. “Riko,” he said, that maniac smile cutting across his face, “I told you before—don’t touch my things.”

Riko stopped in his tracks, something smug curling at the edge of his mouth. “I see the lesson we gave you on the court didn’t quite sink in,” he said coolly. “We’ll need to think of something... else.”

Andrew’s smile widened. “Oh, Riko. Go lick your wounds somewhere else.”

Riko stared back, challenging. But Andrew knew better—Riko was a coward underneath all that polish. Eventually, he snorted and looked over Andrew’s shoulder, clearly aiming his words at someone else—Kevin, no doubt—before spitting out something in Japanese and gesturing toward the blue-eyed Raven still lingering in the stands. Then he turned and walked away.

“What did he say, Day?” Andrew asked as he turned back.

Kevin looked paler than usual. “I—he said the same thing Grayson said to me. That if I’m not careful, they’ll give Nate the same treatment they gave Jean." He paused before he added, "I don’t know what that means.”

But from the sound of it, Andrew knew it couldn’t mean anything good.

He still didn’t like the Frenchman—not because he’d done anything, not because he was particularly unpleasant (he was, but given the company Andrew kept he was used to that).
It was the hollow look in his eyes. That haunted, fractured quiet that said more than words ever could.

Jean carried the weight of someone who knew what it meant to say no and be ignored. Someone who knew what it was like to be broken down until there was nothing left. And sometimes, it was too damn hard for Andrew to look at him and not see himself.

He didn’t say anything to Kevin. The question— Did Kevin know? —had lingered in the back of Andrew’s mind for weeks. This pretty much confirmed what he already suspected.

He watched as the rest of the Ravens followed Riko’s lead. No victory lap. No gloating. Just silence—sharp and dangerous. They filed off the court like shadows slipping into darker places, heads high, mouths shut.

Then he saw the blue-eyed Raven start descending the stands, fire in his steps, clearly saying something heated to Riko, who gave him a sharp, mocking smile in return.

Even if Andrew hadn’t been watching Nathaniel directly, Kevin’s focus—intense, fixed, a step forward like a man possessed—would’ve told him all he needed to know.

“No way you’re going over there,” Andrew muttered, stepping between Kevin and whatever dumb idea was brewing in his head.

Kevin blinked down at him like he’d just come out of a trance. “I—I hadn’t seen him in so long—”

“No,” Andrew said flatly. And whatever tone he used must’ve cut through, because Kevin’s jaw clenched. He cast one last look Nathaniel’s way before turning angrily and storming toward the locker room.

Andrew didn’t bother looking again.

_____

Kevin gathered them in the locker room after the game and post-match interviews.

And oh, that already smelled like trouble to Andrew.

“Is this really necessary, Day?” Aaron muttered, folding his arms. “The game just ended. Whatever bullshit you want to say about how we played can wait.”

“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” Seth grumbled, looking like he was ready to kill Kevin with his bare hands, “but I agree with the monster. Can you keep your fucking speeches to yourself for one day?”

Andrew leaned against the lockers, arms folded loosely, watching Kevin with detached curiosity. Kevin stood rigid in front of them, shoulders squared like he was about to walk into a firing squad. Coach Wymack stepped up beside him, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“We’re not here to discuss the game,” Coach said, calm but firm. “Kevin?”

Kevin hesitated. For a second, Andrew thought he might back down. Then he exhaled, slow and deep, and said, “Kathy asked me and Jean to do an interview.”

The room went dead silent.

Then Andrew laughed. Loud, sudden, unkind. “And when exactly did she ask you, Day?”

Kevin’s eyes didn’t move from the floor. “Three days ago.”

Andrew’s laughter cut short. Three days. Not months, like last time. Still— three days. He hadn’t told Andrew. He hadn’t told anyone . Déjà vu . But worse, somehow. Because Kevin knew better by now.

Aaron scoffed. “What’s the big drama? We all know you’re not going. We all remember what happened the last time you tried.”

Yeah, last time when Riko had shown up in person like some twisted magician pulling trauma out of a hat. Oh, how much Andrew hated surprises. Right. He still remembered the look in Kevin’s eyes when that happened—hollow, frozen, humiliated.

“Jean’s not going,” Renee said softly, her voice full of hope she didn’t dare express outright.

Andrew turned his head toward Kevin, watching him through narrowed eyes. “Oh, Day,” he said, voice like a knife sliding into silk, “tell me you didn’t say yes.”

Kevin finally looked up, face pale but steady. “She already told me Riko would be there,” he said. “They want to do a full feature on the whole Perfect Court.”

And there it was. The real reason. Andrew's expression curled into something bitter. “Miss your little brother that much?”

The others glanced between them, confused. But Andrew didn’t care. Kevin had taken the right to privacy the moment he decided to play secret-keeper.

Again.

Kevin didn’t answer immediately. His jaw tensed, the muscle twitching like he was holding back teeth and blood. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but steady. “I didn’t know he’d be there when Kathy first reached out. But I know now. And I’m not going to sit back while Riko gets to stand beside him and pretend it’s all just—” He stopped, closed his eyes like the words tasted bad. “It doesn’t concern the team. I only told you because Coach asked me to.”

Andrew stared at him for a long moment, face unreadable.

“Not because you thought we deserved to know?” Alison asked. Kevin didn’t deny it.

And that said more than anything else he could have.

Andrew’s gaze cut to Coach, who stood off to the side like a monument—arms crossed, face unreadable. Typical. Nothing happened on this team without his silent signature. The man didn’t breathe unless it served a purpose.

“Great,” Aaron muttered. “So we’re getting dragged into another one of Kevin’s trauma-themed field trips.”

Renee shot him a sharp look but didn’t speak. Seth scoffed and leaned back against the lockers with a sigh, like the drama was more exhausting than the game.

Andrew didn’t take his eyes off Kevin. “Let me guess,” he said, voice smooth and cruel. “You want to march into Kathy’s circus and what? Save him? Rescue the little lost bird from the monster’s cage?”

Kevin didn’t flinch, but something in his face cracked at the edges. “He’s not lost,” he said, low and fierce. “He knows exactly where he is.”

Andrew’s mouth curled into something too thin to be called a smile. “Worse.”

“I just want to see for myself if he’s okay.”

Andrew stepped forward, “you mean, if Riko’s done breaking him yet.”

That one landed. Kevin jerked back like the words were a punch to the gut.

Andrew moved with lazy precision, rising to his feet and closing the distance until they were chest to chest. His voice dipped, colder than ice, sharper than steel. “You walk into that room, Day, and you’d better be ready. Riko will twist the knife right in front of you, and he’ll smile while he does it. You think he won’t cut deeper just because it’s you ? You think your presence makes him safer?” He leaned in, tone dark and final. “You don’t get to be surprised when your little bird bleeds.”

Kevin held his ground, but his eyes were hollow and burning. “I already know he bleeds,” he said, voice shaking with something too raw to name. “I just need to know if he’s still fighting.”

Andrew stared at him for one long second. Then, suddenly bored, he stepped back and turned away. “Don’t come crying to me when your toy breaks in front of you,” he said over his shoulder, tone flat as concrete. “I am going to the bus.”

He left without another word. 

Four more months, he thought, four more months and he’d be done with it all.

Chapter Text

“No,” Jean said immediately.

Andrew let out a laugh, sharp and delighted. “Look, Day! Franchie’s grown a spine. Maybe you should take notes.”

Jean frowned, not at Andrew’s words—he never cared much for Andrew’s mouth—but because he had bigger problems in front of him.

Kevin was spiraling. Anyone else might have missed it, fooled by the calm, clipped sentences he’d recited in the post-game interview: “It was a good game. I believe in the Foxes.” Jean had watched it live from the hotel room and hadn’t bought a word of it. Kevin might have tricked the press. He might have even convinced Andrew.

But he hadn’t convinced Jean.

And worse, Riko’s own interview had made things even more unbearable. Jean had sat in silence, alone in his room, while Riko’s voice crackled through the television, “Kevin should be used to losing by now, especially with a second-tier team. He should come back to his proper place.”

The words had sunk into Jean like rot in bone.

“Jean,” Kevin tried again, too gently. “Don’t you want to see Nate? It’s an opportunity—”

Rage hit Jean so fast it startled even him. It sat raw and hot in his throat.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

Kevin’s jaw tightened. He looked like he was about to argue, but Andrew stepped in, suddenly and deliberately, like a blade drawn between them.

“Touching,” Andrew said, tone flat. “But Kevin and I have something to discuss.”

“No,” Kevin cut in again, eyes still on Jean. “Jean is leaving soon. There are things we have to talk about.”

Jean gave Andrew a look—half-wary, half-warning—before switching to French. “Il n’y a rien à dire*.”

Kevin didn’t flinch. “Did something happen at the Nest that I don’t know about?”

Teeth . His hand twitched toward his throat, nails dragging against skin before he caught himself.

“No.”

“Then what does ‘special Jean treatment’ mean?”

Jean went still.

Silence pressed in around them like snow. Did Riko—did Grayson —say something?

Andrew moved, stepping directly into Kevin’s line of sight, blocking his view with a force that was more presence than size. His eyes didn’t leave Jean.

“Day,” he said, warning laced into every syllable. “Don’t.”

But Kevin didn’t back down. “Jean, I need—”

Andrew’s hand moved fast—one hand closing around Kevin’s throat with unnerving calm.

Jean startled. It wasn’t the violence itself—he had seen far worse—but that it came from Andrew , and that it was for him .

“I thought I was clear the first time,” Andrew said, low and level, voice like a trigger cocking. “We’re leaving.”

“But—”

Andrew’s grip tightened, not enough to choke but enough to warn. His body language didn’t change. He didn’t even blink.

Jean stayed frozen. And for the first time in too long, someone saw he didn’t want to speak and respected the silence.

Kevin stared, fury burning behind his eyes, but he knew better than to push. He clenched his fists at his sides, looking at Andrew with something that almost resembled hurt. “You can’t just keep doing this,” Kevin said bitterly, voice low, “Every time it doesn’t go your way.”

Andrew didn’t even look back. “Kevin.”

That was all.

Kevin sneered, the fight in him curling inward. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, shoulders tight with all the words he didn’t say.

Andrew followed without another glance.

Jean was left in the quiet that remained. The echo of their footsteps faded. Still, it took him a moment to breathe.

I am Jean Moreau, he told himself. I am Perfect Court.

But that wasn’t true anymore, was it?

The lie cracked under its own weight, and Jean felt the ground shift. He was not Perfect Court. He was not anything.

Endure, he told himself instead. Endure. Endure. Endure.

His hand drifted up to the base of his throat. He shut his eyes and tried to force the thoughts away—to shove them into the deepest, coldest corner of his mind.

But all he could see was the box. The one that had arrived days ago. His notebooks inside with page after page of bold black ink with words he tried to forget. The note Grayson wrote still so clear in his mind—

“Jean?” a voice called.

He blinked, looking around. The room was empty.

His eyes lowered—

And that’s when he saw it. His phone, lying face-up on the floor. The screen still lit. A call.

Neil 00:00:27 . The screen read. Jean stared.

He didn’t remember unlocking his phone. Didn’t remember finding Neil’s contact. Didn’t remember hitting call. And yet here it was. The soft, distant sound of Neil’s breathing came through the line, steady and quiet, like he hadn’t said a word. Like he was just… waiting.

Jean’s fingers trembled as he reached for the phone. He lifted it slowly, heart pounding in a rhythm too close to panic. He pressed it to his ear. “…Neil?” His voice came out strained and uneven, raw around the edges.

A pause. Then, “I’m here,” Neil said softly. “Didn’t know if you meant to call.”

Jean’s throat closed. His eyes burned. “I didn’t,” he whispered.

Or did he? He wasn’t sure anymore. It was hard to grasp what he was feeling when he felt like the world was turning black around him.

“Okay.” Neil said in a whisper. He didn’t sound hurt; just there , calm and unshaken, like the world could come down around them and he would still be standing. Jean nearly hung up right then. He didn’t deserve this voice. This patience. This quiet kind of care.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“I heard,” Neil said eventually. “About the interview. About Riko.”

Of course he had. Everyone had. Jean’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak. The words had twisted too tightly inside him to come out clean.

“Do you want me to say something?” Neil asked. “Or just listen?”

Jean swallowed. That was the thing about Neil. He never offered comfort in the way others did—never too soft, never too pitying. Just honest . Steady. Unflinching.

Like someone who had learned how to survive a storm by walking through it.

“Just listen,” Jean said, barely audible.

Neil said nothing. The silence grew softer around the edges. Jean sat down slowly, phone still pressed to his ear, like it was the only thing tethering him to the present moment. Outside, the hallway had gone quiet. No Kevin. No Andrew. No Perfect Court.

Only him and Neil’s breathing, steady on the line.

Almost like he was back in the Nest.

Like nothing changed. 

—

Jeremy Knox smiled and waved as he spotted Jean in the crowd.

Jean regretted his decision to come almost immediately.

Every step closer made the feeling worse—like something pressing against his chest, wrong and out of place. He dug his nails into his palms as he walked, trying to focus on anything but the way his skin still itched from the flight or how he hadn’t realized airports could feel so suffocating. Kevin’s last, annoyingly smug advice, “Maybe leave a little earlier next time״, had been more useful than Jean wanted to admit.

Kevin. He shoved the name to the back of his mind. Because if he thought of Kevin, he’d think of their last conversation. The one from over a week ago. The one that still made him feel like he was bleeding on the inside.

“Waiting for more baggage?” Jeremy asked cheerfully.

Jean looked at him. Jeremy Knox was... objectively good-looking. Not that Jean noticed. He'd learned not to look a long time ago. "No."

“Mailing the rest?”

“No.”

When Jean offered nothing more, Jeremy shrugged. “All right. My car’s just over there—”

Turns out ‘just over there’ meant three floors up in the parking garage. They walked in silence, which suited Jean just fine. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted structure. Routine. Something sharp and clean to fall into.

Jean didn’t know anything about cars, but he knew money when he saw it. The car was sleek. Fancy.

"So," Jeremy said as they pulled onto the road. "How was the flight?"

Jean had learned long ago it was safer to let others speak for him—Neil, Kevin, even Riko when it served a purpose. Speaking was dangerous. Costly. Jean was a tool, not a person. A debt paid in flesh. Something broken beyond repair.  He was used to being silent. Used to being useful. Riko had made sure of that.

Jean answered automatically. "Terrible."

He left it at that.

They drove on, passing sign after sun-drenched sign. Each mile took Jean farther from the Nest, from the only world he'd known.

From Neil.

Endure. Endure. Endure.

“Are you hungry? We can stop and grab something.”

Jean blinked. The car smelled like leftover junk food. His stomach turned. “No.” A beat passed. Then, before he could stop himself, “you’re straying from your nutrition plan.”

“What?” Jeremy blinked, thrown.

Jean turned, frustrated. "The one the Trojans gave you."

Jeremy glanced at him. “We don’t have one.”

Jean’s spine went rigid. “What?”

“We get a lecture once a semester. Coaches mostly trust us to know what’s good for us.” Jeremy tilted his head. “Is this a joke? Because it kind of sounds like the Ravens had... a strict one?”

Jean opened his mouth. Closed it again.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew the Nest was different. But this? This was something else entirely. No diet? No enforced regimen? “Never talk to the press,” Riko’s voice whispered in his memory. “Or the psychiatrist. They can’t fix what’s already broken. Right, Three?”

"Forget I said anything," Jean muttered.

“Jean—”

He tuned him out. Jeremy rambled on about majors. Jean stared out the window, heart thudding, wondering how this team wasn’t a disaster if they let players choose their own courses, their own food, their own... lives.

Endure. Behave.

“Kevin told me you’ll need a partner,” Jeremy said, still upbeat. “We’re working on it—especially with your major.”

Jean finally had to answer. “Business.”

He didn’t elaborate—about how every Raven took the same major, about how everything had been streamlined, no time to waste on meaningless things. 

“Impressive,” Jeremy said. “You enjoy it?”

“No.”

Jeremy seemed to want to ask more, but backed off. “So you and Kevin are close?”

Jean stared at the window.

How do you answer that? Kevin was never his friend. He was a brother—but not always. Their bond had been forged out of desperation, not affection. Complicated. Ugly.

So he said nothing.

Jeremy finally got the hint. Silence fell, and Jean let it wrap around him like armor.

When the USC sign finally appeared by the road, Jean could breathe again. He was awake now. Alert. The idea of routine—of distraction—snapped him into focus. He could do this.

Then the car pulled up to a pale yellow house in a quiet residential street.

Jean frowned. There was already a car parked out front. Why had they stopped? The house looked... wrong. Plain. Forgettable. Even as they stood on the porch, Jean couldn’t understand what they were doing here—or why Jeremy had a key.

The idea that Jeremy might live here, instead of in the dorms, made his stomach churn.

Endure. Endure. Endure. They wouldn’t actually make him live here. Right?

“We’re here!” Jeremy called as he stepped inside and kicked off his shoes. Jean followed, mimicking him automatically.

A girl with dark curls popped out from a hallway. “Hey! You just missed Laila.”

“Cat, Jean. Jean, Cat,” Jeremy introduced with a grin. “This is where you’ll be staying. Cat—can you give him the tour?”

The words didn’t register at first. Staying? Here? The idea of living there—off-campus, off-court—made Jean’s stomach twist. 

He didn’t hear what Catalina said. He followed her through the house on autopilot. Something about a marker and putting it back in place. His fingers twitched.

“I’m not staying here,” he said sharply.

“Excuse me?” Jeremy blinked. Catalina froze beside him.

“I’m not living away from the court. Find me a dorm room.”

Jeremy frowned. “I can’t. We don’t really do that here. Based on what Kevin told me, the only person who could possibly be your partner is me. And I live here. I’m only on campus during the school year.”

Something darkened in Jeremy’s face at the word home. Jean recognized the flicker. He knows. He gets it.

Still.

“You don’t live on campus.”

“Nope!” Jeremy replied brightly.

“Let’s get back to the tour!” Catalina tried.

Jean could barely hear her. The Trojans were... wrong. So much wrong, he didn’t know where to start. Everything here felt like chaos wrapped in sunshine.

When Jeremy proudly pointed at a cardboard standee of a dog and declared it “Barkbark von Barkenstein,” Jean nearly snapped it in half.

This is your captain, he thought numbly. This is who I’m supposed to follow.

“What’s the purpose of this thing?” he asked, voice flat.

Jeremy blinked. “What?”

Jean spoke slower, more firmly. “What. Purpose. Does. It. Serve?”

“It makes us happy?”

Jean wanted to scream. But this was his captain. “Where is my room?” he said instead, teeth grinding.

They showed him a few more things, but he didn’t register any of it. All he could think about was calling Kevin. Was this a joke? A punishment? Maybe Kevin blamed him—for leaving Neil behind.

“I’ll let you settle in,” Jeremy offered.

“That’s all I need.”

At least the curtains aren’t orange.

“What? You can’t be serious—what about—” Cat started.

Jean ignored her.

This team was wrong. Talking to them was a waste of time.

He turned to Jeremy. “Take me to court.”

Jeremy blinked, confused. “Jean, I was just—”

Cat huffed. “Hello? I was talking to you. Don’t just ignore me—”

Jean bit his tongue. "Sorry." Neither of them looked convinced.

"I know we’re not the Ravens, but you don’t have to be a dick," she said, turning back to the stove. "I’m cooking."

Jean glanced at Jeremy. "Take me to court."

Jeremy opened his mouth, then closed it. "Alright. Just don’t kill anyone on the way."

As they approached the door, another person walked in. She looked at Jean, then at the number on his face.

"You must be Jean," she said. "I’m Laila."

"Goalkeeper," he said. "You’re good."

"You didn’t say I was good," Catalina muttered.

Jean looked at her. Neil had told him people outside the Nest appreciated honesty. Not brutal honesty. But he never knew how to separate the two.

“You are good,” he said at last, because it was true. “But you’re weaker on your left side. Why your coaches didn’t correct that years ago is beyond me. A lot of what you Trojans do is beyond me.”

“We Trojans do, Jean,” Jeremy corrected, arms crossed.

Laila smirked. "Mmm, I like him. Rude as hell, but honest. Maybe we’ll be friends."

Jean wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t here to make friends. He had made that clear before he ever signed.

Jeremy, who must have remembered that conversation, turned to the girls and said, “I’m showing Jean the route to campus. We’ll be back before dinner.”

Outside, as he shut the door behind them, Jeremy glanced at him. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Jeremy nodded and launched into a running monologue like nothing awkward had happened at all. He pointed out landmarks along the walk: which houses hosted the loudest parties (irrelevant), the best corner store (Jean didn’t cook or shop for himself), and then—oddly—bubble tea.

“Bubble tea?” Jean asked, frowning.

“Flavored tea with tapioca balls,” Jeremy explained.

Jean’s frown deepened. Those words didn’t clarify anything.

Jeremy stopped walking. “I’m guessing it wasn’t part of the Ravens nutrition plan. Can you tell me more about it?” His tone was easy, too easy—Jean had spent the last few years around manipulators to know when a question was bait.

“No.”

The rest of the walk passed in silence.

—-

Jean stared at the number 29 printed on the back of his jersey.

“This isn’t what I asked for,” he said quietly, fingers drifting to the tattoo on his cheek like a reflex.

“Thirty looks too much like three at an angle,” Jeremy replied, far too cheerfully. “Fresh start, right?”

Jean counted to ten. He didn’t want to strangle his new captain. Not yet.

When they found Jeffery Davis, Jean was almost relieved to be passed off for his medical check. The man looked him over quickly, turning to Jeremy.

“He’ll be back shortly,” Davis said, leading Jean into the exam room. “I hear we’re looking at a couple of fractures.”

“Yes.”

“Do they hurt?”

All the time, Jean thought. Instead, he said, “Not as much as before.”

Davis studied him for a beat, then nodded. “May I?” he asked, fingers hovering near Jean’s legs.

Jean swallowed. It’s fine, he told himself. Just a checkup. He nodded.

The exam was over before the panic had time to settle in. Davis straightened up and made a few notes.

“You can do light stretching— light , Jean. No weights until I say so. You need more time. Am I clear?”

Jean nodded again.

“Good. Anything else bothering you?” Jean stayed silent. Davis opened his mouth, hesitated, then sighed. “Alright. Get out of here. And be careful, Jean.”

Jean didn’t know what be careful meant exactly, but he didn’t like how it sounded. He nodded anyway and stepped out, spotting Jeremy waiting down the hall.

“How’d it go?” Jeremy asked.

“Fine. No weights for now.”

“Oh,” Jeremy said. “Then I want to buy you a couple of shirts. Housewarming gift.”

“No,” Jean replied immediately, already turning.

“Jean,” Jeremy said firmly.

Jean stopped.

“I understand things aren’t what you’re used to,” Jeremy continued. “But what you’re doing right now? It’s called being rude.”

Jean froze.

We just need to teach him some manners, Kevin, don’t we? Riko’s voice echoed at the back of his mind like a bruise that never healed.

Cuts. Teeth.

Drowning, drowning, I'm drowning—

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, panic starting to settle in. 

Jeremy must have caught something in his expression. “Jean—”

Jean closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Can we please talk about something else?”

Jeremy didn’t respond right away. His face stayed still, unreadable for a beat too long. Then his gaze softened. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Then he said, “alright,” he clapped. “Something else. I don’t want you walking around in the same three shirts you had at Edgar Allen. Let’s go shopping.”

Jean looked away. “They are fine.”

Jeremy huffed a soft laugh. “No, they aren’t. One of them has a bloodstain on the collar.”

Jean frowned. “It isn’t mine.”

Jeremy blinked. “Not the defense I expected. Or wanted, for that matter.”

“I don’t want to waste money.” Jean said, shifting his weight. 

Jeremy tilted his head. “Then let me waste mine. Come on—just one shirt. Or I’ll pick out something orange and glittery and hang it in your closet.”

Jean gave him a flat look.

“I’m serious. I have no shame.”

There was a pause.

“Fine,” Jean said, reluctantly.

Jeremy raised his brows. “This is the part where you say, ‘thank you, Jeremy.’ Can you say it with me?”

Jean nearly rolled his eyes but caught himself—he was still talking to his captain, ridiculous or not. “Thank you, Jeremy.”

He wasn’t sure what just happened, but he caught the shiver that ran through Jeremy at the words. It threw him off—almost as much as the way Jeremy just stood there, staring at him.

Jean raised an eyebrow. A silent question.

“Nothing,” Jeremy said quickly, face red, blinking like he’d just come out of a daze. “Shall we go?”

—

“And they have a dog made out of cardboard,” Jean said in French, phone pressed to his ear.

On the other end, Neil sounded like he was frowning. “Why?”

“They said it makes them happy.” He hesitated, then added, “There was a Raven fan on the street today. He said I abandoned my team. That you won anyway because I never mattered.”

“Jean—”

“I wish you were here. None of this makes sense anymore.”

There was a pause, then Neil said quietly, “It hasn’t made sense since you left either.”

Jean opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I’m not coming to the interview.”

He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. Neil would understand—how the thought of sitting across from Riko made his stomach twist. How he was still afraid, even now, that he was too small to protect the people he cared about.

A child’s voice echoed in his head, soft and wistful, Maybe a dragon will save us. He would help us be safe.

“I know,” Neil said. His tone gave nothing away. “You need to stay as far from Riko as you can, Jean.”

You too, Jean thought.

“Also,” Neil added, “talk to Kevin. He’s been calling me nonstop. Drunk . Even his guard dog gave me a call.”

Jean let out a dry laugh. “Drunk?” he repeated, then added, “I don’t have anything to say to him.”

“Perfect. Call him and say that, then hang up. I don’t care.”

Jean frowned. “But—”

“Listen to me. The both of you need to take a step down. I know that in the Nest, I was the one who made you two idiots look each other in the eye, but now you have to do it yourselves. I—I don’t know if I’ll always be here to do it.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Please. I just… I need to know you’re both okay.”

Jean swallowed against the lump rising in his throat. “Neil…”

“I’ve got to go. Bye.”

The line went dead.

Jean stared down at the phone. He replayed Neil’s words again and again. None of it made sense. Neil was the hopeful one. The one who believed in open roads and impossible things like hugs and healing and home. Jean had never even let himself dream of those.

So why was Neil talking like this? Like—

“I don’t know, Cat. He talked about nutrient plans—”

“You think he’s dangerous, Jeremy? Maybe it was a bad idea—”

Jean could hear the voices downstairs more clearly now that the call had ended. He stood still, counted to ten, then walked to the door and shut it with deliberate force.

The room fell silent.

He clenched his fists.

It didn’t sound like this week had gone well.

But that was fine. He wasn’t here to make friends anyway.

He didn’t deserve love.

Endure, endure, endure.

-------

* Il n’y a rien à dire - ( There’s nothing to say. )

Chapter Text

The weeks after the game against the Ravens were some of the worst Andrew had lived through. That said a lot, considering most of his life had been a waking nightmare.

His hope for some peace and quiet from Exy junkies turned quickly into a carousel of late practices, early practices, and Kevin’s voice echoing through every hallway. Even though Andrew did his best to piss him off and skip as many drills as possible, Kevin’s obsession had escalated into dragging him to the court at ungodly hours. Eventually, even Andrew began to feel the ache in his limbs settle in like a second skin.

And then there were the freshmen.

Two of them had at least the survival instinct to stay out of Andrew's way — quiet, observant, nearly invisible. But the third one? He was something else.

Jack. A Ravens fan. 

He had the exact kind of face Andrew liked to punch.Smug, too pretty for his attitude, and reeking of that particular Raven arrogance that Kevin used to wear before the Foxes ground it out of him. Jack had that same glint in his eyes — like he thought he was above this place, like he had been sent here as a punishment and couldn't wait to claw his way back into his rightful kingdom.

He also had a mouth that needed stitching.

“Freak,” Jack muttered as he passed Andrew on the way to the water table one afternoon.

Andrew didn’t react. Not immediately. Jack was still too new to know just how short the rope was. But he wasn’t stupid. He must have figured out Kevin and Andrew were friends — or as close as someone like Andrew could get to friendship — and that Kevin didn’t approve of his passive-aggressive antics.

It didn’t stop him.

He tried to aim a ball at Andrew’s head during a fast-paced drill. It came in like a bullet. Too fast to be an accident.

Andrew didn’t flinch. He caught it cleanly and threw it back just as hard.

The ball slammed into Jack’s stomach with a satisfying thwack, knocking the air out of him and dropping him to his knees.

“Jack!” a couple of the Foxes yelled.

Kevin was already striding toward them. “That’s enough.” He was already treating the captain title like a crooked crown.

Andrew didn’t turn to look at him. His attention was on Jack — wheezing, red-faced, one hand clutching his gut, the other digging into the court floor.

“Jesus,” Sheena muttered from the sidelines. The other freshman hovered, wide-eyed. He looked like he might have clapped if he thought he’d get away with it.

Kevin’s voice cut through the tension. “Andrew.”

Andrew tilted his head, slowly, a manic smile blooming like a threat. “What? I was just giving Jack a lesson in aiming. He seemed to slip as he aimed for my head, and I seemed to need a few lessons myself. Whoops.”

Jack coughed and forced himself upright, breathing heavily. His face flushed a deep red, but he looked like he might try to speak.

Andrew met his gaze — and smiled. That manic smile; all teeth, no warmth.

Jack wisely said nothing.

“Water break. Five minutes,” Kevin barked, already turning away.

The court scattered. No one said a word to Andrew, but they all moved around him like he was on fire. That quiet, humming tension stayed thick in the air — the kind of silence Andrew liked. It meant they were being careful.

It meant they understood.

Good.

Kevin didn’t move. He just stood there, still watching him with that exhausting disappointment.

Andrew bent to grab his water bottle, brushing his racket on the way up.

“You’re not helping,” Kevin muttered.

“I’m not trying to,” Andrew replied, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip like they were discussing the weather.

“He’s one of us.”

“No,” Andrew said coldly. “He’s yours . I told you, I am not taking any more strays.”

Kevin’s expression tightened. 

“He has potential.”

“I don’t care.”

“Andrew—”

“You might be a junkie, but I’m not. I’m done here.” Andrew started to walk away.

Kevin moved fast — too fast — cutting him off. “You made me a promise.”

Andrew stopped, tilted his head with curiosity. “A promise?” he repeated, smiling. Kevin didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Andrew remembered — the deadline. Four months. No, three and a week now. “You have that long to give me something worthwhile. And no, it’s not going to be Exy,” Andrew said, stepping in just enough to make Kevin flinch. “If I were you, I’d worry less about your new Raven groupie and more about how empty your hands still are.”

Kevin clenched his fists at his sides, jaw tight, face flushed with frustration. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Andrew turned to leave, but not before catching the faintest whisper from Jack. “Jealous little freak…”

Andrew stopped. He didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

Just smiled.

Let it go.

For now.

Timing was everything — and he had mastered the art of waiting for the perfect moment to strike a long time ago. 

—

Eden’s Twilight felt different tonight. Or maybe Andrew was just getting bored of it—like he did with most things.

They moved as a group through the haze of lights and body heat, Kevin leading the way, pushing past the pulsing crowd like he might escape recognition if he just ducked his head low enough. 

Ronald was in his usual place behind the bar, wiping glasses like he hadn’t just been watching them from the moment they walked in. “Thought I’d never see you again,” he said. His voice was cheerful but his eyes zeroed in on Andrew. “It’s been too long.” he said, giving Andrew that look.

Andrew held his gaze for a second, weighing the idea of slipping into the back for a few minutes before dismissing it completely. “The usual.”

He caught the flicker of disappointment in Ronald’s face before the mask snapped back into place and he turned away to make their drinks.

A round of shots first. They threw them back in unison. Then Ronald lined up the tray—liquid golds and oranges and reds, glowing like potions in the dim bar light. Their table opened up at the far end and Nicky and Kevin cleared a path through the crowd, while Andrew carried the tray behind them, trying to avoid the bodies moving next to him.

They dug in faster than usual.

Aaron was still radiating that sharp, clipped energy he always had when he was pissed—what about this time, Andrew couldn’t tell.

Didn’t help that Kevin was still spiraling since French birdie flew off to the Trojans. Ever since Jean had made his way out of the Foxes, Kevin had turned that old desperation inward again, doubling down like Exy, of all thing, would save him if he just bled enough. When Kevin reached for his third packet of cracker dust, Andrew didn’t hesitate. He reached over the table and yanked it out of his hand.

“Give me that.” Kevin said. He looked half-crossed already, eyes slightly red and pupils far too big.

“No.” Andrew’s voice was flat. “This pity show has been dragging on long enough, Day.”

Kevin clenched his hands. “Someone hurt Jean and I didn’t even know. You don’t get it.”

Andrew studied him for a beat, then leaned in slightly. “Give me your brother’s number.”

The music was slamming harder now, like the beat had turned violent. Kevin blinked, confused. “Jean? What do you have to talk about—”

“The other one.”

Kevin went dead still, halfway to lifting another shot. “No.”

Andrew tilted his head, just a fraction. This was the second time Kevin Day showed him some shred of spine. It was dumb. Still—interesting. “That wasn’t a suggestion, Day.”

Kevin shook his head slowly, like each movement hurt. “Ne-Nathaniel won’t like giving you his number.”

Across the table, Aaron was watching. Andrew could feel his stare, sharp and suspicious.

“Why don’t you take Nicky to the dance floor?” he said without looking away from Kevin.

His jaw clenched like he wanted to punch someone—preferably Andrew—but instead he knocked back another shot and stood. “Come on,” he muttered, dragging Nicky up by the wrist.

“Whoa, slow down—” Nicky shouted, nearly tripping as Aaron pulled him into the crowd.

Andrew waited until they disappeared into the swirl of colored lights before turning back to Kevin. “You want to protect your dear brothers, don’t you?”

Kevin was quieter now. The drugs had softened his sharp edges, made his eyes glassy and unreadable. “Yes.”

“The French birdie is with the Trojans. The only thing you need to worry about is him overdosing on whatever joy juice the Sunshine Court pump into their veins.”

Kevin didn’t answer for a moment. “But Riko—”

“Won’t move against Jean unless we hand him a reason on a silver platter,” Andrew said, slowly and clearly, like he was explaining something to a particularly stubborn child. “You warned Knox. That’s all you could do.”

Kevin’s fingers curled around the edge of the table again. His knuckles were bone white. “Nate’s not allowed to talk to the others,” he said eventually. “He doesn’t live like us. He’s not free.”

“You don’t say,” Andrew replied, unimpressed.

“You won’t get anything out of him,” Kevin continued, voice starting to crack. “He doesn’t trust anyone. And especially not someone like you.”

Andrew leaned back in his chair. “Someone like me?”

Kevin didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“Mmm,” Andrew hummed. “I think I can convince him otherwise.”

“Andrew.” Kevin shook his head again, more desperate this time. “If he gets hurt—”

“Then it’s on me,” Andrew said flatly. “Not on you.”

“Just like whatever happened with Jean?” 

Oh. That was a low blow, even for drunk Kevin. 

“I made you a promise to protect you. And that includes knowing what Riko is planning before he touches anyone else. Jean. You. Even Nate.”

Kevin looked down at his hands. His knuckles were still white, but now they were trembling.

“He won’t answer,” Kevin whispered.

“He will,” Andrew said, rising from his seat. “Because you gave me the number. And whether you admit it or not, you’re counting on me to do the things you can’t.”

——

The house in Columbia was quiet as Andrew flipped the phone in his hand, the faint creak of the old wooden floor beneath him the only sound. He paused, considering the call for a long moment before finally pressing the button.

“Uncle?” a voice called out from the other end. Interesting since Kevin had told Andrew that Nathaniel had no family.

“Not quite, birdie.”

The call disconnected immediately. Andrew’s lip twitched into a small, sharp smile before he called back again.

It took a few more rings before Nathaniel finally answered, voice low and clipped. “What do you want, Doe?”

How Nathaniel knew it was him, Andrew didn’t know—and that only made his smile twitch wider.

“Shh… birdie. You’re too loud. Can’t you chipper quietly like the other birds?”Andrew said, dragging a cigarette to his lips with a lazy flick at the open window. “There are too many of you birds to keep track of the metaphors. I heard you used to be a runway.”

“What are you even—”

“A rabbit, perhaps. That fits, don’t you think?”

“Doe, I have no idea what high trip you’re on, but whatever it is—I don’t want to be part of it.”

“Relax, rabbit. I’m calling about your dear old brother.”

That caught the rabbit’s attention. “Kevin?” Nathaniel asked finally. “Where is he?”

Andrew glanced toward the entrance of the living room. “Passed out on the sofa after drinking and dusting.”

Nathaniel huffed, skeptical. “Kevin doesn’t drink.”

Was the rabbit playing himself drunk, or just stupid? “You didn’t notice the alcoholism while he was in the Nest, birdie?”

Nathaniel went quiet for a moment, then said, “I thought I was a rabbit. Can’t keep up with your own metaphors, Doe?”

“Oh.” Andrew inhaled deeply, the smoke curling around him. “You might turn out to be interesting. For a little while, at least.”

“Couldn’t find anyone to keep up with your psychosis for long?”

Andrew took another slow drag of his cigarette. “They tend to break around me.”

“Mm. What a shame. Was there a purpose to this call? Some of us have places to be. I’m not supposed to be talking to a Fox. Especially not someone as unstable as you.”

“That desperate to go back to your court?”

He could almost hear Nathaniel’s smirk through the line. “Some of us are actually trying to win.”

Andrew ignored the jab; he had no defense for that kind of truth. “I want to talk about the interview.”

He caught Nathaniel’s breath hitch, subtle but unmistakable. “What about it?”

“What’s Riko planning, little rabbit?”

“I don’t know.” Nathaniel’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“Don’t love your brother that much?”

Hatred poured from Nathaniel’s voice like a dark wave. “I don’t know. You think Riko tells me anything? If you called for me to spill his evil plans, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Andrew didn’t buy it. “You’ve been his shadow for a long time, rabbit. You must know something.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” Nathaniel said dryly. “King doesn’t care about his minions. Says they’re just there to hold the line until someone more important comes.”

Andrew took the last drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowing. “You’re more useless than I thought.”

“Now you sound like him.” The rabbit was playing dirty. Andrew opened his mouth to snap back, but Nathaniel beat him to it. “There is one thing.”

A pause stretched. “Oh? Do tell.”

“I think—I think the goal is to discard Kevin’s talent. Not just to the fans, but to the Moriyamas.”

“You know how to keep a girl waiting.”

Nathaniel muttered something in what sounded like French before adding, “I don’t trust you. Or like you, for that matter.”

“Ouch.”

Nathaniel paused again, thoughtful. “Riko made us rehearse the interview over and over. How we stood, how we answered, even what we wore. I wouldn’t think it was all for nothing.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what you said in those rehearsals?”

“Tell Kevin to call me if he wants to hear it himself. Don’t call this number again, Doe.”

Andrew stared at the night sky from the window. “I’ll see you soon, rabbit.” He hung up with a sharp click before Neil could, his mind itching with something interesting—something new—for once. He turned his head toward the door, planning to leave, then paused.

Aaron stood in the threshold — arms crossed, jaw clenched — a mirror image, but meaner in the edges, his eyes burned beneath the weight of unsaid things.

“Who the fuck were you talking to?” Aaron asked. His voice was low and clipped, already bracing for a lie — as if lies were the only language they knew how to speak to each other anymore.

Andrew didn’t flinch. He never did. Guilt wasn’t in his vocabulary. Neither was regret.

Not anymore.

“No one,” he said. “A pipe dream.”

Aaron’s eyes flicked to the open window, jaw tightening further. “Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not. That requires interest.” He tapped ash off his cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before he let it drop into the dark. “It’s late. Go back to pretending you don’t care.”

Aaron stepped into the room, shoulders drawn tight like a string pulled to the edge of snapping. “You mean pretending I don’t give a shit every time you pull something reckless and drag us down with you?”

Andrew didn’t answer. His expression remained flat, unreadable. He was already bored. He stood, smooth and slow, and turned toward the door.

“Don’t,” Aaron said sharply. “Don’t walk away like this doesn’t matter. You’re making calls behind everyone’s back again. You don’t get to keep deciding everything on your own.”

“I do,” Andrew said flatly, pausing inches from him. “Because the rest of you keep proving you can’t.”

“You’re not invincible,” Aaron snapped, heat rising behind every word. “Even if you act like it. You keep making these reckless, arrogant calls, and one day it’s going to catch up to you. To all of us. Then what happens to our deal?”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something too amused, too sharp, crossing his face. There was no medication dulling the edges tonight — just the familiar burn of vodka and spite keeping him upright.

“Oh, brother dear,” he said, with a voice that gave no emotion at all. “Worried about the deal now? Tell me — how’s your little tumor of a cheerleader doing?”

Aaron’s face went white. “I don’t know what you—”

“Aaron, Aaron,” Andrew interrupted, mocking, “didn’t you hear me tell Day that I hate liars?”

Silence cracked between them. Then Aaron spoke — quieter now, but dead serious. The heat had cooled into something more dangerous. “You don’t get to self-destruct and call it strategy,” he said. “You think I don’t care? Fine. Keep telling yourself that. But you go down alone, Andrew, and you’ll take us with you. You never think things through. Just like—”

He cut himself off, jaw clenched too tight to finish the thought.

“Just like what?”

Aaron’s voice was raw. “Just like with Mom. If it wasn’t for Nicky, we'd have been in the system. Or worse.”

Just not the system, Andrew thought. It wasn't like he was in the system all his life, a fact that his double seemed to keep forgetting. Andrew tilted his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Don't you know? Tilda died in a car accident. Tragic.”

“She was my mom!” Aaron snapped, voice cracking. “She was our mom, and you fucking killed her!”

“I cut out a problem,” Andrew said coldly. “Just like I promised you I would. Don’t blame me for following through on our deal.”

Aaron clenched his fists, knuckles white, then forced them open. His whole body vibrated with anger. “One day you’re going to look back and understand you fucking destroyed everything good that came your way.” His voice was steel wrapped in pain. “I fucking hate you.”

He turned and left, slamming the door hard behind him.

Andrew didn’t move. He isn’t wrong, the words echoed in his skull like a sentence already handed down, final and deserved.

He’d come to that conclusion himself after Cas. After Drake. After every person who had tried to step close enough to matter. Because the truth was this: Andrew Minyard was a black hole, a quiet, relentless thing that swallowed everything it touched. Not out of crulty—no, never that—but because some people weren’t made to hold light. Some people only knew how to consume it.

He’d learned the rules early. Love was a lie people told themselves to feel less alone. Safety was temporary. Good things were time bombs disguised as gifts. So when they exploded, when they turned to ash in his hands, he didn’t get to be surprised.

He’d burned bridges without ever crossing them. Built walls so high no one could scale them—no one should. Not when the other side was lined with tripwires and quiet rage and the kind of emptiness that frightened even him, on the rare nights he let himself feel anything at all.

And yet—and yet—he’d already set his sights on his next target. His next stupid mistake. No, Andrew couldn’t have something good. Couldn’t keep it. He wasn’t made for warmth or soft endings.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting, quietly, desperately, in the dark corners he never let anyone see.

And that was the most dangerous part of all.

Chapter Text

The Nest had never been a kind place, but Neil couldn’t remember the last time he’d rather throw himself off a rooftop than stay within its walls.

It started with Jeremy—relentlessly optimistic, infuriatingly cheerful Jeremy Knox—announcing during his post-game interview that Jean Moreau was transferring to USC. Just like that. Like it was good news. Like it wouldn’t upend everything.

The fallout was instant. That night, Riko’s rage descended like a storm, and Neil bore the brunt of it. The screams Riko dragged from his throat were worse than anything Neil had endured in years. Pain was expected. Pain was routine. But the venom of that night left something hollow and aching in his chest.

Still, Neil endured. He always did. He could take the shouting, the fists, the spitting. He could take the weight of cruelty pressed into bruises, the slashing grins that cut deeper than any blade, the suffocating knowledge that they all wanted him to break. He could live with that.

What he couldn’t live with were the touches.

They came after. Quietly. Deliberately.

There were five of them, and there was no doubt in Neil’s mind that Riko had given the order. The King didn’t need to say it aloud. He never did.

It started with meals. When Kevin and Jean were still at the Nest, the three of them would usually sit together—tight, cautious, a shield in the middle of a warzone. When Kevin fled, it was just Jean and Neil. And when Jean was pulled from the Nest, Neil was left alone.

He preferred it that way. Neil had no desire to make friends in the Nest. The others were cruel, cold-blooded things with sharp eyes and sharper tongues. He didn’t trust any of them.

Especially not the four new freshmen—bottom-tier talent, top-tier sadists. He barely knew their names, and he didn’t care to. The feeling was mutual. They hated him, and he loathed them in return.

And then there was Grayson.

Grayson, who slid in next to Neil at breakfast like they were old friends. Grayson, who smiled with teeth and made sure the others formed a circle around them, hiding their hands under the table. Always shielding just enough to stay out of sight. Just enough to make Neil feel trapped and unseen all at once.

Grayson was the worst.

Neil tried to fight. He always did. He jabbed a fork into Grayson’s hand once, deep enough to leave a mark. He got his head slammed into the table for it. He kicked. He scratched. He dug his nails in hard enough to bleed.

Nothing worked.

Their hands stayed hidden, their laughs quiet and cruel, their satisfaction unmistakable.

And Neil, for the first time in a long time, felt truly powerless.

****

He hadn’t been outside the Nest in nearly five years.

Before they caught him—before they dragged him into this wretched place—life on the run with his mother had seemed like the worst kind of existence. They were always hungry, always moving, always afraid. Friendships were forbidden, and romance was a foreign language—but at fourteen, that part hadn’t really mattered yet.

Now, looking back, he would’ve taken the road a thousand times over.

At least the road never pretended to own him. At least he could breathe. His mother had been cold, calculating, distant—but her wrath had never burned like this. Not like the Nest. Not like him .

He missed the sky. The scent of rain before a storm. The wind through an open window on the highway. The way freedom used to feel—raw and dangerous and his .

“You’re going to see the outside world, Four,” Riko said in Japanese as he tossed a bundle of dark clothes onto the bed. “Say thank you, King .”

Neil’s fingers tightened around the fabric, his knuckles pale. He clenched his jaw until it ached and bit the inside of his cheek to keep his voice steady. he said through gritted teeth, “thank you Ki-”

“On your knees, Four. I want to see your gratitude.” Riko’s lips twitched. 

Neil didn’t move. The silence stretched.

“I said—” Riko stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the light between them— “on your knees.”

Neil raised his eyes. “No.”

The word wasn’t loud, but it hit the floor like a dropped blade. For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed. Riko’s expression barely flickered, but Neil saw the tension coil in his jaw, the subtle shift in his stance. It was dangerous. It was stupid. Neil knew that. But even after five years he refused to kneel down to King. 

“I will say the words,” Neil said, “but that’s all you get.”

Riko stared at him—watching, calculating, furious. He knew he couldn't hurt him; not with the interview in a few hours. And then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked out, the door slamming shut behind him with a sound that echoed through Neil’s ribs.

Neil let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His heart was pounding. He hadn't won. Not really. But he hadn’t knelt either. And that had to count to something. 

Right?

****

Neil’s heart pounded as they climbed the stairs toward the court. And then—

Outside .

He was really going outside. Somewhere beyond the court, beyond the Nest, beyond the suffocating routine of dorm-room classes and late-night Tower practices.

The light poured through the open doorway like something out of a dream.

One more step, and the heat hit his face—hotter than the Nest, dry and full of noise. Another step, and the sunlight struck his foot.

The step after, he felt it fully on his face. The sun. The sky.

He had forgotten how blinding it was.

Neil blinked rapidly, fighting against the sting in his eyes. He tilted his head, slowly, and stared up.

Blue. So blue. He had nearly forgotten there were colours other than black.

“Behave,” Riko whispered beside him.

And then Neil was shoved forward, down the stairs and into the sleek, black car waiting at the curb. The sun vanished behind tinted glass. The door shut. The air inside was cool and dead. Freedom gone, like a hallucination.

The seats faced one another. Riko sat directly across from him. “When we reach Kathy,” Riko said, crossing his legs, “you let me do the talking. You remember what we practiced, Four, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Neil said, and when he glanced toward the window—

A sharp kick to the legs. “Yes, King,” he said, too focused on looking at the outside world.

The blow to his pride didn’t sting as much as the next one—Riko’s fingers wrenching into his hair and yanking his head forward, close enough that Neil could feel his breath. “Listen carefully,” Riko said in Japanese, venom curling through each word. “Kevin and I may not always see eye to eye, but he is my brother. Not yours. Never yours. Property and royalty don’t form bonds. Pets don’t play equals with their masters.” He shoved Neil back into the seat, as if disgusted by the contact, then handed him a glass. “Drink. I don’t want to look at you for the next two hours.”

Neil didn’t resist—there was no point. He took the glass, the liquid burning a swift path down his throat, and turned for one final glimpse of the world beyond. He fixed it in his mind: the restless sway of the trees, the endless stretch of sky, the golden warmth of the sun. Then, like a curtain falling, the blackness swept in and took him.

—-

The building that housed Kathy’s morning show looked like every other production studio, or at least, what Neil imagined every studio to look like—two floors of makeup, light, and manufactured smiles.

He was still dragging himself out of the drug’s haze when he spotted Kathy waiting in the lot, all teeth and angles, too awake, too polished. It was the fake cheerfulness that gave her away—people like Riko didn’t attract sincerity.

“Riko!” she exclaimed with a flourish of her arms. “So glad to see you! It’s been too long since our last interview.” Her attention shifted past him. “Nathaniel! So good to finally meet you. Did you see the latest news? You’re the second-highest search result for Exy players. Right behind Kevin. Jean’s third, like his number. Riko’s fourth.”

Neil could feel Riko tense with anger beside him. “That’s nice to hear,” Neil said carefully, choosing each word like stepping around glass. “Though it doesn’t matter to me. Search rankings are just noise. We all know who’s first where it counts.”

He hoped it would be enough. Enough to pull attention off Kevin. Off Jean. Off anyone but himself.

Kathy grinned wider. “Well, let’s save it for the cameras. Shame about Jean not being here. He would’ve added some spice, don’t you think?”

“Nate and I miss Jean dearly,” Riko said smoothly, fingers curling possessively over Neil’s shoulder. “Maybe I should pay him a visit. Or maybe Grayson—weren’t they always close, Natey?”

Neil fought the nausea crawling up his throat. He gave a polite smile as Kathy’s eyes sparkled with glee. “Oh, the crowd’s going to love you two.”

She turned and motioned them toward the building. As they walked, Riko pushed Neil forward by the shoulder. Neil hated turning his back to him—but it wasn’t like he had a choice.

Inside, they were handed over to staff who walked them through studio protocol, then ushered them to a dressing room. Their handlers vanished backstage, and the moment the door clicked shut, Riko’s mask fell.

“I don’t like the look you have on your face, Four.”

Neil blinked. “What look?” His Japanese was better now—five years of it—but he still understood more than he could speak.

“That one you make when you think, ” Riko said. “But you’re not here to think, are you?” He stepped even closer. “That’s your flaw. You always think there’s an angle I haven’t seen. A way out I haven’t accounted for. But here you are. Standing in a room I chose, walking into a show I approved, wearing clothes I paid for.” He leaned in. “Where does all that thinking lead you, Four?”

Nowhere, Neil wanted to say. Or worse— here.

Neil’s mouth was dry. “Nowhere.”

“Good.” Riko adjusted his shirt in the mirror, then turned back. “You’ll sit to my left. Say only what we practiced. Smile.” He stepped forward again, brushing Neil’s collar with a single finger. “Your comment about the rankings was clever. I’ll give you that. But if you try to be clever again—I’ll take you apart so thoroughly, even Jean won’t recognize you in a body bag.”

Neil didn’t flinch. He nodded.

“Good boy.”

Just then, the makeup crew returned. 

“Five minutes!” someone called from behind the door as the artists gave their final touches.

“There, all set. Both of you look great!” one of them said, cheery and oblivious.

An aide came to collect them just as the lights dimmed for showtime.

—

At nine, the show’s opening music started, and Kathy appeared on stage. Apparently, after her last interview, they’d given her that slot. She waved to the morning crowd, full of staged energy. “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning! Now, what a fantastic show we’ve got for you today. Any Exy fans in the crowd?” she asked.

From Neil’s place off-stage, he could see most of the crowd raise their hands.

“What a great game that was for our college teams! The Ravens against the Foxes—it had us all on edge, didn’t it?” she said.

Neil’s eyes scanned the audience—and then landed on a flash of blond hair.

Kevin’s guard dog was there. Andrew .

It hit Neil like a punch to the ribs. This was really happening. Today would be the day he’d finally be with Kevin again. If only for a little while.

It was real .

“Now,” Kathy continued, her voice rising with excitement, “I am happy to present our current stars of the Edgar Allen Ravens, and half of the Perfect Court—give it up for Riko Moriyama and Nathaniel Wesninski, in his first interview!”

The crowd went wild before she’d even finished. The Raven anthem blared through the speakers.

Neil followed Riko to the stage, careful with how he smiled and stood. Riko turned toward Kathy and kissed her hand, flashing the crowd his signature fake smile. The set had two couches and a desk. Kathy sat on the right, and Neil and Riko sat on the left.

Riko’s hand looked casually draped over the back of the couch—but Neil knew better. It was there to reach his neck if he disobeyed, away from the cameras.

“Riko,” Kathy began, “it’s only been a couple of months since we last sat down to talk about the upcoming season. And what a season it’s been! You led the Ravens—single-handedly, some say—into another flawless victory. Even without our beloved Jean at your side.”

The crowd gave a mixed reaction—murmurs, scattered applause, a few stray boos.

Neil did his best not to flinch at the sound.

His eyes locked on Andrew, watching him from the crowd. It was the first time he’d seen him up close in real life. And there it was: that infamous, manic smile that sent a chill through his spine.

“Victory always comes to those who earn it,” Riko said, every syllable measured. “Jean’s absence only reminded the team of what I’ve always said—we don’t build a dynasty on one man. We build it on loyalty. On unity. On control.”

Control.

Neil knew that word. He was dressed in it. Rehearsed in it. Drugged with it.

“Still,” Kathy pressed, “what happened? First Kevin, then Jean. We all expected Kevin to return to Edgar Allen this fall.”

The crowd responded with an eager murmur.

Neil felt the muscle in Riko’s arm tighten beside him. Not much. But enough. Enough to say this line of questioning was not appreciated.

“And then Jean leaves, in the middle of the season. But then again, we’ve gained someone, haven’t we?” she said, turning to Neil. “Nathaniel Wesninski. Can I call you Nate?”

Neil wanted to claw her eyes out for saying it, but instead, he smiled. “Of course.”

“You’ve become quite the rising star, haven’t you?” Kathy said. “Even without seeing you play. People can’t stop talking about you, speculating about your mysterious background. I hear you even take your classes from the dorms.”

Neil gave her a rehearsed smile, teeth barely showing. “I’m not much for crowds,” he joked.

Kathy laughed like it was charming. “Shy, are we?”

Riko’s hand twitched at Neil’s neck—a subtle reminder. Neil straightened slightly. “I prefer to focus on training,” he said, more carefully now. “The court is loud enough.”

“That’s such a Raven answer,” she said, another fake laugh spilling out before she turned to Riko. “Still, isn’t it unusual for a player of his caliber to be so… isolated?”

Neil kept still, but he saw it. The tick in Riko’s jaw. The shift in his hand. Not a squeeze, but a threat. “I believe in isolating the best from distractions,” Riko said smoothly. “At Edgar Allen, we take those who are already great and turn them into more. That’s why we’re at the top.”

He didn’t need to add, and the Foxes are second.

“Strong words,” Kathy said, clearly eating it up. “But I have to ask, Nathaniel—sorry, Nate—what was it like? Coming from nowhere, no public record, no team history… and now sitting here, with the King himself?”

Neil swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

Say what you rehearsed. Stick to the script. Stay alive.

Protect Kevin. Protect Jean.

“It’s an honor,” Neil said, voice steady. “I was given a chance to prove myself, and I took it. The King saw potential where no one else would.”

He could practically feel Andrew’s gaze burning into him now.

Kathy’s face lit up like she’d just uncovered a headline. “That almost sounds like a fairytale! The lost boy, found by the King, turned into a star overnight. Is that how you see it, Riko?”

Riko’s smile didn’t falter, but Neil felt the shift—like a blade turning just beneath the surface. “I don’t believe in fairytales,” Riko said. “I believe in obedience. In order. Nathaniel was raw when I found him. We helped him reach his true potential.”

Neil sat still. His pulse thudded in his throat. Riko’s hand remained in place. Still and coiled.

Kathy, still smiling too brightly, misread the tension. “Well,” she said, trying to steer forward, “however you label it, the numbers don’t lie. You two are dominating the fanbase charts. Nathaniel’s already more searched than half the starting Foxes lineup. And speaking of Foxes—Jean moved into the team Kevin has always been vocally fond of. What about you, Nate? Is there a team out there with a special place in your heart?”

Don’t say anything stupid.

Don’t say anything stupid.

Don’t—

“I do like orange,” Neil said, going off script. Riko’s hand clamped so hard Neil thought it might leave a bruise. “But my loyalty will always be in black. To the Ravens.”

Kathy laughed, delighted even though she didn’t seem to catch the shift in air. “Orange! Well, a fan of Kevin, are we? But I’m glad to hear your loyalty lies where it should. And speaking of loyalty—let’s talk about the Perfect Court.”

Neil didn’t move, but the mood in the room shifted again. He could feel it. This was sacred territory. Riko’s territory. 

Kathy, still either oblivious or bold, pushed ahead.

“With Jean gone, and Kevin… well, still unavailable, people have been asking—who’s next? Is the Perfect Court ending?”

The grip on Neil’s neck tightened. Not enough for cameras. Just enough to break skin. Riko responded with that same measured cruelty he always wore like perfume. “The Perfect Court isn’t about individuals. It’s about vision. Discipline. Anyone can be replaced if they fall out of line. Jean. Kevin.”

Neil didn’t let his smile falter. He turned slightly toward Kathy, just enough. “There’s a lot of talent rising in the Ravens’ ranks. Zane’s been putting in the hours. He’s smart, fast, ruthless. He could make a good Number Two.”

Riko didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But Neil felt it—heat, fury, silence stretched so tight it could snap.

That hadn’t been rehearsed. That hadn’t been allowed.

But Neil didn’t have a choice. If he wanted to survive the Nest, he needed Zane. And Zane wouldn’t lift a finger without a promise.

Neil tried not to panic at the thought about the punishment waiting for him back at the Nest.

Kathy, ever cheerful, leaned forward. “Zane Reacher? Really? His name has been circling lately. That’s quite the endorsement, especially coming from someone who shares the court.”

Neil nodded once. He felt Riko’s nails dig into his neck. “He’s earned it.”

The grip turned icy. 

He would pay for that, he knew. But under the lights, in front of the cameras, Riko couldn’t do more than seethe.

“Well,” Kathy said brightly, “Zane will be thrilled to hear that. I’m sure the fans will start watching him more closely. Now, The Perfect Court may be changing—but I imagine the bonds forged there are never really broken.” She turned to Riko, all smiles, even though he looked on the edge of something dangerous. “When was the last time you talked to Kevin?”

“After our last game,” Riko said with fake warmth. “Unfortunately, we’re all far too busy to stay in touch.”

“Well then—” Kathy beamed. “I have a surprise for you!”

As if they hadn’t already been told Kevin would appear.

But none of that mattered.

The Foxes’ horrible melody began to play—

—and Kevin Day walked out, the crowd roaring, chanting:

“Day! Day! Day!”

Chapter Text

“Kevin Day, everyone!” Kathy announced, her voice bright as the crowd erupted into applause and cheers.

Neil’s breath caught in his throat, even though he knew Kevin was coming.

Aside from the fleeting eye contact they’d shared during the game, Neil hadn’t seen Kevin in over a year. And now, here he was—standing in front of him like some kind of fever dream. His face was a little leaner and he had a beard now, and his dark hair had grown long enough to brush the tops of his eyes. But his eyes—those same fierce, familiar green eyes—were unchanged, and they hit Neil like a punch to the chest.

A warmth spread through Neil’s stomach. Not the comforting kind, the dangerous kind. The kind that made him forget everything he’d been told to fear.

“Behave,” Riko muttered in Japanese beside him, his voice sharp and low. The hand pressed flat against Neil’s back was a warning; stay still, stay obedient, stay mine. The weight of it made Neil’s skin crawl.

Neil didn’t look at him.

He knew exactly what Riko wanted—loyalty. Deference. Submission. He wanted Neil to stand there like a trained dog and let the world see him as Riko’s trophy, not Kevin’s brother, or Jean’s, or anyone else’s.

But it had been too long.

Too many nights replaying memories, too many mornings waking up in a place that didn’t feel like his. Too much silence.

Too much emptiness that spread inside of him.

Fuck Riko.

If there were consequences for this, then so be it. Let him pay. Let him burn. Just for this—for one second of something real.

Before he could stop himself, Neil surged forward. He rose to his feet, ignoring Riko’s sharp intake of breath and the hiss of his name. His eyes locked on Kevin’s, and then he was moving—across the stage, across the space between them—and crashed into him with a hug so fierce it knocked the breath out of both of them, raw and desperate.

Neil buried his face in the crook of Kevin’s neck, holding on like the world might end if he let go. The scent of Kevin’s shampoo, the familiar trace of his cologne—it flooded Neil’s senses. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in deep, committing every detail to memory.

“I missed you,” Neil whispered, voice barely audible over the sound of the audience.

A collective aww rippled through the audience, followed by a few scattered laughs. Neil didn’t care. Let them record it. Let the Nest punish him later. 

Right now, Kevin was real. Solid. Alive. And Neil would carve this moment into himself if it meant surviving the rest of the season.

Kathy’s voice rang out again, amused and bright. “Well, I think it’s safe to say the rumors of the fourth brother were true.”

The crowd laughed again.

Reality began to creep back in, cold and creeping at the edges. Neil pulled back, just enough to look at Kevin’s face—tired, strained, but softer than he remembered.

Neil took one reluctant step back, releasing Kevin with hands that didn’t want to let go. Kevin gave him a look—complicated and quiet—but didn’t say anything. His hand, though, brushed Neil’s arm as if to say me too without the risk of speaking it aloud.

Riko’s silence was louder than the crowd. Kevin turned toward him, embracing him tightly for the cameras. But Neil saw the way Riko leaned in, whispering something that made Kevin pale. Neil shifted on the sofa subtly to put himself between Kevin and Riko—just enough space to breathe.

And oh, Riko noticed.

If looks could kill, Neil would’ve been dead on the spot.

Kathy, ever the professional, didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, that was touching,” she said, gesturing to the audience. “Now let’s get to why we’re really here. Kevin, everyone wants to know - how did it feel playing your former team in the finals?”

Kevin smiled, his interview mask slipping into place. “It was something I’d been looking forward to. Though… it was challenging being back on the same court.”

“In our last interview, you said you still believed in the Foxes. Has that changed after your loss?” Kathy asked sharply.

Kevin shook his head. “The Foxes have a long way to go, but I still believe in them. We were ahead of the Ravens for most of the game. I’ve no doubt that next season, we might even win.”

“It’s not like you to settle for second place, Kev,” Riko said, his smile all ice. “As your brother—and your friend—I worry this team is… dragging you down.”

From the corner of his eye, Neil saw Andrew shift, ready to pounce. Doe had called before the game—’ keep Kevin safe on stage and in the back. Just don’t get yourself killed.’

The last part was going to be tricky. 

“I think,” Neil said before he could stop himself, “considering Kevin broke his hand in December and is already back on top, he’s doing great. I’ve seen him firsthand. We haven’t seen anything yet.”

The crowd cooed, misreading the intensity as brotherly affection. Some whistled.

Riko’s smile never faltered. “There’s a difference between practice and a real game, Nate. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Kathy cut in smoothly, “Speaking of—let’s talk about Edgar Allen practices. Riko, Kevin—you both played with him. Do you think Nate can handle the pressure?”

Neil’s jaw clenched. He hated her, despised her for speaking like he wasn’t in the room.

“He’s one of the best players I’ve seen,” Kevin said without hesitation. “And I know he’ll do great.”

“Oh?” Kathy tilted her head, smile sharp. “So no concerns at all?”

“Not about him,” Kevin said flatly.

Riko clicked his tongue. “It’s not his talent I’m worried about. It’s the attitude.” He smiled as his hand came to rest on Neil’s shoulder, the picture of camaraderie for the cameras. “But that’s nothing we can’t fix.”

Neil didn’t move, didn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. “Guess I didn’t know I was broken,” he said mildly.

Riko’s grip tightened a fraction. “Everyone’s a work in progress, Nathaniel.”

Kevin’s fists were clenching so hard his knuckles went pale.

“Well,” Kathy said brightly, “we all love a bit of a troublemaker, don’t we?”

Kevin and Riko locked eyes. For the first time, Neil saw Kevin challenge Riko openly, the edge in his stare saying what his words didn’t.

“And where does Jean fit into your little routine?” Kathy asked suddenly, swiveling toward them with her predator’s smile. “It’s clear Nate’s close to Kevin, but to some fans Jean’s always felt like the spare wheel. Not that I agree—we all love him, don’t we?” She turned to the crowd. They cheered on cue, like trained seals. “But Jean always seemed… outside your bond,” she said, eyes flicking between Riko and Kevin.

“You have to understand,” Riko began, voice smooth, “Kevin and I are brothers. That’s unchangeable. We may have drifted after his injury, but I will always care for Kevin. We both will. Right, Kev? Isn’t family about sticking together?”

“Yes,” Kevin said quietly, his eyes fixed on Neil instead of Riko. “Family always protects each other.”

Riko noticed. The crowd didn’t.

“That’s touching!” Kathy trilled. “But back to the question—what does that make Nathaniel and Jean?”

Guard dogs. Property. Toys. Neil thought. Out loud, he started, “I can answer that—”

“Friends,” Kevin cut in, voice sharp enough to slice the air. “We’re all friends.”

“Just friends?” Kathy prodded. “No special order? No alliances?”

Kevin didn’t blink. “No one’s on the outside.”

Kathy’s smile widened. “Well, Nate, we’ve heard you consider Riko a mentor. Is that true?”

Neil hated her.

“Nate,” Kevin hissed under his breath, low enough for only him and Riko to hear.

Neil gave Kathy his most harmless, fabricated smile. “Sure.”

Riko’s fingers drummed against Neil’s shoulder in approval, but his eyes glittered with challenge.

Her eyes lit with satisfaction. She turned back to Riko. “In your last interview, you said you were worried about Kevin’s injury, about him returning to play. Do you still feel that way?”

“I said it then, and I’ll say it again,” Riko replied smoothly. “Kevin’s performance with the Foxes proves we could find him a place on our staff back home, where he belongs.” His gaze softened artificially, dripping false sorrow. “Kevin, it breaks my heart to see you so far from home. Why wouldn’t you come back?”

Kevin gave a short, humorless laugh. “I think you already know the answer.”

Neil’s pulse spiked. He opened his mouth—ready to burn the whole conversation to the ground—but Kevin’s hand twitched in warning.

“There were only ten Foxes this year, and we still made it to second place,” Kevin said, his voice steady but his fingers trembling. “I appreciate the offer, Riko, but I’m exactly where I belong—spreading my wings and making my own path. Isn’t that something you’d want for me?”

For a heartbeat, Riko said nothing. “Of course,” he said finally, "dear brother.”

From the corner of his eye, Neil saw Andrew lean forward just enough to be noticed. Riko’s gaze flicked to him and back to Kevin, something dangerous curling at the edges of his smile.

“Well, that’s all the Exy time we have today!” Kathy chirped, clapping her hands. “Join us after the commercials for more sports news. Don’t go anywhere!”

Neil barely heard the rest. His eyes were on Andrew, now practically vibrating in his chair. The second the stage lights dimmed, signaling they were off air, Kathy pulled her mic away and grinned. “What an interview! I must say, Nathaniel, you might be my lucky star.” She winked. “There are refreshments in the back. You can watch the rest of the show there—someone will be with you soon.”

“Thank you,” Kevin said as Neil subtly reached for his arm, the gesture casual to others—but it meant we need to go. Now.

Andrew needed 30 seconds.

The hallway was empty.

Neil barely had time to turn and block Kevin before Riko was on him. Fingers twisted in Neil’s hair, yanking his head back. The next moment, Neil was slammed into the wall, shoulder-first — pain flared bright and hot, but he didn’t cry out.

Riko’s breath was at his ear. “Stupid little traitor—”

But Neil wasn’t just fighting for himself now, and that had made all the difference in the world.

He slammed his elbow back into Riko’s ribs — not enough to drop him, but enough to make him flinch. Then Neil twisted, throwing his weight sideways, not away — into Riko. Letting the force rebound between them, he used the momentum to push off the wall, breaking Riko’s hold and shoving him back two full steps.

Riko staggered. His hand came up, not to strike, but to grab again — to reclaim what he thought was his.

Neil didn’t give him the chance.

He swung low, fast — a gut punch, sharp and practiced. He’d learned from Jean, in the quiet of their room. He’d learned from survival. His fist landed just under Riko’s ribs — not enough to break anything, but enough to hurt . Enough to say; I’m not yours. Not now. Not ever again.

Riko snarled and lunged, but Neil was already moving, backing just enough to keep out of reach.

His voice came sharp and cold. “Try it again.” 

“Oh, Four,” he growled. “You’re going to regret that. Pets don’t bark when their master is about to speak.”

Neil wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smirking. His father’s smile, cruel and cold. “Luckily, I’m not a pet.”

“No,” Riko snarled. “You’re a pest . A cockroach.” His gaze shifted to Kevin. “And you—what you said on stage? I didn’t approve.”

It took every bit of Kevin’s strength to answer, voice flat. “I don’t care.”

Riko smiled wider. “You know what I think? I think you forgot that I don’t need knives to break you, Kevin. Just a little… special treatment for Nate, and you’ll come crawling back home.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Neil said, glancing at Kevin who turned pale. “Go. Find the others.”

“I don’t want to go without you,” Kevin said quietly, not looking at Riko. “I shouldn’t have left you there.”

Neil’s breath caught. Riko’s face twisted with fury.

“Go!” Neil barked.

Kevin hesitated, stunned—but he moved.

“We’re not done,” Riko said, red with rage, pulling a knife. “We’re not—”

“Riko,” Andrew said, stepping into the hallway, arms spread. “Been a while. Getting déjà vu, or is that just me?”

Riko scoffed. “You again.”

“Oh, I missed you,” Andrew drawled, stepping forward, arms still wide.

Riko sneered. “You and Four should both be reminded what you are. Dirt.” His eyes flicked to Kevin. “Keep playing with filth, and it’ll stick to you.”

“Kevin,” Andrew said, firmer now. “Move.”

Kevin did.

He passed Riko without a word. Riko let him.

But as they walked, Riko called after them, “Oh and tell Three that Four might be… unavailable for a while.”

Andrew grabbed Kevin’s arm and made him walk forward, dragging him away before the damage could spread. It took less than a second for them to disappear from the hallway.

It took half a millisecond for Riko to lock eyes on Neil.

“You have no idea what fate you set for yourself, Four,” Riko said, laughing—actually laughing.

And just like that, the weight dropped. The fight was over. Kevin was gone. Andrew too. And now it was just Neil.

The adrenaline that had carried him through—the heat, the rage, the defiance—it drained out of him like water from a cracked glass. His hands were still curled into fists, but his arms felt heavier now. Too heavy.

He was still standing. But he was standing alone.

The air in the hallway turned thinner, colder. His chest tightened, not from fear of pain—he could survive pain—but from the silence that came after. The kind of silence that let monsters step closer.

For the first time since stepping onto that stage, Neil felt something sharp twist in his gut.

Panic.

“King—“

“Oh, it’s King now?” Riko’s smile widened, sharp as a blade. He stepped closer. “That’s right. I am your king. And I’ll make sure you remember it.”

Before Neil could answer, an aide appeared, all smiles and polite efficiency, ushering them toward the back. “Let’s get you both settled with the other guests,” they said, oblivious to the venom in the air.

The next two hours were a slow, grinding torture—sitting next to Riko, knowing every laugh, every meaningless line of small talk, was just a mask stretched over whatever was waiting later. Neil didn’t have to guess if it would be bad. He knew.

*****

“Wake up, Four. We came to see your daddy.”

Neil’s skull hit cold metal hard enough to rattle his teeth. The hollow clang ricocheted through his head, each throb syncing with his pulse. An elevator. A soft chime announced their arrival, the doors sliding open with a hiss.

He knew where they were before stepping out. The knowledge clawed at his throat, screamed at him to turn, to run—anything but move forward.

“I thought you liked coming to my brother,” Riko murmured, every syllable dripping with flase sympathy. His fist tangled in Neil’s hair, yanking him upright. “Or coming for him.”

The shove forward sent a jolt through already-bruised ribs.

Everything between leaving the show and now was a blur—flashes of motion, car doors slamming, the stale leather reek of the backseat. His last solid memory: one final, steadying breath. Then-

Pain. Panic. Sadistic smiles. Sadistic promises.

The main hall was deadly quiet, their footsteps the only sound. Guards stood like statues, not even glancing their way.

Ichirou was waiting, glass in hand, gaze locked on Neil with a fury that he hadn't seen in years. 

But it was the man beside him who froze Neil mid-step.

“Hello, junior,” his father said, smiling.

Everything Neil had built—layer by layer, brick by brick—collapsed in an instant. Instinct screamed: turn, get away, run.

He’d barely shifted when Ichirou’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Nathaniel.”

Panic surged, sharp and hot, but he forced it down. Slowly, he turned back—first meeting his father’s eyes, then locking on Ichirou’s. He bowed slightly.

“My lord.”

Even that small movement tugged at torn stitches, sending a sting through his side.

His father’s smile didn’t waver, but it was carved from ice. “It’s been too long, son. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

Neil said nothing. Silence was safer.

The air pressed heavy on his lungs. Ichirou’s gaze wasn’t just watching—it was measuring, calculating exactly where to cut.

“Bring him here,” Ichirou said, voice like glass cracking under pressure.

Riko shoved him forward until his knees bumped the low table.

Up close, his father was exactly as Neil remembered—sharp lines, perfect posture, eyes honed like a blade.

“I’ve been trying to protect you,” Ichirou said, the words ringing in the stillness. “I always treated you fairly, didn’t I? Perhaps that was my mistake.”

“My lord—”

The slap came before he saw it coming. Metal rings split skin; the impact spun him to the floor. Warm blood slid down his cheek.

“You’ve always played your own game,” Ichirou said. “But I thought you knew where the line was. I see now I was wrong.” His gaze iced over. “My uncle says one visit from the Butcher will hardly be punishment for helping Three escape. I think he’s right.” He turned to Nathan. “You’ll begin your weekly sessions in a month. Any objections?”

His father’s wide smile answered before he spoke. “Not at all.”

Neil wanted to scream.

“Good,” Ichirou said. “That will be all. You may go.”

Nathan’s smile lingered. “I’ll see you soon, Junior.” Then he was gone.

Ichirou’s gaze shifted to Riko. “I’ll allow it this once,” he said in Japanese. “Normally, I don’t approve of such things—and the fact it happened to Jean without my father’s knowledge disturbed me deeply.” His eyes flicked back to Neil. “But you’ve managed to fuck up badly enough even I have to agree. Haven’t you, Nathaniel?”

“I—”

The elbow to his ribs drove the air from his lungs. He hit the floor before he realized he was falling.

“No speaking tonight, Four,” Riko said. “Not until you, me and Grayson have some alone time.”

Riko fisted Neil’s hair again, dragging him toward the elevator.

“Just this once, Riko,” Ichirou called after them. “If I find out it happened again without my permission, you might join the Butcher’s lessons yourself. Am I clear?”

Riko bowed slightly. “Yes, my lord.”

From the floor, Neil caught the sharp blend of fury and cold disappointment in Ichirou’s expression. “You should’ve stuck to the script, Nathaniel,” Ichirou said, stepping closer. “Now look at what you’ve done.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes, Neil wondered if he’d made Jean and Kevin up.

When he couldn’t sleep. When he couldn’t eat.

When the nights stretched endlessly and the days blurred into gray.

When dreams bled into waking, when he couldn’t tell where the screams in his head ended and the silence around him began, he wondered.

Maybe he had never had brothers. Perhaps they were just delusions of a desperate mind, fabricated safety nets his brain clung to when it couldn’t bear the truth. Hallucinations—fragile, fever-warm visions of a boy who sat beside him in the dark and whispered in French, of another who brought candles and a wallet with no money in it, just to make him feel human.

Maybe there were no green eyes that ever softened when they looked at him. No gentle hands that had ever held his shaking ones steady. No whispered, “happy birthday, Neil.”

Maybe none of it was real.

Because if they were real—if Jean and Kevin had truly existed in this place with him—how could they have left him behind?

And yet, in his lowest moments, he held to those fragments like lifelines. Memory or fantasy—it didn’t matter.

They were all he had.

He’d catch glimpses of them in the shape of shadows, hear them in the echo of a laugh that sounded almost like Jean’s, almost like Kevin’s. He’d close his eyes and imagine them at his side again. Imagine Jean’s shoulder pressed against his in silent solidarity, Kevin’s irritated but fond voice snapping at him to eat something, to sleep, to fight back.

But when he opened his eyes, he was still alone. Still in the Nest.

Still surrounded by the wolves, and no brothers left to protect him.

And sometimes, in that unbearable loneliness, Neil wasn’t sure what hurt more—the bruises on his skin, or the absence of the people who were supposed to love him.

And that, more than anything, was what broke him.

The fear that he had never been someone worth loving in the first place.

The kind of fear that felt too much like truth.

Chapter Text

Jeremy Knox had been through what most people would call a lot. 

Sometimes he was surprised by how people still stuck with him; the Sunshine Captain, the good boy with the puppy eyes, the one who would never do any harm. People wanted to believe that was all there was to him. But Jeremy knew better. He’d made his mistakes, carried his shame, lived as the failure of his parents’ careful legacy. Any warmth he got from others still felt like borrowed light.

He was a fuck-up, and he will always know it. 

What he did have was the team. Being captain was the one thing he knew he could do right—lifting others up, helping them be the best version of themselves, even if he never could be.

Which was why he kept watching Jean.

Three weeks under the same roof. Three weeks of small victories: breakfast with the group, the rare occasion where Jean cooked along with the girls, the rare slip where Jeremy swore he almost looked content. And then last week it all slid backwards—Jean cagey, sharp, clutching his phone like it was a lifeline. Jeremy had wanted to talk to him, but Cat and Laila had gotten there first at breakfast. It turned out it was something about the interview. Jeremy hadn’t pressed, only tucked the worry away.

Now, at the beach, the sun glaring bright on the water, Jean froze halfway down the sand.

Jeremy slowed, careful. “Everything all right?”

Jean’s eyes cut toward him. For a second, Jeremy swore he saw the storm raging behind them, but the walls slammed down fast. “Fine,” Jean said, voice stiff. He started moving again.

Jeremy matched his pace, giving him space. He’d learned that much. Then, abruptly, Jean stopped again, gaze fixed on the waves. “Marseille was on the coast,” he said at last. “It just brings back a lot of memories. Memories I no longer trust.”

Jeremy’s chest tightened. He wanted to reach out, to ask more, but Jean’s voice was already closing off. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“No.”

Jeremy nodded, and that was that. They caught up with Cat and Laila, who had declared their chosen spot. Towels, sunscreen, the usual. Jeremy noticed the way Jean kept his gaze away, like just being near them in swimsuits was too much. He stiffened when the lotion of sunscreen was dropped into his hands, holding it like it was foreign.

Jeremy tried not to overthink about his behavior. He knew the rumors, of course he did—how Jean had supposedly slept his way to the top, into the Perfect Court. Jeremy had heard it enough times. And even if it were true, Jean had been sixteen. Sixteen .

Jeremy would never hold it against him when others had clearly taken advantage.

“You should apply it to your neck too,” Jeremy said gently.

Jean’s eyes flicked to him, then immediately higher, fixing on the space just above Jeremy’s shoulder. He frowned but obeyed. Jeremy watched the small motion, his heart aching at how even this seemed to cost Jean something.

“You missed a couple spots. Mind if I help?”

Jean flushed instantly. “I—”

“Jeremy! It’s hot as fuck, let’s get to the water before the others get here!” Cat yelled, dragging Laila along.

Jeremy grinned, easing the moment. “You coming?” he asked Jean. “Or are you going to sit here with your shirt on all day?”

“I am fine. I do not need any of this silly activity,” Jean muttered.

“Okay,” Jeremy said, tone light. “I’ll just be in for a bit—it’s too hot not to. But I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Jean frowned. “I’m not a child. I do not need you to hold my hand all the time.”

Jeremy couldn’t help it—he smiled. “But what if I want to?” he teased, and headed into the water. He didn’t need to look back to know Jean’s face had gone red again.

From the water, he risked a glance back. Jean sat stiff at first, but then—slowly—his shoulders loosened. The breeze ruffled his hair, the sun caught his face, and for just a second Jeremy thought he saw him breathe lighter, like the beach had snuck some freedom into him.

“Having fun?” Jeremy asked when he came back dripping.

“This is… bearable.”

“Bearable, he says!” Cat laughed, toweling herself off. “That’s the highest compliment I’ve ever heard you give anything.”

Jeremy chuckled as Laila offered, “We brought melons and watermelons. Want some?”

Jean hesitated, then nodded, taking a cautious piece of each. He examined them like they might bite him first.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had one,” Cat teased.

“It’s just been a very long time,” Jean muttered, eating quickly. Jeremy saw it though—the way Jean’s eyes widened just slightly, the way he went back for another piece despite himself. “It’s good,” Jean admitted at last.

Jeremy’s chest warmed at that. Cat and Laila exchanged secret smiles, and Jeremy had to bite back his own grin when Jean, frowning at their looks, still reached for a second piece.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Laila said.

Jeremy was still smiling when Cody’s voice called his name. He stood to greet them, half-distracted—until he noticed Jean.

It happened in an instant.

Jean’s body went rigid, like every muscle locked at once. His eyes fixed on Lucas, and Jeremy watched the color drain from his face so fast it was frightening. Jean’s hands dug into the sand, knuckles white, like he needed the ground to anchor him. His chest heaved shallow, ragged.

Jeremy froze. He’d seen Jean tense before, but this was different. This was terror. His breathing went sharp, shallow. His gaze darted wildly, unfocused, like he wasn’t seeing the beach at all.

“Jean?” Jeremy kept his voice careful, soft.

No reaction. Jean’s gaze darted, wild and unfocused, like he wasn’t seeing the beach at all. Then—before Jeremy could move—Jean bolted. He lurched to his feet, stumbling through the sand, half-running, half-falling toward the far side of the beach.

“Jean!” voices shouted behind him, but Jeremy was already moving. He spotted him collapsed against a low wall, curled in on himself, chest heaving like he couldn’t get air.

“I got it,” Jeremy said quickly over his shoulder. Laila and Cat gave him nods of encouragement. Cody looked baffled, and Lucas… Lucas’s eyes were harder to read, suspicion maybe, or just indecision. Jeremy didn’t have time for either.

He approached slowly, step by step, hands open like he could somehow show he wasn’t a threat. Even from a few feet away, he could hear the ragged drag of Jean’s breathing, like he was drowning on dry land.

“Jean?” Jeremy whispered, voice careful, almost like talking to a wild animal.

Jean didn’t seem to hear him. His nails were clawing at his scalp, head bowed, body tight as a bowstring. Jeremy’s stomach twisted. He moved closer, crouching a little to soften his presence.

“Jean?” he tried again.

Jean’s head snapped up so fast Jeremy flinched. His eyes were wide, wild, unseeing—terror carved deep into his face. For a moment, Jeremy wasn’t sure Jean even knew who he was.

“Please,” Jean rasped, stumbling back a little.

Jeremy’s chest ached. He wanted to reach for him, but forced himself to stay steady, calm. “Jean, I can leave if you want. Do you want me to? Do you remember where you are?”

“I—” The sound was raw, breaking. Jean squeezed his eyes shut, one hand clamping around his own throat so tight Jeremy almost surged forward in panic. For a split second he thought Jean would strangle the air out of himself.

“I’m sorry,” Jean choked out, eyes still closed.

Jeremy shook his head, firm but gentle. “No. You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. Do you want to talk about it? Or… do you want me to go?”

For a long moment, all Jeremy could hear was Jean’s breathing and the crash of the waves, before Jean whispered, “Stay.”

Jeremy felt something in his chest loosen and ache all at once. Jean could have pushed him away, could have told him to leave like he did everyone else—but instead, he asked him to stay. Jeremy lowered himself into the sand beside him without a second thought, close enough for Jean to feel his presence, not close enough to crowd.

They sat there for a moment, the waves crashing faintly behind them, before Jean spoke again. His voice was quiet, raw. “What is Grayson doing here?”

Jeremy blinked. Grayson? For a second, he almost asked what Jean meant—then it clicked. His stomach turned cold. Lucas has a brother. A Raven brother.

He swallowed, keeping his voice steady. “It’s… that’s not Grayson. It’s his brother. Lucas.”

Jean’s head shook faintly, like he couldn’t quite believe him. His nails were still digging into his scalp, leaving angry crescents in his skin.

Jeremy wanted to reach out, wanted to pry his hands away before he hurt himself, but he held back. Too fast, too forceful, and Jean would bolt again.

“Hey,” Jeremy said softly, tilting his head, keeping his voice calm. “You’re not in South Carolina. You’re not with the Ravens. You’re here, with us. You’re safe.”

“Safe.” Jean said bitterly. 

“That’s Lucas,” Jeremy continued carefully. “Different person. Different life. He’s not Grayson.”

A long, jagged breath shuddered out of Jean. His grip on his scalp loosened just enough for Jeremy to see his hands trembling.

Jeremy took that as a sign. Slowly, cautiously, he lowered himself all the way down to sit cross-legged in the sand, close but not touching. He angled his body slightly toward Jean so that if Jean wanted to look at him, he could—without having to feel trapped.

“Can you breathe with me?” Jeremy asked gently after a moment. He exaggerated the rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Just… with me.”

Jean’s eyes flicked to him again, guarded, like he was waiting for a trick. But Jeremy just breathed. Once. Twice. Three times. Until— finally —Jean’s chest started to follow, uneven but trying.

“There you go,” Jeremy murmured, relief slipping into his tone. “That’s it. You’re doing great.”

Jean pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, shoulders curling forward. His voice was so small Jeremy almost missed it. “I hate this.”

“Jean—”

“I’m fine.” The words were clipped, almost bitten off. Jean pushed to his feet like he could leave the moment behind if he just stood fast enough. His shoulders were tight, his jaw set, his whole body screaming don’t look at me. “Let’s go back,” he said, already turning.

Jeremy rose more slowly, brushing sand from his palms. “Jean, you don’t have to—”

“I said I’m fine.” Jean’s voice cracked on the last word, but he didn’t stop moving.

Jeremy’s chest twisted. He wanted to grab his arm, make him stay, tell him it was okay not to be fine. But he didn’t. Jean had asked him to stay, and Jeremy wasn’t about to betray that fragile trust now by cornering him.

Instead, he matched Jean’s pace a few steps behind, steady but not crowding. “Okay,” Jeremy said quietly. “We’ll go back.”

Jean’s hands were still shaking as they walked back toward the others. Jeremy matched his pace, steady but not crowding. He could feel the eyes waiting for them. Cat, Laila—concern written plain. Cody, open and curious. And Lucas, whose gaze never left Jean, sharp and assessing.

Jean looked at him like he was staring at a ghost. Or a monster. Jeremy wasn’t sure which.

“Hey Jean!” Cody called brightly as they closed the distance. “You’re tall as hell!”

Jean’s shoulders tightened further.

Cat laughed, trying to ease the tension. “That’s what I said. Someone’s gotta balance you out.”

“It is what it is,” Cody grinned, turning to Jeremy. “The hair, man—looks good!”

Jeremy forced warmth into his voice. “Thanks.” He was grateful, at least, that Cody wasn’t making a big deal out of what had just happened.

But Lucas was. Lucas’s eyes didn’t leave Jean. His voice cut through the moment, “what the fuck was that?”

“Lucas,” Jeremy and Cat snapped at the same time.

“What?” Lucas’s tone was defensive. “We show up and he bolts in the other direction. That’s not normal. We all know what the other Ravens are like.”

“I am, for one, excited to see what you can bring to the table,” Cody jumped in quickly, smiling at Jean. “That is, if you can behave at all.”

Jeremy’s gut twisted. This wasn’t going to end well. He could feel it unraveling already. “Okay,” he said firmly, trying to cut it off, “why don’t we just move on—”

Lucas kept going. “My brother told me you were a freak.” His eyes were locked on Jean, hard and unrelenting. “And a whore .”

Jeremy froze. The words landed like a slap, white-hot fury burning in his chest.

“Lucas!” Cody snapped, grimacing.

“We agreed we’d take the rumors with a grain of salt,” Lucas said, unbothered. “But I got a call from a certain Raven last night—first time in years. My big brother. And he says he knows you intimately. That you fucked your way up the line.”

“That’s enough, Lucas.” Jeremy’s voice was sharp this time, leaving no room.

But Lucas didn’t back down. His frown deepened. “We don’t need this kind of drama in the lineup right now. People already hate us for taking him in the middle of championships. We can’t afford this—especially after the last—” He stopped himself, eyes flicking away.

“Especially after the last what, Lucas?” Jeremy pressed, voice low, dangerous. Lucas didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Jeremy was still deciding how to handle it when Jean spoke, his voice cool and sharp as a blade.

“I had my number before I joined the lineup because my position was always guaranteed. Your wretched brother spent three years trying and failing to keep up with me.”

Lucas sneered. “He said you’d say that. He knew you would.”

Their eyes locked, tension snapping tight, before Cody dragged Lucas away with forced cheer. “Alright, enough, let’s go chill.” Laila followed, shaking her head.

That left Jeremy and Jean in the sand, the air between them heavy. Jeremy rubbed sunscreen into his arm, needing the motion to keep his hands busy.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, voice low. “He’s usually a good guy. I don’t know what that was. And I’m sorry we didn’t warn you—Lucas never talks about Grayson. I honestly forgot he even existed.”

“It’s fine.” Jean’s voice was flat. He stared at the sand. “Lucas is just a child spitting smoke. It doesn’t matter.”

Jeremy shook his head. “It does matter. He shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s fine. It’s half true anyway.” Jean still wouldn’t look at him.

Jeremy’s heart lurched. “Jean.” His voice came sharper than he meant. “Jean, look at me.”

Jean’s eyes lifted at last, and the storm there nearly knocked Jeremy back.

“You were sixteen when you joined the lineup,” Jeremy said, forcing each word out steady. “That’s statutory rape, no matter how you look at it. You must understand that.”

Jean’s voice dropped, cold. “You cannot understand it was inevitable.”

Jeremy blinked. “Jean, what are you—”

“All you need to know about me are two things.” Jean’s tone was cold. “First, I don’t need to sleep around to prove I’m better than your entire lineup. Second, if any of the Trojans ever touch me, I will cut their throat on the spot.” His eyes burned into Jeremy’s. “Don’t try to understand me. Don’t try to get into my personal life. It doesn’t affect the way I play, and it shouldn’t affect you.”

—

Later, after Jean had gone upstairs and slammed his door shut, Jeremy finally dared to join Cat and Laila in the living room.

Cat didn’t waste time. “What the fuck was that today?” she asked, eyes narrowing at him.

Jeremy ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t know. He just—he said Grayson shouldn’t be here.”

“Grayson?” Laila blinked. “Lucas’s older brother? He is a Raven, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Cat said slowly, frowning. “Shit. I didn’t even think about that. They must look a lot alike if Jean mistook Lucas for him.”

“Yeah,” Jeremy said, crossing his arms. His chest still felt heavy from the scene earlier. “So what are we going to do?”

Cat leaned forward, unrelenting. “Before that—what do you think this was all about?”

“Cat—”

“No, Jeremy.” Her voice was sharp, frustration seeping through. “Have you seen him? I want to trust him, I really do, but how can we when he acts like a loner all the time? He barely talks to us, he’s glued to his phone, and it’s clear he didn’t exactly have a good time with the Ravens so it can’t be any of them. None of this makes sense.”

“Maybe he’s talking to Kevin,” Laila offered carefully.

Cat shook her head. “It’s the middle of the night back there. Look, all I’m saying is this—everything today, combined with the way he is? It doesn’t make me want to trust him.”

Jeremy’s stomach twisted. He hated this. Hated that she wasn’t entirely wrong, hated more that Jean’s silence was driving a wedge before they’d even begun.

“So what do you suggest?” he asked quietly, not sure he wanted the answer.

“It’s obvious he wants to be on the court,” Laila said. “What if we set up a small training session with the team tomorrow? Cody, Xavier… probably Lucas too. We can start building trust there.”

Cat nodded quickly. “That actually sounds like a good idea. What do you think, Captain?”

Jeremy hesitated. His first instinct was to shield Jean, to give him more time before throwing him into another spotlight. But he also knew the team needed this—Cat and Laila needed it. If he said no, their doubts would only fester.

“Davis will probably agree,” Jeremy said at last. “As long as it’s not too hard. Some pool warm-up, a bit of Exy after. I’ll call him and ask.”

“Great!” Cat clapped her hands, satisfied. “Now, which movie are we picking? Because I was thinking…”

Jeremy let her voice fade into the background as she and Laila argued cheerfully over titles. He sat down with them, forcing a smile, trying to push away the gnawing feeling in his chest.

That he had just made a very big mistake.

***

Jean practically vibrated in his chair the next morning when Jeremy told him he’d be joining some of the team for their first group exercise.

“When are we going?” Jean asked, already more awake and alert than Jeremy had seen him in days.

“Slow down, cowboy. We’ll go soon,” Cat said, clearly pleased with his mood.

When they finally left, Jean was pacing, restless, anticipation written in every twitch of his body. He was the first out of the car, the first through the doors of the fitness center.

“Guys! Missed you all,” Xavier said, grinning as they arrived.

“Xavier! How are you feeling?” Jeremy asked, clapping his shoulder.

“Never better,” Xavier said with a smile. “I should be good to go for full contact soon, but for now it’s light exercise.”

“You hear that, Moreau? Light.” Coach Linsinski said. 

Jeremy nodded—grateful for Xavier’s easy presence. Coach Linsinski herded them forward, past familiar equipment. Jeremy kept an eye on Jean, planning to give him a proper tour later when it was quieter.

All in all, it looked like it might be a success—until they reached the aquatics room.

Jean, who’d been a step ahead of Jeremy the whole way, went rigid. He froze mid-stride while the others kept moving, oblivious.

Jeremy nearly put a hand on his shoulder, thought better of it at the last second. “Hey. You good?”

“Yes.” The word was flat, toneless. Unconvincing. He forced himself forward to catch up.

Coach launched into instructions by the poolside, but Jean wasn’t listening. Jeremy could see it—the vacant stare, locked on the water like it was alive. The way his body coiled tighter with each passing second. The whispers starting up from the others didn’t help.

“Am I boring you, Moreau?” Coach snapped.

Lucas snickered. Cody elbowed him.

Jean jerked like he’d been struck. “No, Coach.”

Jeremy winced. He didn’t want to expose Jean in front of everyone, but he also couldn’t stand there and say nothing. “I don’t think Jean can swim.”

“It’s not the only thing he can’t seem to do,” Lucas muttered under his breath.

Coach shot him a glare before turning back. “A little old to not know.”

Jean’s hand twitched upward toward his throat, like yesterday, before he stopped himself. “No. I—I can swim, Coach. It’s been many years, but I should remember.”

Jeremy’s stomach sank.

“I can be his partner,” Xavier offered quickly. “I’ll remind him of the basics. He’ll pick it up.”

Coach studied Jean, unconvinced. “That sound good to you, Moreau? Because you look ready to bolt.”

“Not for the first time,” Lucas said, loud enough for everyone.

“Lucas, that’s enough.” Jeremy’s voice cracked sharp across the tiles. He stepped forward. “If you can’t act like part of this team, you won’t be on it. You know that.”

Lucas bristled. “You can’t bench me.” But there was a flicker of doubt in his face.

Jeremy folded his arms. “I don’t want to. But if you keep making yourself the problem, I won’t have a choice.”

Lucas looked to the coach for support.

“Don’t look at me,” Linsinski said dryly. “I’m with Jeremy. Jean is team. You need to remember that.” She turned back to the group. “All right—pairs. We’ll go one by one. Cat, Laila, you’re up.”

Jeremy forced himself to focus as they swam their sets. He even let Cody push him through a round. But his eyes kept darting back to Jean, pale and silent, Xavier murmuring reassurance at his side.

When their turn came, Jean’s feet stayed planted. His gaze never left the water.

“The first step is getting in,” Coach said, then softened. “You sure you’re up for this?”

“Yes.” His voice trembled. His legs shook as he edged forward, Xavier a steadying presence at his side. Step by step, closer to the edge.

“Coach, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Xavier said quietly.

“Second that,” Cat added. Laila nodded.

Jeremy stepped forward. “We can find him something else. Warm-ups, cardio—”

Coach sighed, already relenting. “I agree. Moreau, get your ass back.”

“No. I—I can swim, I just need a minute—”

“Oh, fuck that. You all acted like he was made of sugar. There.” Lucas said, and before anyone could process what was happening he moved fast, taking a couple of steps forwards, pushing Jean to the pool.

The splash echoed off the tiles, violent and wrong.

For a heartbeat, the surface broke with flailing arms, water thrashing. Jean’s eyes were wide, mouth open, but no sound came out—only the desperate gulp of someone who couldn’t get air.

He was drowning.

“Shit—” Xavier surged forward, but Jeremy was already moving. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He tore off his shirt and hit the water in one motion, the cold biting his skin.

The world muffled instantly, sound swallowed by chlorine and chaos. He saw Jean below the surface, limbs jerking wild and uncoordinated, bubbles streaming from his mouth. His hands clawed at the water as if it were a wall he couldn’t climb.

Jeremy kicked hard, driving himself down, reaching. Jean’s fingers slipped past his once, twice—slippery, frantic. Jeremy cursed into the water, pushed harder, and finally caught hold of his arm.

Jean thrashed like a trapped animal. His nails raked Jeremy’s shoulder, his knee jerked dangerously close to his ribs, but Jeremy held on. He hooked an arm around Jean’s chest, pinning him against his side.

“Got you,” he gasped as they broke the surface. “I’ve got you!”

Jean choked, coughing and sputtering, water spilling from his lips. His hands still flailed, blind panic refusing to let go. Jeremy tightened his grip, keeping his head above water no matter how hard Jean fought.

“Jean! Look at me!” Jeremy shouted over the splashing. “You’re okay—you’re out, I’ve got you!”

Jean’s eyes were wide, unfocused, terror drowning out reason. Jeremy kicked them toward the edge, muscles burning with the weight. Xavier was already in the water to meet them, guiding as Jeremy hauled Jean forward.

“Easy—easy—” Jeremy panted, pushing Jean up onto the pool deck with Xavier’s help. Jean collapsed onto the tiles, coughing hard, water streaming from his hair and clothes. His body trembled violently, chest heaving like each breath was a battle.

Jeremy pulled himself out beside him, dripping, heart hammering. He reached out, careful, setting a steadying hand on Jean’s back. “You’re okay,” he murmured, low enough only Jean could hear. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Jean didn’t answer, just curled tighter on himself, coughing raggedly into his fist. The sound tore through the air, wet and desperate, like he was still drowning even though he was out of the water. Each rasp made Jeremy’s stomach twist tighter, because it sounded like there wasn’t enough air in the world to fill his lungs.

Jeremy’s eyes lifted, blazing. Lucas was still frozen at the pool’s edge, face pale now that the weight of what he’d done was finally sinking in.

Jeremy pushed to his feet, water streaming off him, fury burning through every vein. For the first time in a long while, the Sunshine Court captain was nowhere to be found. He wanted to tear into Lucas, wanted him to feel even a fraction of what Jean had just gone through—

But before he could take a step, Coach Lisinski slid in front of him, solid as a wall. Her eyes were on Lucas.

“You are benched for the first three games,” she said, her voice cutting like steel. “You’re staying after every practice to help clean the stadium. And you will be the one helping Jean settle in—whatever he needs. If I hear you didn’t do it, or that you made things harder for him, you’re permanently off this team. Am I making myself clear?”

Lucas flinched like he’d been slapped. “Coach—”

“I asked—am I clear?”

A long beat. Then, small, “Y-yes, Coach.”

Jeremy’s fists clenched at his sides. It was a punishment, sure, but part of him still wanted more—wanted something that could undo the sight of Jean choking on water, clawing for air that wouldn’t come. He looked down at Jean now, still trembling, still sounding like he was half-drowning, and it didn’t feel like justice. Not nearly.

Lisinski held Lucas in her glare a moment longer before turning away, signaling the discussion was over. The rest of the team had gone quiet, uneasy shadows lingering around the pool.

Jeremy’s jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it. Every part of him wanted to go through Lisinski, to get his hands on Lucas, to make him understand just how close he’d come to killing someone. 

But he knew better. 

Jeremy dropped to his knees beside Jean, the fight draining from his body as he focused on what mattered. “Hey,” he said softly, hand hovering before settling gently on Jean’s back. “You’re okay. You’re out. Just keep breathing with me, yeah? Nice and slow.”

Jean shuddered under his touch but didn’t pull away. His hands were still shaking, pressed tight against his chest as if to hold himself together.

“Coach,” Xavier said quietly from where he crouched nearby, “maybe we should call it for today.”

Lisinski hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. “That’s enough. Shower, change, go home. We’ll regroup tomorrow.”

The others filed out, subdued. Even Lucas kept his head down, though Jeremy caught the flicker of shame—or was it defiance?—in his face as Cody nudged him away.

When the room had emptied, Jeremy stayed where he was, kneeling on wet tiles beside Jean. The chlorine stung his eyes, or maybe that was just everything catching up with him.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he admitted quietly.

Jean’s answer came ragged, muffled into his knees. “I told you I could swim.”

Jeremy let out a shaky breath, half laugh, half disbelief. “Yeah. Sure you can.” He didn’t argue, didn’t press. He just stayed there, steady, until Jean’s breathing finally eased enough that it no longer sounded like he was still drowning.

Then Jean spoke again, voice low and bitter. “I thought it might be different here. But I should have known better. Better than to hope.”

Jeremy’s chest tightened. He wanted to shake him, wanted to make him see he was wrong, that it could be different here—if he’d only let it.

“What do you mean?” Jeremy asked carefully.

Jean’s gaze stayed fixed on the floor. “I am a Moreau, and my place is to endure.” Jeremy’s chest tightened. The words were bitter, resigned, like a sentence he’d long ago accepted. Then, after a beat, Jean’s voice dropped even softer, almost like he was speaking to himself. “I just wish he was here.”

Jeremy stilled.

For a second, he thought he must have misheard. But Jean didn’t seem to notice he’d spoken at all. He didn’t flinch, didn’t cover, didn’t even look up — just sat there trembling, breathing raggedly against his knees.

Jeremy swallowed hard. He wanted to ask who. He wanted to press, to reach for the name Jean had let slip through his armor. But that would be taking advantage of him in this state. It would be cruel. Selfish.

So Jeremy didn’t ask.

For the rest of the day, he kept his questions to himself. He just stayed close, steady in the background, even when Jean pretended not to notice.

And he hoped—God, he hoped—that even a fuck-up like him could still be enough for someone else.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, Andrew dreamed of a family.

A mom and dad who cared. A sibling—maybe two. A dog, even. The American dream. He dreamed of waking up to love, of knowing he mattered, of not just wasting air.

In his first three foster homes, he still clung to that dream. He was too young to understand that kids like him—foster kids—rarely found real love. Still, he held on. Through the bad houses, the greedy ones that took him for the money, the ones where he was just another name, another face. He endured the beatings, the cold stares, waiting for the moment they might change their minds. Waiting for the moment they might choose him.

He used to be a happy boy.

But at eight, when the worst finally happened, something inside him snapped. Hope fractured, leaving only survival. Survival meant making it to the next day. Survival meant no more fantasies about sunshine and rainbows. No more playing the good boy. No more wagging his tail like a lost dog at the shelter, begging for scraps of affection.

It only got worse. Each house carved another piece out of him, left behind another scar.

Then came Cass.

Cass was a light in the storm. She smelled like cookies and safety. She was warmth and promises—the closest thing to a mother he’d ever known.

Andrew would have done anything for her. Anything to keep her love. Anything to protect that fragile hope of family.

Then came Drake. And still, Andrew dared to dream.

And then came family. Real family. Not the kind he had once imagined, but something else entirely. When Drake decided to try and bind them together, Andrew wanted to run. To leave it all behind and let them face the music. 

But Aaron was there—Aaron, who mirrored him in ways Andrew didn’t want to see.

It only seemed right that Aaron was broken too. That Tilda was a monster. Because wasn’t Andrew one as well?

He learned that family came with bargains, with promises, with hate and blame. Losing Cass had gutted him, but when Aaron and Nicky became more than names on paper, Andrew thought—maybe—this was it. The family he had managed to claim for himself.

Kevin Day hadn’t been part of the plan.

Andrew remembered their first meeting too well: Kevin’s desperation, his hunger to drag Andrew into the Nest. By rights, Andrew should have hated him for it. The Ravens were cruel—Kevin knew it—and still he tried to recruit him. But Andrew didn’t hate him. He couldn’t. Not when Kevin struck a deal. Not when Kevin was the first to look at him and say he was worth something.

More than his real family ever said to him.

Kevin Day forced his way into the monster’s circle. Maybe Kevin didn’t know what family was either—raised as he had been beside monsters—but Kevin had Jean, had Neil, had others who tethered him. That made him like Andrew. That made him family.

And sometimes, Andrew still dreamed of warm cookies. Of safety. Of being seen as more than a weapon. Of being whole—or close enough. On those mornings, when he woke from the dream, a single tear slipped down his cheek.

***

Andrew was trying to remember why he shouldn’t kill Kevin Day. 

Kevin Day, who was currently on his last rope with Andrew. Kevin who was barking at Jack again, voice raw from the fifth threat in ten minutes. “If you want to be on the team move your legs!”

“What the fuck is up with him?” Sheena groaned, breathing hard next to him, “shit, I can’t handle this. If he is so angry he can always go boxing or something, not taking it out on us.” She said to Noah who was trying to catch his breath next to her, both of them standing with their hands on their legs.

Andrew, who usually couldn’t stand the lot had to agree. Apparently his twin was having enough of that as well, “the fuck crawled up Day’s ass? He had been like this since the interview.”

Andrew didn’t bother to answer.  He knew that Aaron knew the answer to this already and he didn’t waste his breath to say the obvious.

Besides, he was itching for another dose. He was still high high high, but he could feel the crash coming just around the edge. 

“Why are you all stopping? Jack, you want to be vice-captain? Then start working for it!” Kevin screamed at them. 

Well, Andrew had enough. “Day.” He said, coming to stand next to him. Kevin had that angry frown on his face, the one he held the first few days he was with them after he left the Ravens. “You are getting on my nerves.”

 He gave him a half look. “If we don't get better by next season we have no chance of beating the Raven.”

“Oh Day. Why do you think I care?” He said, taking a step forward, “you brought us all here before we were supposed to be back and you still can’t handle the heat? I’ll only tolerate it for so long.”

“You know why I have too.” Kevin’s voice cracked just slightly at the end.

Aaron picked up on it too, of course. He always did. “Don’t tell me this is about that interview,” he said, straightening up from where he leaned on the wall. “Because if it is, you’re not dragging us into your personal grudge match. I’m not running my lungs out just to soothe your ego.”

“The rabbit is not going anywhere. Even if we win. You are not going to be his savior, Day.” Andrew added before Kevin could answer. 

“That’s enough. Take a break. Ten minutes.” Wymack said. 

The new recruits looked at them funny before walking away with some of the older team. Nicky came running their way, “man! I am too old for this.”

“Want to tell me what this is all about?” Coach said. “We’ve called coach Moriyama. You heard what he said - Nathaniel is pulling the hours to be the best he could be after the promise of the interview. Which we all know is bullshit, but it means that he is fine. As much as he could be.”

“You don’t know that.” Kevin said, voice breaking.

“If they would have done something to him they would have released something to the media by now. Their friendly match against the Wolves is in a few days and the media is all over your number Four. They won’t do anything.”

“You don’t understand.” Kevin said.

“Kid, why don’t you take a break?” The coach said, as Kevin was shaking his head, “it wasn’t a suggestion.”

Andrew lit a cigarette as he walked off the court, ignoring them. He’d seen what he needed to. Kevin Day was breaking, and Exy was the only thing keeping him from the bottle.

So when Matt and Nicky suggested a mountain trip, Andrew didn’t fight it. Not this time. Kevin’s furious frown was proof enough—it might be the only way to shut him up.

Which is how Andrew ended up barging into Kevin’s room one afternoon, questioning his life choices.

And he wasn’t one for regret.

Kevin glanced up from a history book, an Exy game playing in the background.

Nerd.

“What are you doing?”

“Pack.” Andrew dropped the bag down on Kevin's bed.

Kevin frowned.

“We’re going to the mountains for the week.”

“We,” Kevin echoed. A beat later, his face tightened. “No. We’re in the middle of training—”

“Day.”

Kevin’s expression twisted, almost desperate. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“Killing yourself won’t save him.”

“I am not—”

“Move it, Day. Fifteen minutes. Be ready.”

Andrew left him to stew.

Downstairs, Aaron and Nicky were waiting with matching frowns.

“You sure that was the best way to tell him?” Nicky asked. “We could’ve eased him into it.”

Andrew lit a cigarette and ignored him.

By the time he was halfway through, the others appeared with their bags. Kevin looked like he wanted to murder every last one of them. He refused to meet Andrew’s eyes, climbing into the passenger seat before anyone else could claim it.

Andrew didn’t realize he was laughing until his ribs hurt. What unsettled him more was that no one else even flinched, like they heard it all the time.

He tapped his legs in rhythm, buzzing with the thought of two hours trapped in the car.

***

The pills weren’t something Andrew ever expected.

He’d always been in control—always on edge, always measuring limits. Drinking, dusting—he knew when to stop. Survival depended on it.

Then came the pills. And every time he looked in the mirror now, a stranger stared back. A demon, maybe. The wide smile that didn’t belong to him. The mask that grinned when inside he wanted to scream.

It was Aaron’s worst habit, reflected back at him. Only Andrew’s came with a court order and too many memories he’d rather forget.

And it meant he couldn’t drive. He obeyed that rule.

Mostly.

Nicky drove more often now. Andrew let him. Didn’t mean he liked it. Sometimes, when Andrew wasn't high he drove. But ‘Not high’ will never be the same as clean.

When Nicky detoured to the ABC store on their way out, Andrew went in too. It was freezing outside, and he wanted something that burned. They stocked up—whiskey, beer, enough to drown the weekend.

Halfway to the register, Andrew’s phone buzzed. Nicky arched a brow, mouth already opening before Andrew’s look shut him up. 

No one ever called Andrew. Everyone worth his time was already here.

He pulled out the phone.

Pig Higgins, the display read.

He let it ring.

At the counter he tossed in a bottle of vodka and a candy bar. The cashier glanced between his too-wide smile and Nicky’s warmer one, and wisely didn’t comment.

By the time the mountains rose ahead, Andrew was buzzing. Live wire. Ready to snap. He was out of the car first, pacing the lot to bleed off the edge. Kevin climbed out stiffly, muttering something under his breath that Nicky and Aaron ignored.

Matt Boyd was waiting. Golden retriever smile intact. Still convinced he could glue a broken team back together. No wonder Wymack wanted him as vice captain.

“You made it!” Matt said, too bright for the room.

“Unfortunately. Wish we died in a car crash,” Kevin muttered.

Matt didn’t falter. “Come on, we never hang out. Wouldn’t it be nice to just be together for once?”

Aaron glared. Nicky chimed in, “That’s what I’ve been saying for years. But do the boys listen to me? No.”

Andrew counted to ten. Too many witnesses for stabbing his cousin here. Kevin’s eyeroll from the corner almost made it worth it.

“What a waste of time,” Jack told the other freshmen. They trailed behind, more than happy for the break.

Matt clapped his hands. “To the cabins!”

Inside, Renee and Alison were already settled. Renee stood when they entered. “One king bed. Alison and I will take it. Everyone else, figure it out.”

Andrew didn’t much care; a lock on a door was enough, and his room had one. At least he didn't care until. Aaron and Nicky drifted together, leaving him to be rooming up with Kevin. “If you keep that fucked-up look all weekend, I’ll pull a knife,” Andrew told him flatly as he sat on his bed. “Doesn’t Frenchie call you every day now?”

Kevin glared, folding his clothes into neat stacks. “The game’s tonight.”

Andrew stretched across the mattress, silent. Hard not to know about the game—Kevin hadn’t shut up about it.

The soft bed didn’t settle him. Nothing did. Not with Pig’s call lingering, not with the memory of last year still raw. He wasn’t going to testify. Not again. Not just to hear another person call it a misunderstanding.

He had done enough. Cass wouldn’t take anyone else. He made sure it happened, this time. 

He tried to believe it was enough. Tried hard to believe it was the right choice, the only choice.

“Fine, don’t listen to me,” Kevin snapped. “I’m going to see if we can get the game on TV.” He left, muttering.

Andrew opened the vodka he bought. The dark room was quiet, soothing. Almost enough to drown the thoughts of Pig’s call today.

Twenty minutes later he wandered downstairs. Matt lit up.

“Oh, there you are! We’re outside making a bonfire. Anyone who wants can watch the game here.” He nodded toward Kevin, curled on the sofa with a drink clenched tight. Then whispering he said, “he won’t budge. Maybe you can talk to him?”

Andrew wanted to punch Matt for smiling when he agreed.

He dropped onto the couch beside Kevin. The Ravens already had a point. Nathaniel filled the screen. So the he really was alive at least. “It’s a friendly against the Wolves, Day,” Andrew said.

“He’s moving slower than he can,” Kevin murmured.

Andrew studied the footage. Nathaniel stumbled—awkward, sluggish, wrong. Like someone playing through a haze. Andrew knew that feeling too well. “Did Riko usually drug him before practice?”

Kevin made a sound—half laugh, half broken noise. “Only to punish him. They wouldn’t— Not in his first game.” He drained his glass. “Riko’s making him look bad. He—” Kevin dropped his head, words cutting off.

“Outside,” Andrew said.

This time Kevin didn’t fight the pull. Andrew kept his distance; after Pig’s call, touch was a landmine.

The fire cracked in the mountain dark, sparks rising like stars. Nicky leaned too close to Aaron, already drunk. Aaron shoved him off without pausing his argument with Noah, Sheena and Janie.

Jack sat glued to Kevin, talking about Exy while Kevin drowned him out with liquor.

Andrew let him. Jack wasn’t his problem.

Smoke curled skyward. The tension buzzed under the chatter. Nicky clapped too loudly, grinning crooked. “Okay, team-building time! Everyone confesses the worst mistake you’ve ever made.”

“Shut up, Nicky,” Aaron said.

Nicky ignored him. “Worst mistake? Dating that guy in Berlin before Eric. Oh my god.”

The circle groaned. Alison rolled her eyes. Renee smiled like she was too good to laugh but she was still laughing anyway.

“Great,” Matt said, too cheerful for the mood. “Worst mistake I ever made? Trusting Seth with my car keys.” That got a round of laughter. Even Aaron cracked a smile.

Kevin didn’t. He stared into the fire like he could burn himself out with it.

“Day,” Andrew said.

Kevin blinked, like he forgot Andrew existed.

“Your turn.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Nicky said, waving his bottle. “Come on, Kevin. Worst mistake?”

Kevin’s jaw tightened. Andrew thought he’d shut down, same as always. But then he said, quiet enough half of them leaned in to hear, “thinking I could survive without the Nest.”

The circle went dead quiet.

Nicky clapped too loud. “Okay, my turn again. Worst mistake? Not bringing marshmallows. We are literally failing at this.”

More groans. Renee stood, muttering something about saving them from themselves, and came back with a bag from the kitchen.

Somehow Kevin ended up with a marshmallow on a stick. He roasted it like he was at practice, serious face, eyes locked on the fire.

Aaron frowned at him. “You training that marshmallow for Exy tryouts?”

Kevin didn’t look up. “It’s already doing better than you.”

“Holy shit,” Nicky gasped. “Kevin Day made a joke. Did anyone get it on video?”

“Shut up,” Kevin muttered, chewing. His ears went red.

Andrew flicked his cigarette, smoke curling into the air. “Careful, Day. People might think you’re human.”

Kevin glared at him, sugar stuck to his lip. He looked ridiculous. And for once, he didn’t care. He leaned back, bottle in his hand, legs stretched to the fire. The most relaxed Andrew had seen him in days. “Thank you.” He said to Andrew under his breath. 

Maybe dragging Day out here wasn’t a waste of time after all.

***

Andrew woke in the dark.

The room was quiet, too quiet. Kevin was already at the door, shoes in hand, moving careful like he thought he could sneak past.

Andrew didn’t move until the door clicked shut. Then he got up, slid his knives on his armbands, and followed.

The night air bit cold against his skin. He stayed back, letting Kevin’s shape slip between the trees and down the gravel path. The crunch of shoes stopped at the car. Door creaked open, then silence.

Andrew leaned against the shadows and waited.

If Kevin was going to run back to the Nest, this would be the moment. Put the key in, drive, never look back.

But he didn’t. Andrew already knew he wouldn’t. 

Kevin just sat there with a bottle in his hand, shoulders hunched, taking swallows too big, too desperate.

Coward.

Andrew walked up to the driver’s side and leaned down, smoke curling from the cigarette he lit on the way. Kevin startled, then glared, but his hand tightened on the bottle instead of the wheel.

“Running away fixes nothing,” Andrew said.

Kevin’s jaw worked. “I wasn’t—”

“You can’t even drive there,” Andrew cut him off. Voice flat, sharp. “You’re too much of a coward.”

Kevin’s breath hitched. He tried to cover it with a laugh, but it came out jagged. “He’s not safe. They won’t touch him yet, but they could. And if they do, it’s on me. I should have—” He slammed the bottle against the dash, liquid sloshing. His eyes burned when he turned on Andrew. “You don’t get it. Renee got Jean out. She did it. I never even thought about it. And two nights ago, I got in this car, keys in my hand, ready to drive to him. To drag him out myself. But I knew—” his breath hitched again, raw, “—I wouldn’t make it. I’d turn back. Because I value my own skin too much to give it away.”

Kevin’s voice dropped, hoarse. “He would’ve done it for me. Neil-Nate would’ve torn the Nest apart with his bare hands if it meant saving me. And me—” his hands trembled around the bottle, “—I can’t even cross the line for him.” He stopped and said, “maybe Riko was right.”

Andrew lit another cigarette, ember flaring in the dark. He inhaled slowly, then let the smoke slip through his teeth.

“Riko was never right.”

Kevin laughed, jagged and ugly. “He made me. Without him, I—” His hands pressed into his eyes, grinding down the thought like he could erase it. “I don’t know who I am without the Nest. Without them.”

Andrew studied him. The cracks in the posture, the hollow carved out of him.

“You’re Kevin Day,” Andrew said finally. “Pathetic. Arrogant. A fucking pain in my ass.” He flicked ash to the ground. “And you’re still standing. That’s who you are.”

Kevin sagged forward, bottle dangling between his knees. Shoulders shaking.

“They’ll break him,” he whispered. “Nathaniel can’t survive them.”

“He already has,” Andrew said. “That’s why he’s still there. And why you’re here.”

Silence pressed heavy. Finally Kevin lifted the bottle, took another swallow, and breathed out, shaky but quieter.

Andrew straightened, turned back toward the cabin. He didn’t look over his shoulder. Didn’t need to.

Kevin always followed.

That’s what family did.

Chapter Text

Important: Read the chapter’s note before starting.

---



Neil’s mind was static. Complete static. Even his throat burning barely registered—though he was almost sure he’d torn one of his vocal cords. He wasn’t even aware he was still in bed.

The Nest had its punishments. Neil never knew what Jean had done to 'earn' Riko’s cruelty, why it always circled back to him and him alone. This time, apparently, the interview had been worth the same sentence.

“You cost me two toys, Four,” Riko had said, stripping him to the bed while Neil’s body was too bloody and weak to resist. “You took Kevin from me twice. He chose property over king. This should never have happened.”

He was faintly aware of weight shifting the mattress. Fingers tugging at his pants.

By the time Neil realized what was happening, he was already begging. Begging for it to stop, begging for Grayson to stop. But Grayson only leaned in, breath hot in his ear: So good. You feel so good. I’m going to find Jean and fuck his skull. You’ll like it, Nate. Wouldn’t you?

“Keep your eyes on the screen,” Riko ordered. An old camera played a video of Kevin—bloodied, subbing, broken hand. His cries blended with Neil’s. “No closing your eyes, Nathaniel.” the devil said.

The demon pushed harder.

Neil screamed and screamed, and-

“Wake up, princess.”  The voice that haunted most of his waking dreams roared above him. “Wouldn’t want you to miss practice.”

“No,” Neil answered. Flat. Automatic. Not even aware he was speaking.

The devil smiled. “No, what?”

“No, King.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this obedient. Maybe he never had.

He didn’t notice the other Ravens as he entered the court—not their voices, not their faces. His body moved on muscle memory alone, his mind gone.

Gear on. Court. Drills. Routine.

The same as a hundred times before.

They were halfway through practice when a whisper brushed past him. “I had fun last night, Nate.”

Neil’s head snapped around to Grayson, the words yanking him back into his body. The old instincts lit in his chest—the ones he’d thought long burned out, but they had flared twice already this week. 

Run.

Don’t look back.

Don’t stop.

 Run.

 Run.

 Run—

He vomited in the locker room as soon as his helmet came off. Didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.

A blow to the cheek. Another to his already-bruised ribs. “Leaving in the middle of practice, Four? Where are your manners?” The Master’s voice rang. The hits kept coming, another one, then another.

Then—

“Rabbit?”

Neil blinked. The court was gone. He was in his room—showered, phone in hand.

“Nathaniel,” the voice repeated, cheerful yet empty, tinged with a manic smile. “If this is a booty call—”

Neil’s heart pounded in his chest. “I just—I needed someone to talk to. Don’t… don’t tell Jean or Kevin.”

Panic choked him as his eyes swept the room, searching shadows for Riko. Jean and Kevin would’ve been the natural ones to call, but he couldn’t put that weight on them. He was their anchor. Their shield. They leaned on him. Not the other way around.

But where did Andrew fit into this? He couldn’t even remember deciding to call—least of all Andrew. It made no sense. He shouldn’t have. He didn’t trust Andrew, not really. He didn’t trust anyone.

Trust got you killed, or worse. His mother had taught him that—drilled it into him until it lived in his bones. He’d believed it, carried it, let it shape every choice he made. And yet his memory had found Andrew’s number anyway. His thumb had moved before his mind could catch up. Maybe it wasn’t trust. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was weakness. Or maybe it was madness finally catching up to him, the cracks widening until this was all that was left—

“Neil.” How Andrew knew that name, Neil couldn’t guess. “Truth for truth?”

“I can’t. I—forget I called. It was a misunder—”

“Don’t,” Andrew cut in. “I don’t like that word. Don’t use it.”

“Okay.”

Silence stretched, thick and endless. Neil forced air in and out until his breathing steadied, but the panic clung stubbornly, prickling at his skin like static. Every nerve felt exposed, raw. Vulnerable. Too vulnerable. 

“Rabbit. Talk to me.”

“I can’t—”

“You want to know how your brothers are doing, right? Truth for truth. That’s the deal.” Andrew’s voice was steady, sharper than usual, maybe thanks to those court ordered pills Neil had heard so much about.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Then don’t. I’m not offering this deal again.”

Neil hesitated. He shouldn’t even have called. It was reckless, stupid. Dangerous. He hated Doe. But he couldn’t talk to anyone else. “Do I get to decide what to share?” he asked quietly, still scanning the room like Riko might appear at any moment.

“Yes.”

“And when to share?”

“Yes.”

It was madness. But what choice did he have? Trapped in the Nest, no one to trust, no one to lean on. He’d already been punished for breaking the rules. If he shattered completely, they’d just break him down for parts.

He never felt more like a puppet.

“I need to think about it,” he said at last.

Silence before Andrew laughed. “I’m not going to be that generous forever, rabbit. Tick tock.”

The call disconnected. 

Neil sat curled in the corner of the room, shaking, every breath a fight against the panic clawing at his chest. It took everything in him to stand, his legs unsteady, and he collapsed onto the bed as though gravity had claimed him whole. The ceiling swam above him, shapes blurring until it melted into an open sky he couldn’t reach.

He imagined Jean asleep in the empty bed beside him, steady in a way Neil could never be. He imagined freedom—real freedom, unchained and untouchable—before letting himself drift, further and further, until the Nest was nothing but a memory fading into the dark.

**

Somehow, practices got worse. Neil didn’t know how that was possible, but each one dragged heavier, every drill stretching longer than the last. He could have sworn they’d added another hour, though he knew the Ravens hadn’t changed a thing. Sixteen-hour days—an endless truth carved into him.

“Four, stay. The rest of you barely scraped by. Is that what you want to be? Failures? Has the standard dropped so low? I expect better by tomorrow—or there will be consequences. Dismissed.”

Grayson smirked at him on the way out, flanked by his pack of freshmen. Neil hated the way it still made his chest tighten, his pulse spike.

Riko was nowhere to be seen. A blessing, if you ask him. Neil could live a lifetime without seeing him again.

When the others left, Neil stepped forward and bowed slightly, racquet still in his hand.

“That was far below expectations, Four. You’re getting worse,” the coach said.

Neil bit his lip. Sleep-starved, half-starved, bleeding inside and out—none of it mattered. He was doing his best, and they both knew his worst days were still better than theirs. This wasn’t about performance. This was punishment.

“I’m sorry, coach,” Neil said, and offered up the racquet.

The coach weighed it in his hands while Neil braced himself. The first strike landed on his shoulder. The next two slammed into his stomach. He stayed upright until his knees gave out. The floor was colder, harder than he remembered. He raised his arms to shield his face—waiting for another hit. Nothing came.

“Get up.”

Neil obeyed, lungs still fighting for air.

“You think I should stop?”

Yes. The word burned in his throat. But Frederico was a sadist. Always had been. He wanted Neil to beg.

“No, sir. I don’t think two blows are enough.” The words tasted like ash.

The racquet cracked against his head. He hit the floor again. Then his hand. His leg. His ribs. Again. And again. And again.

His ears rang. His legs screamed. He would have given anything for it to stop.

“-I said, up!” the coach roared.

Neil blinked. The blows had stopped. He didn’t know when.  It took everything he had to rise. Frederico tossed the racquet back at him and walked away without another word.

It was a long limp back to his room. He passed a few Ravens, their stares crawled over his skin. He ignored them. If Riko wasn’t at practice, he’d be waiting elsewhere. Probably in their room.

When Neil reached his door, he froze. It stood open. Inside, the room was stripped bare. His few belongings—gone. Sheets torn from the bed. Nothing left but the frame.

“Hello, roomie.” A voice came from his side.

Neil turned. Zane stood there, smiling.

“What?”

“Your little stunt paid off. I’ll admit, I doubted you. But credit where it’s due.” He gestured for Neil to follow.

Neil’s stomach dropped. “Where’s my stuff?”

“Already moved. Don’t worry—nothing’s missing. Thought you’d like the new place.” Zane tilted his head down the hall. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Neil hesitated. But then again, trap or not, what choice did he have? The halls stretched longer than he remembered, darker. He’d lived here for years, and he hated how it started to feel like home. By now, in the dark of the Nest, he almost forgot what sunlight felt like.

Zane’s new room mirrored the last—same bedframe, same bleak walls. Except… someone had hung the picture of Kevin and Jean exactly where Neil had placed it before. The few things Kevin had bought him sat carefully on the bed. Like nothing had changed.

“See?” Zane spread his arms, smug. “Home sweet home.”

Neil stared at the picture, at the precise angle it had been hung. A chill ran down his spine.

Someone had touched everything, moved everything, and then put it back—too precise.

The thought of someone studying those few photos he had twisted his stomach, but he tried to choke back the bile rising in his throat.

“What do you want?” Neil asked.

“Here’s the deal,” Zane said. “You get me my number by year’s end, and I’ll make sure Grayson—and anyone else but the King—keeps their hands off you. Deal?”

Year’s end. Too far. Too close. “Yes.”

Zane stepped closer, grin twisting. “Johnny fucked me over. I should’ve let Grayson have him, but I protected him. You pull something like that? I’ll make sure the whole lineup takes their turn. Understand?”

Neil swallowed the urge to spit in his face. “Yes.”

That seemed to satisfy him. Zane left, door clicking shut.

Neil waited. Counted breaths. When he was sure Zane wasn’t coming back, he pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the number he should have deleted.

He called anyway.

Three rings.

“Want to read me a bedtime story?” Doe’s voice was smug, lazy.

Neil swallowed his retort. “Do you know another language?”

A pause. Then, “We haven’t made a deal yet, rabbit.”

“I need to know I can talk to you. I’m not exactly… free.”

“German.”

Neil’s pulse jumped. Of all the options, fate had chosen one he could risk. He hesitated anyway, balancing the words on the edge of his tongue. Every language he gave away was another crack in the armor he’d built, another truth Andrew could pocket and use. But German was the only thing safe enough—for now. He switched, the words sharp in his mouth; “deal. How are Kevin and Jean?”

There was movement on the other end, a shift of weight, the faint sound of fabric. Andrew’s voice came back level. “Kevin snuck off to drink in the car. Said he wasn’t brave enough to drive to the Nest. Your French bird’s fine, far as I know. Day thinks something’s off, but he doesn’t know what.”

“Did you tell them—”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Neil frowned but didn’t flinch. “Do I have to spill my heart right now?”

“I don’t have to take my turn.”

Neil hated that. “Then can I take another one?”

“I’m not your mother, Nathaniel. I don’t hand out gold stars.”

The words scraped at him, but he shoved the thought of his mother down where it belonged. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie. Everyone wants something.”

Andrew didn’t dignify it with much. Neil could hear the shrug in his silence, the faint edge of boredom. “Then rephrase the question if you want a different answer.” Andrew said.

Neil let it slide—for now. “I can’t always answer when you call. Text first. And it should be me calling more than you.”

“Careful, rabbit. I don’t do leashes.”

“You put it on when you answered,” Neil said. His voice was flat, but his pulse wasn’t. “Don’t choke on it.”

The pause stretched long enough Neil almost wondered if Andrew hung up. Then Andrew’s voice cut through, smooth and sharp. “You give yourself too much credit. Didn’t know you could match Day’s ego. He’s at least entertaining.”

“Brothers,” Neil reminded him.

A low hum, amused but dismissive. Then. “Look at that –my patience is gone. Try not to die, rabbit. That kind of mess isn’t worth the effort..”

The line snapped dead.

Neil stared at the phone a moment longer, then let it fall against his chest. The ceiling swam above him. He should turn the phone off. Instead, the screen lit with a new message from Jean.

His chest tightened. Too long without him. Too long since Jean’s voice steadied him, since sharp edges had felt like home instead of loss. But the silence between them was his fault—his choice. He wasn’t ready, not for Jean, not for what they could be. He told himself distance was safer, that if he kept quiet he couldn’t ruin it. Still, the silence felt like a wound, pulling wider every day. Like losing Jean all over again—like losing a limb he could still feel.

Neil’s thumb hovered, then betrayed him. He opened it.

Message after message in French, his mind stumbling over the words in his head. The last one hit clean and hard.

Il n’y a que toi.*

The breath punched out of him. His chest clenched, tight and aching. He shut the phone off, because there was nothing left to do. Nothing left to say.

Only silence. And in that silence, Neil heard the words again. Il n’y a que toi. He whispered them once. Then again. Louder in his head, sharper each time. Il n’y a que toi. Il n’y a que toi.

Until it was all that remained.

*There is only you.