Chapter Text
One year ago.
Nathaniel Wesninski is a sharper weapon than the knives he brandishes. Having been born and raised for bloodshed, everything about him was designed to pierce like a blade. To cut things, to make them bleed, and beg for mercy; this is what he knows best.
But he hadn't started out that way. During his first eight years of life, when he was abandoned in Poland with nannies who detested him and a helpless girl who had been taken and tethered to him for the foreseeable future, he had not used knives very often. He'd wanted to, though.
When he was younger, Nathaniel frequently daydreamed about the stunning scene that would ensue if he were to suddenly lunge out from under a table or desk with a knife in hand. He pictured the nanny's shocked expression as they realised who their assailant was, and imagined the relief of having overcome someone who'd pushed him past his breaking point.
He eventually let that fantasy go, though, in between being thrashed, forced into awkward positions, and having heavy plates broken over his frail limbs. He stopped looking for chances to win and started learning which stair was the least likely to creak when he and Vanya, his self-declared sister, wandered the home in the middle of the night in search of food scraps. He figured out how to keep silent and speak only when he saw it necessary, acquiring his harsh tongue in the fight for peace.
In a sense, that battle went on forever. But when one nanny caught him instructing Vanya and himself in clumsy English, he could have sworn he'd lost for good. And maybe he did, because once all of their books containing English were burned--along with some of his skin--he was on a plane back to Baltimore. Eyes blackened and fingers bent out of place.
This should have been his first clue. The turning point in his life where he finally flipped the switch to illuminate the sign in front of him that stated, in large, bolded letters, "This isn't normal!"
But this was not the eye-opening experience it needed to be. Not for him, at least. At the time, Nathaniel was still a child. A child who was told that he was to be seen, not heard. A child who, when bored, counted the freckles littering his skin and smiled brightly at the bunnies he observed scurrying up and down his driveway.
One might question how in the hell this boy, who could keep quiet as he wept but couldn't tell his left from his right, was supposed to recognise that this was the easiest thing he would get out of life.
It's true that hindsight is 20/20, he supposes, for there are many things he would do differently with the information he has now.
For instance, he probably would have cared more for his nanny's advice and been a little more appreciative if he had known that verbal degradation and minor mutilation were the easiest things in the cards for him. Perhaps he might not have imagined his mother to be some kind of saint who would welcome him with open arms if he knew that the first time they would meet would be the evening she was shot in front of him. Hell, maybe he would have stepped in front of that bullet and gotten rid of the main problem right then and there if he knew what his father had planned for him.
But he didn’t. Instead of inching his feet forwards and meeting a gruesome end, he watched the copper-plated bullet fly through his mother’s forehead and take the quickest route out the back. He listened to the deafening pop of it escaping the chamber, barely even a full second beforehand. He flinched as he felt the splatter of her warm blood that had since turned to a pink mist paint his face. And slowly, the odour of potassium nitrate, coal, and saltpeter reached his nose, mingling with the lingering scent of iron-filled blood and quick death.
Without a doubt, the thing that got him the most was that overpowering stench.
Yes, the blood was disgusting, but it could be washed off. And hours later, it was, using water that had caused his skin to steam.
And sure, the sound of the shot itself nearly deafened him permanently, and maybe he still despises loud noises with a fervor that could bring a grown man to his knees.
But the smell? That had lingered in the small basement for days afterwards. Even while strapped to a metal table, blinded by pain and being dissected like a frog in science class, it was all he could notice. That stench had clung to him everywhere he went, buried in his clothes and fusing with the chemical makeup of his brassy-red hair.
If asked, Nathaniel would not say that it’s something he continues to struggle with, but there is a reason that he has a tendency to opt for knives rather than guns when specially withdrawn from his protection assignment at the Nest; and it’s not because they are easier to hide.
Nathaniel imagines, as his father crumples to the soiled ground and joins the stiff corpses of the rest of his inner circle, that there is a joke to be told here. Something in regards to the boy he raised to be a knife using a gun to do away with him, certainly. Nathaniel doesn’t dwell on it.
No, instead, he hands the revolver back to Kengo with skillfully careful hands. Nathaniel watches as the man evaluates the scene before him, then passes the weapon off to a nearby guard, who wipes it clean and swiftly tucks it into his jacket, never to be seen again.
"This was a substantial job, Nathaniel, " Kengo says in tight Japanese. "Getting rid of waste may be common practice for us, but it is rare to do so much in one day. You have done well."
Nathaniel’s manners may be questionable at best, but he likes to think that he’s still capable of having some decorum. "Thank you, Lord."
Nathaniel’s thick, Polish accent bleeds into every language he speaks. Yet another part of his father that will remain forever ingrained in him. He fought it for years, going as long as he could without speaking in his native tongue, smothering it with the likes of another mask he wore. But it never worked. All it took was some mumbling in hushed Polish as he thought aloud but not openly for it to come tumbling back.
Kengo has never commented on it, though. Always noting it, accepting it, and moving forward.
"There is no need to thank," Kengo’s guards form a path as the man turns to leave. The door is opened for him, but he pauses in mid-step. "I trust you will see fit to change the title your father has given you into something more productive."
The comment is tossed over his shoulder as though it were a casual remark, but everyone present knows just how much weight that sentence carries.
Heavy doors swing shut just as the last of the guards trickle out. Nathaniel hadn’t gotten another word in, but he doesn’t mind. He had nothing more to say.
He spares a glance at the pile of bodies littering the floor, rigor mortis having set in already as they lay pale in the pools of blood that steadily dry around them.
He looks at Vanya beside him. Standing strong with her chin held high, meeting his eyes with her ever steady gaze and daring him to say a word about the nearly inconspicuous tremble in her hands as they rest at her side.
It’s familiar.
All of it. The gun used, the vicious odour, the spray of blood, his sister at his side.
so much like that day in his father’s dreary basement. And yet, so vastly different, all because of one change.
Nathaniel is now the one to imprison the power in his iron hold.
What was once a butcher examining the cold slab of his newest victim and the fresh, warm bodies of those to come, is now something else. Something new.
One might even go as far to say something promising.
Nathaniel probably wouldn’t take that leap. Not yet, at least. But he will take his new title, and he will manipulate every part of it until it functions like the well-oiled machine he’s envisioned, fitting into the changed form he has already set out to create.
Even if, on bad days, it gives him the creeps or makes his breath stutter. Even if it brings back memories of the scars he claims to still be able to feel because they were etched into his skin so deeply.
"The Butcher" will hold a new meaning in Nathaniel’s desperate grasp.
Present day.
Kevin tosses back another shot. He’s not even sure what it is. Vodka? Probably. Water? Maybe. He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anymore.
He’s vaguely aware of the judgmental looks both of the Minyard twins subtly send his way, but Kevin stopped caring about their opinions after the first round of drinks.
"You’re going to get alcohol poisoning," Aaron shouts over the music.
Kevin doesn’t bother with a reply. Reveling in the burn left in his throat from the drink he couldn't taste, he feels fairly certain that he would have already gotten alcohol poisoning if it were really in the cards for him. Still, he finds himself biting the inside of his cheek as a reminder to let the last shot settle before reaching for another.
The funny thing is--to Kevin, at least--is that he’s not even on a self-destructive warpath tonight. Anyone at the table would say otherwise, but Kevin had followed the cousins to Eden’s with no real goal in mind.
Really, he doesn’t have much of anything in mind. His brain has been a fuzzy field of complete and utter nothingness since this afternoon, when Coach called to tell him about Janie’s suicide attempt.
A phone call that had abruptly ended when Kevin went for more details and was quickly accused of being an asshole with a one-track mind.
At the time, it felt only normal to be concerned about what this would mean for the upcoming season. Even now, Kevin still thinks he has the right to be worried about that. The Foxes, however, disagree. A fact that has been made abundantly clear by their attempts to draw pity out of him via recounting the gory details of how Janie was found. Kevin wasn't aware how much hearing about her blood-soaked clothes and slit wrists would change his feelings towards her, so he was wildly unprepared when what was once a promising striker sub turned into a cause for nausea and deep-seated discomfort.
He’s not proud of how easily his view of Janie changed. He's not even sure why it did; nothing his brother has told him about his job or what he does to people who need to be "dealt with" has changed his opinion of him. And the things he’s been told in regards to that specific topic are far worse than anything the Foxes have said concerning Janie.
But Kevin has been advised on multiple occasions that he lacks a spine, so it’s probably not surprising to anyone that he would rather eat glass than have to face Janie again.
It’s not a good thing that he won’t, though. With Janie gone, the Foxes are one player away from being disqualified from the season as a whole. To Kevin, this is a chilling thought. One more down and they’re out. One. Anything could take someone out. An allergic reaction, a bad fall, an axe-fucking-murderer for fuck’s sake. It’s just too risky. And yet, not one person seems to be batting an eye besides him.
Kevin's hand falls from where it had been slung over the back of his seat and hits the table with more force than he had anticipated.
He takes a moment to watch liquor splash around in the glasses that were left with him, then observes the empty table. He doesn't remember seeing the twins or Nicky leave, but when he flicks his eyes to the crowd of people dancing lazily before him, he notices Aaron’s blond hair bobbing wildly. He finds Nicky’s mop of dark curls not long after. There’s a brief moment in which he entertains the idea of joining them, but he decides against it. He doesn’t know where the hell Andrew went, and he’s not about to test the tiny terror’s patience tonight.
Kevin blinks heavy eyelids and lets his head fall back, grateful they sat in a booth when his skull meets a leather cushion rather than a hard wall.
The song playing switches to a faster one, with a loud guitar riff starting it off before descending into a flurry of drums. Kevin’s brows furrow and his heart speeds up in his chest, seemingly affected by the rapid rise and fall of the pace in the song.
He turns his head, ready to complain to the closest person about the music, but stops when he remembers that he’s alone.
His sudden isolation sinks in with a shuddering breath. It’s not that there’s a problem with him being left alone--he’s gotten used to it now--it’s more a problem with the inexplicable panic perched in his throat taking this fine opportunity to rear its ugly head after lurking over his shoulder since the minute his phone rang with Coach’s name flashing across the screen.
He can handle this, though. He’s had a thousand moments like this since coming to the Foxes, there’s no reason for now to be any different.
Kevin tips his head to the side, cracking his neck, and begins his process of calming down the same way he usually does.
He reaches for one of the few full shot glasses left on the table.
And another.
And another.
When the fourth and final glass makes contact with the wood of the table and Kevin doesn't even feel the heat of the vodka rush to his cheeks, he is forced to accept that this particular course of action is not going to work tonight.
That's fine.
He has other tricks up his sleeve. His brother’s walked him through enough panic attacks for him to have a vague idea of what to do now that plan A has failed him. He's only had to use plan B once or twice since coming to Palmetto, and his results have not been fantastic, but Kevin is sitting alone in a packed bar with no other options and a steadily rising pulse.
He lines the empty cups up with each other and slowly grinds his teeth together as tries to gauge how he feels.
He has to put a number on it. His brother usually has him rank it on a scale of 1–10, so Kevin sorts through the few brain cells that are willing to work with him and asks for a number. When sweaty palms and blurred surroundings tell him it's 6, he asks again. The answer, this time, is 9, accompanied by mild chest pain, chills, and tightness in his throat.
Shit, that escalated quickly. That's not unusual for Kevin, though. And he'd put money on the fact that the fast and loud music mixed with the crowded atmosphere is severely not fucking helping right now.
Ah, agitation too, then.
Alright. Step one.
"Just tell me what you feel," His brother said, sitting opposite Kevin. "It’s alright if there’s nothing, Kev, but I need you to try here."
Kevin listened to his brother’s wonderfully accented voice and let his hands grope everything around him. Not one thing registered on his sweat-slicked skin.
"It’s not working, Neil," Kevin said, on the verge of tears as he broke down on the floor beside his bed.
"That’s okay," The answer came quickly. "Do you want to try again or move on?"
Kevin didn’t want to fail at doing something so simple. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Try again,"
Neil didn’t respond verbally, but he did take Kevin's hand and raise it to his head, placing it on top and letting go. Kevin’s fingers began to wander instantly. Neil never let anyone touch his hair; he always swatted them away when they tried. This was a gift. Kevin's eyes opened reluctantly to watch as his hand disrupted the meticulously styled curls, and he felt the silky locks tangle around him.
He nodded. Stiff and awkward. "I feel that,"
Kevin wiggles his fingers where they sit under the circle table. He doesn’t feel them.
He tries again.
When the results remain the same, he flips his hands over and digs his nails into his thigh. But he doesn’t feel the sting of the caving skin, and he doesn’t get the pressure on his fingertips either.
He scratches at his palm and does a test of trailing his fingers higher when there’s still nothing. Under the table, he pries his foot off the grimy floor and brings it down roughly on the other. He crosses and uncrosses his legs, knocking his knees together a few times for good measure.
In a movement small enough that none of the club-goers will notice, Kevin lifts his head up and doesn't catch it when it quickly drops back onto the seat. Still nothing.
He tries his hands again, tapping his thumb to each finger twice in a rhythm and choking on his breath slightly when no progress is made.
"It's alright if there's nothing, Kev,"
Kevin makes a fist, still numb to himself. There is no one for him to reach out and touch here, in the corner of Eden’s Twilight. He tugs his lower lip between his teeth and decides to move on.
Step two, then.
"I know you can see, Kev. Tell me what you see."
Kevin nearly laughed as his brother whispered that. Only for the sheer irony that the one wearing an eyepatch was asking Kevin what he could see. But he humoured it anyway, taking only a moment to look over the boy crouched in front of him. The silver studs in his ears that he put in after letting Kevin pierce him with a sewing needle. The small hoop they managed to get through his septum after Jean declared he felt left out. A thousand freckles splattered across his face. Those absolutely ridiculous red curls.
Actually, those seem to stand out the most, tightly wound and framing Neil's face perfectly. He must have used the product he mentioned his sister bought him.
"I see you. Your hair looks brighter today, and it’s getting pretty long. The pattern is a little different, too, like, more defined. I also see the shit on your eye. The stupid sticker Jean put on it."
Neil smiled at his answer. "Why is it stupid, Kev? You don’t like sparkly owls?"
Tilting his head up a little from the cushion it rests on, Kevin tries to take in his surroundings.
Leather. So much leather. Pretty much everyone is wearing at least one article of leather; accessories, tops, bottoms, and boots. Kevin isn’t sure if a leash counts as an accessory or if it falls into a different category, but he sees at least two of those.
Anyone who isn’t wearing leather is positively bathed in glitter. Nicky is a prime example of this, as he is currently prancing around with glitter on his face, in his hair, and wearing a glittery top that he talked about for hours before they got here.
"This has to be dry cleaned, Kevin. Look at this material; you can’t put this in the washing machine." Everything he’d said about the cropped shirt upon buying it was mostly ignored by Kevin, but that had stuck. He can’t pinpoint why, but he’s thankful when he catches sight of the purple shimmer from where he sits.
Okay, glitter and leather. He can see that. He knows why he can see that. Moving on to step three.
Neil arched a brow at him. "You can hear me, right?"
He waited for Kevin’s slow nod.
"What else can you hear?"
People. People in the hall, people talking in the locker rooms, thankfully out of sight from where Kevin had curled in on himself against his own locker, tucked safely behind the black bench in front of him and Neil’s warm and small body.
"Ravens," He answered, keeping his voice low to match Neil’s. He took another moment to listen. "The showers."
"I hear the Ravens, too." Neil shook his head. "They’re awfully loud, huh?"
"You’re usually louder," Kevin shot back, not even thinking about the response before it slipped off his tongue. He was answered by Neil’s wicked grin.
Kevin doesn’t hear much now. The conversations around him are muffled by the loud music blasting through the speakers placed strategically throughout the club.
It’s a different song playing now than the one that may or may not have kick-started this entire thing. Kevin can pick out a strong base paired with lyrics that are questionably rhymed and don't make a whole lot of sense to him. He kind of hates it. Much like most of the songs that get played in Eden's, really. He thinks that he would rather listen to a cat puke out a lovely little hairball than whatever this is.
But he can hear it, and that’s all he needs to go on to step four.
"Do you smell that?" Neil asked, cracking open the tinted window of the car he and Kevin haphazardly piled into.
Kevin panted, panic clawing at his throat. He shook his head.
"I think it’s flowers," Neil mused, leaning closer towards the small opening he made.
Kevin didn’t smell flowers. He smelled antiseptics and blood.
Neil grabbed his arm in a way far too forceful to be casual. "Sniff." He ordered, practically shoving Kevin’s head into the warm glass.
Kevin inhaled, shaky and small. "Again," Neil said.
Kevin nodded and tried again. He got it that time. A distant floral scent wafting through the late spring air. Probably pansies; the scent was similar to the shampoo Neil used, and that one was a rose and pansy blend. It’s strange, in a way, that someone like Neil had the nerve to partake in such small pleasures like picking out a frilly shampoo or foamy soap, while Kevin doesn’t even get to pick the meals he eats.
But it also makes sense. Too much sense. Only someone like Neil would be able to prioritise something like having a new hand lotion every month while feigning ignorance in the face of his brutal life.
Kevin would probably laugh if he didn't feel like he was actively dying in the backseat of what was probably a Porsche.
"Pansies, right?" He asked Neil, his voice ragged and cracked.
Neil tilted his head to the side in consideration. "I think so,"
Eden’s does not smell like pansies. You’d be lucky to get a whiff of anything that isn’t cheap perfume or raw body odour here. Even the stench of spilled liquor on the cement floor is overruled by everything else brought in by the swarm of people.
Kevin bounces his numb legs and has to put effort into separating the rubber sole of his shoe from the half-dried booze beneath him. He supposes he's grateful, in a way, that someone's questionable cherry blossom perfume is the only thing hitting his nose right now. He, perhaps, would have preferred to have a less off-putting smell around him as he heads into his least favourite step, but he won't complain. Not when he feels like a rotted log housing a million tiny fire ants, crawling in crevasses and skulking around the plains of his flushed skin like it's their job.
Kevin wishes that the odour would grow stronger, if only so he could taste it and run through step five faster. It doesn't.
"Tell me what you taste, Kevin." Nathaniel whispered, looking just as off-balance as Kevin felt.
Kevin's eyes betrayed him as they dipped to the knife Nathaniel still held tightly in his shaky hand. He blinked manually for a moment, trying to ward off the dryness in his eyes, before raising his left hand to his stomach. The pain that flared violently through his nerves was immediate and unbearable, pushing the air out of him in one forceful huff as he touched the bloodied and lacerated skin.
"Kevin." Nathaniel dropped his knife and backed up; the blood on the blade rapidly seeped into the carpet.
He bumped into the edge of Riko's empty bed and stumbled before landing on his ass. Two terrifically blue eyes blinked at Kevin.
Kevin stared back, unsettled by the emotions he could see swim through the deep pools of azure.
Nathaniel's eyepatch had only just come off. Kevin was excited, until he saw Nathaniel trip over his own feet after a pass during practice.
Evidently, his vision had healed after taking an exy ball to the eye, but his balance had not. It rattled him more than most things, leaving him vulnerable in a way he'd clearly never known before.
Kevin hadn’t realised the extent of his unease; if he had, he probably wouldn’t have tried to wake Nathaniel from his nap in Kevin’s bed.
"Kevin," Nathaniel tried again. "One thing you taste."
Kevin should probably be running through the steps with Nathaniel, too. It's not fair for only one of them to get a helping hand. But instead, he shook his head wildly.
Taste? One taste? He couldn't feel anything other than pain; how was he supposed to pick a damn taste?
He breathed, a sharp ache shooting through him after the movement. Oh. A taste.
"Blood," He answered.
Andrew drops a full tray of drinks onto the table. It lands with a clatter, and the liquid in the glasses crawls up the sides to reach dangerous heights before splashing back down. Kevin grabs the closest one.
He doesn’t swallow it at first, letting the alcohol linger in his mouth and sink into his tongue. It doesn’t taste very good, though. Nothing he ever drinks does.
When he does swallow, it's more of a gulp than anything else. The shot burns like vodka typically does, and leaves behind a taste of hand sanitizer in his mouth as it travels down his throat.
One taste?
Vodka. There. Step five is done.
But it’s not enough. It never is when he’s alone, is it?
Kevin is good at many things; playing exy, analysing exy, giving people helpful tips so they can play exy too, and definitely a few other things he’s not exactly capable of adding to the list right now.
One thing he is not good at, though, is comprehending what's happening in his mind. It has never been a strength of his, and it probably never will be. Don't get him wrong, he can tell when something is off easily; he's just not good at fixing it.
But Neil is. The steps work with Neil because it’s Neil going through them with him. Kevin doesn’t usually try to use them on his own because they leave him feeling like a pot of water on a heated stove top. Add salt to make it boil faster, turn the heat up a little bit, and watch as it sits at the point where there are bubbles accumulating on the bottom of the pot. They’ll try their hardest to climb their way to the top, taking the steel walls as a supported shortcut, but they’ll cease their journey right before they hit the surface and turn the tides in a rolling boil.
Kevin reaches that point with prickly skin and hazy hearing. He's fairly certain that someone would have to speak above a normal volume for him to understand now, as he tries desperately to keep himself away from taking laboured breaths and fighting off traitorous tears.
Toeing the line of snapping should be considered a hobby of his, given how often he does it. Getting closer and closer each time.
And when he sees that blinking red line now, it's nearer than it was when he last went through the steps. There's a twisted part of him that wants to tap dance his ass on over it and say a generous "fuck you" to everyone as he sinks into the darkness that waits just beyond the edge. But he can’t. Not here, at least. He can’t reach the end of that frayed rope now--when the only person around is Andrew. Lord knows that he would take one look at the pathetic splinters Kevin is fracturing into and set them ablaze with glee.
As Kevin feels himself drift further and further from the point of caring about that, he decides he needs out. Or to get away. Neil’s always been such a fast runner, why couldn’t he have given Kevin a lesson or two before he left that night? Was the job so important that he couldn’t have spared another moment in the day to grace Kevin with a skill they both should have seen him needing? Obviously, or else he wouldn’t have gone. Wouldn’t have left Kevin in the Nest with Riko, unattended. Wouldn’t have let Riko get drunk, and he certainly would not have let Riko take that uninterrupted swing at Kevin’s hand and ruin whatever career he'd been trying to build in Riko’s shadow.
Out. He needs to get out of here right now.
Out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out out-
"Can we go?"
Kevin doesn’t notice he's spoken until his voice cracks under the pressure of his forced composure. He swallows once. Twice. Dutifully ignores the pain that blooms in the strained muscles of his jaw when he goes for a third.
Andrew tilts his head condescendingly. "Done already?"
Kevin drums shaky fingers against tingling thighs under the table. "It’s loud, and I’m tired."
A lazily sharp grin tugs at Andrew’s whiskey-slicked lips. "Are you?" He asks lightly.
No. He’s not tired. He could run a marathon and still crave more active release. But he meets Andrew’s narrowed eyes and nods, sluggish and unsure. Two words that do not often apply to Kevin.
He says a silent prayer that Andrew blames the small doses of cracker dust and alcohol swimming through his system for the sudden change in demeanor.
Andrew raises his eyebrows and shrugs one shoulder, grin twisting into a dull version of his usual manic smile. "Go find the others, then."
Kevin doesn’t need to be told twice, bracing his hands on the table and sliding out of his seat the moment the order settles between them.
His knees are weak after the first few steps towards the daunting crowd. Kevin, too proud to support himself on the nearby wall, keeps walking, taking a deep breath.
A mistake.
Stale air slips through his nose and travels down into his lungs in one slow, painful move. He blinks as the stinging sensation passes through him, and is greeted by swarming black dots when his eyes peel open again.
But he doesn’t stop. Moving on muscle memory alone across Eden’s loaded dance floor and feeling more like a puppet with each step.
He isn’t sure when exactly it happened, but as he pushes past yet another sweaty man, Kevin Day is no longer the one behind the steering wheel of his body. Not even present in the meat suit labelled as second best for life.
He watches from an unknown third-person perspective as Kevin stumbles, narrowly avoiding crashing into a group of girls.
Just as he thinks that Kevin is going to be left wandering aimlessly for eternity, a familiar form decked out in glitter and purple emerges from the crowd.
Kevin says something. Nicky replies. Whoever is pulling Kevin’s strings decides that he should follow Nicky when he turns and goes back into the crowd. It makes a little more sense to him as he sees a head of bright blonde come bouncing over to Kevin and Nicky, but his position in spectating only allows him to sit back miserably as the group trickles off the dance floor, leaving whatever words that are tossed around unheard by him.
But that nearly inconsequential complaint doesn't last long. All too quickly, the spectator is tossed back into the perpetually messy mind he belongs in, like a worn ragdoll discarded for the trash to pick up when they come around every second Tuesday.
And it’s too much. Everything. Too warm, too close, too loud, too bright. His wobbly legs simply endure this gruelling journey as he travels throughout the club.
Kevin thinks of it as a relief, really, when his hearing leaves him all together, revealing a track of ringing static playing steadily in his mind as the world turns black and he begins falling.
Kevin’s spine hurts.
Well, more accurately, everything hurts. His entire body is engulfed by the sort of dull ache that builds over time.
Without opening his eyes, he arches his back and listens to the loud pops that follow the series of relieving cracks. He groans at the release, rolling his neck across his shoulders to try and ease more tension. The vaguely gross sounds that come from that particular effort are less satisfying than the ones from his back, but with his posture slouched and marginally more comfortable than before, he won't complain.
However, when he flops back, fully expecting to meet his mattress, he becomes acquainted with what feels like the seat of a car instead. He hits the headrest behind him hard, his eyes snapping open at the sudden and rough contact. With all previous traces of sleep now entirely absent from his mind, Kevin looks at his surroundings with wide eyes.
A car. Why is he in a car? He doesn’t own a fucking car. Who’s car is this?
Okay, no, that’s not helping.
He rubs his eyes with the heel of his palms and tries to look around him again. Peering through the immaculately cleaned windshield, he squints to make out the shapes before him. A house? The cousin's house? In Columbia?
Oh.
Right.
That’s how the night ended. With a group of half-drunk people dragging him to Andrew’s car and throwing him in the passenger seat after he passed out on his way to the door.
The cousins must not have been able to carry him into the house on their own, considering he’s still here, with the doors locked and a window cracked open like he’s a toddler who fell asleep on a car ride and was left strapped to their seat while everyone else fled in fear of waking him up.
Rude.
Kevin sighs. In theory, he should go into the house and try to squeeze in a few more desperate hours of rest before he inevitably returns to the court tomorrow. He traces the path he would take to get from the car to the couch that awaits him inside and tries to count how long it would take him to get there. The answer is not even a full minute if he can get through the front door.
Too long, Kevin decides.
He fumbles blindly at the side of his seat until he finds the lever that’ll adjust it. Once he's got a good grip, he pulls and leans back, the seat going with him until he lays almost flat, staring up at the polyurethane foam coating of the roof above him.
With the almost deafening silence and uncomfortably warm air circling the car, it takes no time for Kevin to realise how truly miserable he feels all over again; a result of not having resolved his panic back at the club. He turns his head to the side and looks at a streetlight just down the road. Staring into the yellow glow it produces, he weighs the pros and cons of folding in on himself and never seeing the light of day again, or calling someone to keep him from being as totally alone as he is right now.
Kevin has never been the type of person who enjoys the company of others--most people have one conversation with him then write him off as an infuriating asshole who’s to be avoided--but dammit, he does not want to be alone now. Not anymore. He's been left to his own devices too many times today.
But what options does he even have? He can’t stand the belittling weight of Andrew’s presence; he won’t be able to stomach Nicky’s constant string of sexual chatter; and Aaron isn’t going to surrender his sleep for the sole purpose of keeping Kevin company.
Kevin looks away from the light, shoulders sagging into the reclined seat he lies on.
He’s upset, and he’s alone, and he is so very fucking close to throwing every remaining ounce of his dignity out the inch-wide gap in the window and sobbing his eyes out right here.
He won't, though, because it really isn't all that often that he'll allow himself to cry. He has enough self-control to be pretty good with that. When the black cat circling the platinum property of his mind starts to tread too close to the iron gates, he seeks out every distraction he can find so he won’t have to feel sharp, cold claws sink into his scorching skin. Won't have to start running away and not notice the leash around his neck until it pulls and drags him under unforgiving waters.
Exy is his favourite distraction. Challenging plays and demanding drills that gain control of his tangled brain and unplug him from the ruthless world he remains unfortunately present in. It's good. It's familiar. It works.
Usually.
It doesn't now, right when he needs it to. That seems to be a common theme for him tonight.
But as Kevin rolls around awkwardly, hindered by his exhaustion, he inevitably lets his thoughts stray to exy when nothing else presents itself as a welcomed intrusion.
He can't say he's surprised, really, when he comes up with a reminder of his and the Foxes' looming fate instead of his usual vision of the red glow of a goal or the sound of balls slamming off court walls. But it's still unfortunate. He would have much preferred the latter, especially when his other option consists of him thinking about how the Foxes are now at the minimum number of players allowed, how Andrew is one skipped dose away from being dragged off to prison, and the simple fact that the entire team hates him.
Coming to Palmetto had felt like a decent-ish idea at first. There would be a star goalkeeper who could stand between him and his fast approaching demons, a team of fuck-ups he could work with, and a completely untapped goldmine of potential hidden behind pointless brawls.
He wasn't completely wrong, but he was also nowhere near correct.
All of his efforts to fix the team are met with a cold assessment before being discarded without a second thought, and Andrew's protection comes with stipulations. Half the time, that tiny fucker won't even set foot on the damn court.
So yes, Kevin was wildly unprepared when he faced much more resistance than he'd been expecting, but he has yet to give up on his goal: to put the Foxes back together and create a team that could rival the Ravens. Kevin's bone-deep urge to be on the court at any given point during the day won't let him give up. A blessing or a curse? He couldn't tell. Not that he cares too much, though. He's been a little busy navigating the phase of reworking that has him trying to come to terms with the fact that this is going to be much harder than he'd assumed. Which is very possibly part of why he's here now, laying in Andrew's car, practically mourning the loss of something that isn’t even gone when he was supposed to be distracting himself.
With the same combination of helplessness, dread, and unnecessary amounts of homesickness, Kevin has somehow managed to land himself back at square one in record time.
It's pathetic, truly. If Riko could see him now, he would laugh.
For fuck’s sake, he probably can see Kevin now. Kevin wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if there were cameras hidden everywhere he went at this point. Riko’s already taken to having someone leave dead foxes around the stadium and Abby’s house; full-blown stalking feels like a natural progression, really.
Kevin groans quietly and readjusts in his lying-down seat.
Splitting his attention between Riko and trying to look over his shoulder for any sign of the main branch after arriving at Palmetto had been weakening for him, mentally and physically. Things only got worse when the first battered fox corpse came, splayed across Abby’s bannister like a decoration while its blood stained the pastel flowers below like some sort of fucked up watercolour paint.
At no point did it get better. Dismembered foxes popped up more frequently, each worse off than the last. Kevin specifically remembers the one draped over the handle of the stadium doors, tiny eyes bugging cartoonishly out of its head while its mouth sat wider open than Kevin had thought possible. There was no blood with that one; all of it was drained and disposed of in a way Kevin won't try to make sense of. But even now, a full month later, his stomach still twists with the mental image of the small animal being brutalised in such a way.
He lets out a dejected, hopeless sigh into the thick air that moves steadily through Andrew’s car. This needs to stop.
The selfish urge of wanting a singular moment of peace tonight has him moving around so he can go dig through his back pocket to pull out his phone. He eases back into his original position once he frees it, and with slow fingers, he scrolls through his limited list of contacts to stop at the one person who will understand the total disarray of his mind.
Baby Red flashes across the screen as the contact name when his phone begins to dial Neil’s number. Kevin puts the small device to his ear and listens to the low ringing that echoes over the speaker.
Neil doesn’t always pick up his phone. In fact, most of the time, the boy doesn’t even have his phone on him, let alone have it charged. Kevin could probably count the number of times Neil answered his phone after the first try on his hands, and he could count the times Neil was the one to call him on one lone finger.
It wasn’t necessarily a bad call, taking place a few measly weeks after his departure from the Nest. Basically, it was just Neil recounting the minimal details regarding the quick death of his father and his inheritance of power. That call had been 15 minutes at best, but Kevin had hung up with a smile tugging at his lips.
His speaker begins to play the fourth ring when the line clicks as it connects. There must be one forsaken scrap of luck on his side today.
He doesn’t dare say a word, taking in the near-silent puffs of air that get picked up by the microphone instead. There’s a faint sniffle, and then-
"Kevin?"
Hearing Neil’s smooth voice feels like a warm blanket being draped over frigid shoulders. Kevin blinks with the shudder that runs up and down his spine.
"You answered," He whispers slowly, preparing to savour whatever length of time his brother will give him now.
There’s some shuffling over the line.
"Kevin," Neil says again. "Do you know what time it is?"
Kevin shrugs, even if he knows Neil can’t see him. "No," He answers simply.
Neil snorts softly. "I won’t tell you, then."
His voice sounds tired, but that's not a surprise to Kevin anymore. Neil’s forever crowded brain has been making sleep a difficult task since the two of them first met.
It was alarming at first, finding his brother curled up in a storage closet or watching him teeter on the edge of consciousness. Though quickly, Neil’s abject hatred of the seemingly simple act of rest developed into yet another complex aspect of his personality, and Kevin had no choice but to endure it.
"That’s probably a good idea," He agrees, catching the notes of exhaustion that creep into his own voice.
There’s another shuffle that’s nearly drowned out by Neil’s fatigued sigh. "Call me crazy, Kev," Neil starts, and Kevin can practically see a lazy smirk pulling on his mouth like it always does when he knows he’s right. "But you sound rather rattled."
Isn’t Neil just so observant?
Kevin rolls his eyes, only slightly annoyed by how easily he was read. "A little," He admits, bringing one of his arms up to rest above his head. He tips his head to the side again, just enough to look at the dark sky through the passenger window.
"Care to explain?" Neil prompts.
Three undemanding words that have Kevin spilling his guts like a teenager who was just given unlimited access to alcohol for the first time.
"Everything's gone wrong," He says. The drip that welcomes the storm. "A player got herself admitted to the psych ward, and now she won’t be here for the new season, which means we only have nine people. And everyone thinks I’m being an asshole about it, but I’m not; I’m just worried about how the hell we’re going to do this. The Foxes only have one more player to spare, and then we’re fucking out, Baby Red. Out."
Kevin takes a moment to breathe, then continues with, "Do you know how risky that shit is? We’re, like, one strong gust of wind away from not having a defence line. They’re all so tiny. The twins are barely even five feet flat, Neil, it’s ridiculous. I could punt one of them out a window if I wanted to. Actually, no, not Andrew. He’s kind of scary. But Aaron’s not that bad, so yeah, I could punt Aaron out of a window and we would be over."
"Isn’t there a verb for that?"
Kevin blinks into the darkness, not following Neil’s train of thought at all. "A verb for what?"
"Throwing someone out a window." Neil clarifies, making a slight clicking noise with his tongue as he thinks.
"I don’t know; is there?" Kevin asks, stifling a yawn.
"Yeah," Neil answers, sounding relatively unsure. "That’s defenestration, right?"
Kevin has never heard that word in his life. "Is it?"
"Fuck’s sake, Kevin," Exasperation creeps into Neil’s voice easily, tucking itself between the lilting patterns of his tongue and fitting perfectly.
Kevin scoffs. "Sorry, I didn’t know there was a fancy word for throwing people out of windows. I didn’t call you for an English lesson; excuse me if I wasn’t prepared."
Instead of quipping back with the same energy Kevin has grown to expect, Neil falls silent. Taking a moment to do what Kevin guesses is thinking over his words before breaking the startling stillness that's surrounded them.
"Why did you call?" Neil ends up asking.
There are a few answers to that question; Kevin wanted the company of someone who would see his side of the Foxes' current mess; he missed his brother; he'd already had a shit night, and it was about to get a whole lot worse if he let his mind keep spiralling about Riko and hidden cameras and dead foxes.
Kevin bites the bullet, deciding there’s no better way to sum up all of his reasons than by saying exactly that. Just, perhaps, in fewer words.
"Life sucks, and I miss you."
Maybe it was his blunt delivery of the sentiment, or possibly even just the tone of his voice, but Kevin managed to startle a genuine laugh out of Neil with his confession. The kind that only he and Vanya--and possibly Ichirou--have heard. A beautiful sound from the pit of Neil’s stomach that rings through Kevin’s ears like music. It’s unfortunate, really, how so few people have been able to hear it.
Kevin listens closely as Neil tries to regain his composure, taking a few deep breaths for good measure. After the third one that Kevin counts, Neil clears his throat.
"What do you need, Kev?" He asks, hints of laughter still trapped in his throat.
A plane flies overhead, green and white lights blinking down from the sky as it stands out amongst the stars, and Kevin hesitates.
What does he need? Kind of a lot, actually. Probably too much to get off his chest all at once, even if purging himself of that much would feel like a dream. He needs Riko gone, he needs another player, he needs someone to see his side of things, and he needs someone to help him make the Foxes function.
Oh.
It's not a coincidence that all of that can be traced back to one person, right?
"I think I just... need my brother," He says, voice coarse enough that it scratches at his throat. A touch too honest for the deafening silence of Andrew’s car; he cringes a little bit when the words settle. That didn’t explain fucking anything, huh?
Kevin shakes his head, about to expand on his ominous point, when Neil beats him to it. "Why?" He asks, enough emphasis on that one word, that Kevin knows Neil already has all the answers.
He won't question how Neil got them, or why he chose to let Kevin talk around the real cause of this call, but he'll take the way Neil continues to play this game into account as he weighs what he wants to say.
Watching a distant satellite blink slowly from where it hides behind the clouds, Kevin bites at his lower lip and hopes his confession will come out of him easily. "I don't know what to do anymore, Neil," He starts slowly, widening his eyes and pretending it doesn't physically pain him to say that he's lost here. "I already told you, we're doomed for the season. Riko breathing down our necks probably isn't helping, either. I think the team blames me for letting him get so close to us; they don't listen to a word I say, and none of them give even half a shit for what happens anymore. They won't even try, because what's the point? At the rate we're going, we won't make it past the first round. And then what? Riko comes knocking on our door, ready to take me back, and I have no ground to stand on?"
He squeezes his eyes shut until there's a rumbling sound in his ears. "I don’t want to go back, Neil."
When he does finally open his eyes, it’s only to see the stars twinkling back tauntingly at him while he waits for Neil’s response. His heart hammers in his chest, and his stomach turns like the tides of an active child’s bathwater.
"What- hmm…" Neil starts and stops, searching for words as Kevin chokes on the anticipation.
"What exactly has Riko been doing that you qualify as ‘breathing down your neck’?" Kevin can almost feel Neil’s brain starting to work as his question cracks over the line.
Kevin looks away from the shimmering stars, turning his head a bit to stare at the roof. "Does it matter?"
"Good lord," Neil mumbles to himself in a suffering tone. "Yes."
It’s a declaration that Kevin really shouldn’t argue with, but maybe he’s more similar to Neil than he’d like to admit, because he does in the form of asking, "Why?"
"Christ, Kevin," There’s some movement as Neil answers. "If Riko becomes a threat to the family name, necessary measures need to be taken."
"Oh," Kevin says dumbly, not understanding what Neil means by that.
"Kevin, there's no need for this to be hard; just tell me." Neil interrupts his questioning thoughts before they can go too far. "I know it might feel like it, but we do not have all night."
"Yeah, right, uh," He flounders a little bit, picturing the limp body of a tiny animal being picked up with a trash bag like a rotting jack-o’-lantern after the holidays pass. "Foxes. They’re turning up dead at the stadium, and there's been a few at the place I’m staying. Also some vandalism, but that could be anyone, really."
Neil tsks quietly. "Dead foxes," He muses. "Gross. If it’s happening where you’re staying, neighbours are sure to notice it soon, too. That won’t end well when you have to explain why your front lawn looks like an occult meeting."
Kevin snorts at Neil’s comment. "If someone asks, I sure as fuck won’t tell the truth."
"Careful, Kevin, there’s only enough room for one habitual liar here."
Well, at least he’s self-aware.
"Yes, trust me, Neil, I know," Kevin concedes, huffing a bitter laugh. "Don’t worry, though. I’m sure everyone else around here will point the finger at Riko the first chance they get."
"Oh, probably," Neil says, sounding only half annoyed by that truth. "Which appears to be where this becomes a problem, then."
Kevin scoffs. "It wasn’t a problem when a bunch of random foxes died?"
"Well, that's kind of foul, yeah, but it wasn't exactly the obstacle I was looking for."
His brother’s business-like approach is so obnoxious that Kevin has to hold back the puff of laughter threatening to escape. It's not too hard, in the end, and he's able to control himself enough to ask, "And that obstacle is the truth coming out?"
Neil’s grin is audible as he replies. "Riko’s antics getting outed to the public would make him a liability. And I do remember telling you that threats need to be dealt with accordingly."
Kevin's previous confusion about that statement is brushed away like dust from a high shelf. He isn't sure why it took so long for everything to click, but his mouth drops open slightly when he remembers that, when Riko is being problematic, Neil is the one who's supposed to deal with him. And currently, Riko is running the risk of becoming very problematic.
His stomach lurches into his throat with the conclusions he jumps to. "So, you’re gonna go back to the Nest?" He asks quietly. Slowly. Unsure how to feel about Neil putting himself in that situation again. He can't do that, right? He has other things to worry about now.
Neil hums disapprovingly, and it’s just as much a dangerous sound as it is melodic. Much like everything else about Neil. For all that he is Kevin’s baby brother, his Baby Red, he is also someone who learned how to skin a body before he learned how to tell his left from his right.
That hasn’t stopped him from being a bouncy ball of radiant light and Kevin’s personal source of joy, but it’s made watching him do things like flip sophomore Ravens on their asses seem more logical.
"Try again," Neil offers.
Kevin does. "You're... coming to Palmetto?" There’s a heavy layer of doubt shrouding his question.
"I was supposed to follow you and Riko through the pros since the beginning," Neil says simply, completely ignoring Kevin’s uncertainty. "Kengo called it off when you left, assuming Riko wouldn’t reach out."
"But he did," Kevin fills in at Neil’s slight pause.
"He did," The agreement tumbles out of Neil’s mouth lightly, as though they were discussing the weather right now and not one of Kevin’s waking nightmares. "So now we’re back at square one."
"What happens at square one?" Kevin asks.
"You were there eight years ago. What happened then?"
Unprepared for that question, Kevin falters, running through the years of his life in search of an answer. Eight years ago, Neil would have been about ten; Kevin and Riko were twelve. The only notable thing from that year was Neil’s sudden change of assignments from the main branch, where he went from reporting what happened in the Nest to being Kevin’s personal protection.
Square one. Neil’s new position.
"You became my security detail."
Neil yawns. "Yup,"
"But you can’t do that again," Kevin says, connecting the dots in his head. If they're back to when Neil's job changed, then that means Kevin was right. Neil has to come to Palmetto. Even as Kevin plays their conversation in his head again, he still comes to the same conclusion; but there's just no fucking way. He drops his voice to a whisper as he finishes, not caring that no one is around to hear him. "You’re the fucking butcher now, Neil. They won’t just let you go."
Neil sighs sufferingly. "See, that doesn’t really mean what it used to, though."
What.
"The fuck?" Kevin uses one elbow to prop himself up in the reclined seat, a crinkle forming between his brows.
"It’s more like a group now, I guess. Not just one person." Neil roughly explains. "If I left tomorrow, there would be someone to take over my workload."
"If it’s a group, wouldn’t that make you the leader?" Kevin asks, trying and failing to navigate the messy path Neil has led them down now.
Kevin can almost see Neil’s one-shouldered shrug as he answers with a simple, "Yeah,"
"Then that’s just more incentive to stay." Kevin argues, grasping at the straws he can't believe Neil is ignoring.
Neil tuts. "Not really. I come and go pretty often as is, so something like this wouldn’t be new to them."
"But it would be," Kevin says, stressing his point by shaking his head in the darkness around him. "Because you wouldn’t be coming back."
"Says who?"
Jesus Christ, Kevin forgot how talking to Neil can be like talking to a brick wall sometimes. "You can’t just be taking days off to go back home for business, Neil. That won't work here."
"Weekends are a lovely thing." Neil says, through another yawn.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
"Neil."
"Kevin."
Kevin opens and closes his mouth a few times, stuttering as he searches for something to say. There has to be something that can explain why this won't work, even if Kevin desperately wants it to. "It can’t be that easy," He ends up saying.
"Why not?"
It used to be a bit off-putting how easily Neil could shut him up. Now, though, Kevin likes to think he's gotten pretty used to the way his mind comes to a screeching halt and forces him to weigh out a reply Neil would accept.
Why not?
Kevin's shoulder starts to ache, and he moves his elbow so he can sink back down while he considers what to say here.
But truth be told, he doesn’t have an answer. Why can’t it be that easy? Why can’t Neil point a finger at the problem, say ‘I’ll figure it out,’ and do just that? What’s stopping him? Apparently, not his new position; that much has been made decently clear.
Maybe Kevin just doesn’t want to admit that Neil has that kind of authority now. Maybe he's just incapable of letting himself believe his baby brother’s grown so much in their time apart that he has the power to leave whatever the fuck he’s got going on in New York for Kevin’s sake.
It's a scary image, truthfully. Neil, fighting tooth and nail as he climbs up the rickety and untrustworthy latter of the Moriyama family. Perhaps it's that image that has Kevin refusing Neil's help. He doesn't know who, or even what, his brother is right now.
Well, realistically, he knows that Neil is still Neil, with stupid red curls that bounce when he runs and a tongue that works like a knife. And he also knows that Neil is still the Neil who lies down in the middle of abandoned backroads when he can't bear the thought of being around people anymore, and he's still the boy who could stumble off a roof if you left him unsupervised.
What he doesn't know is exactly how much of himself Neil has had to sacrifice to be where he is without Kevin. He doesn't know if Neil forced himself to harden his already sharp edges so he could survive full-time with the main branch, and it kills him that there is an unknown factor about his brother when there's never been one before. Kevin has always known the ins and outs of Neil's life, and now that he doesn't, he's fucking terrified.
Current Neil has a whole world at his fingertips that Kevin couldn't even dream of knowing intimately. Hushed stories shared between boys in the dead of night provided him with a map of all the salient details, but the tight-lipped and labyrinthine plots that really pulled the strings were hidden behind impenetrable walls of trepidation. Kevin never asked about those factors; Neil assured him he didn’t want to know. However, Neil didn't even have all the answers then. He does now.
Kevin thinks of Neil once more, biting his tongue as he walks through the snake's den he was thrown into following Kevin's leave, and tells himself again, it can't be that easy.
Denial does not suit Kevin very well.
"I don’t know." He answers at last. He doesn’t know why there can’t be a simple solution. He doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He doesn't know why the prospect of seeing Neil again feels like a reward and a punishment. "I don't... I just don't know what to do here."
"Well, I do," Neil says, sounding every bit the hopeful and confident young man he was when Kevin saw him last. Kevin compares the foggy mirage of Neil he has now with the one he left behind. Is there really that big a difference between the two? He supposes that even if there is, Neil is at least so sure of himself, still, that it's hard to argue with what he says. Another similarity he can add to the list he holds onto like a lifeline right now.
He tips his head back, feeling the skin of his neck stretch as he swallows, and decides the 5 parallels he can draw are enough for him.
"Kevin," Neil prompts when the waiting silence stretches on for too long.
He wants an answer now, and Kevin will give it to him. He puts what little pride he still has aside and accepts the fact that he is about to start grovelling for the help he just spent a good few minutes denying, all because he's managed to convince himself that the unknowns that lurk within Neil don't outweigh the truths he still has.
"I need you," He confesses, caving so easily to Neil that it should be frightening. He's fairly certain someone would call him out for his lack of spine right now if this little exchange had any witnesses. "Here, at Palmetto," He clarifies needlessly. "I need you on this dreadful team, and I need you to stand at my back the same way you did in the fucking Nest."
It’s Neil’s turn to pause, taking one deep breath before leaving Kevin to marinate in his admission.
Fuck. He said too much. Revealed his desperation too early. He shouldn’t have just jumped in like that, he should have let Neil explain what his plan is. Neil never said exactly that he was coming to Palmetto, what if Kevin made that leap all on his own? Sure, it was implied, but implications don't mean shit in the grand scheme of things.
Christ, Neil probably thinks he’s so fucking lame now. He probably heard Kevin say, ‘I need you,’ and stopped listening. What if-
"Very dramatic of you, Kevin." Neil says, laughter snagging at the edges of his words. "It’s good to see Palmetto hasn’t changed that."
"Fuck you," Kevin says, as he welcomes the startling clarity of knowing that Neil does not, in fact, despise him now. But his stomach continues to roll with unease at the lack of real answers as to what the fuck Neil has in mind. A certain anxiety sits on his chest like a fat cat in the middle of the night who has no other plans than to disturb your sleep and stare into your soul.
Kevin can hear Neil's steady breathing, and when Neil makes to move to say anything else, Kevin takes another turn, carving just a little more out of his stinging chest. "Neil, just... just tell me what the fuck you’re planning so I don’t get my hopes up here."
He's done talking now. Whether that's due to the fact that he has nothing else to add or the warning wobble in his voice he felt as he finished relaying his request, who's to say? Not Kevin, that's for sure.
"Kengo," Neil says, catching Kevin off guard. "I have to run it all by him first. He’ll sign off, though. It was his idea to have a fail-safe in the form of a team; it'd be pretty hypocritical if he said no now."
Kevin nods slowly, then hums when he realises Neil is waiting for confirmation that Kevin heard him.
"With what you've told me, I can probably kickstart the operation to protect you from the second son again. I have Vanya in a safe house about half an hour away from campus, so I’ll have her verify everything. We’ll take the same route we did when we were at the Nest, but I would only be following you until Riko is dealt with, whether that be the end of the first semester or all the way to the pros, I can't say."
Kevin raises his eyebrows, surprised by the news that Vanya is only half an hour away from campus. But Neil doesn't give him the time to dwell on it, barreling on like he didn't just tell Kevin that he's had eyes on him for some undisclosed amount of time.
"There’s no record of me ever having a connection to either you or Riko, so Kengo will most likely want to stick to his original method of no alias. After that, he'll probably hand over the reins to Ichirou, Vanya, and I, and we'll get the rest of the technical stuff sorted out." Neil stifles a yawn before continuing. "I can pull off the switch to striker pretty easily, so I’ll try out as a sub and bet on your coach's desperation and perpetually bleeding heart. Then I’ll be on the team, and everything else will be the same as it was back in the Nest. Oh, and don't start worrying about my other job, Kev, I can handle it."
Neil adds the last part like he expected Kevin to argue about it again. Fair judgement, considering Kevin opens his mouth, preparing to do just that because he refuses to believe Neil's comment of ‘weekends are a lovely thing,' is the real solution here.
"You trust me, Kev." Neil reminds him, obviously sensing that he was about to say something.
Kevin does trust Neil. With his life, and they both know it. He would walk across a broken rope bridge blindfolded if Neil was the one leading him, so his saying that Kevin trusts him is not a question in the slightest. And yet, the small confirmation of, "I do," slips free from Kevin's mouth and travels across the line for Neil to hear.
"Good," Neil says, quietly, as if his acknowledgement is a secret for only them to share. "Now go the fuck to sleep and trust that I’ll have everything on my end dealt with by the time you wake up."
The low and gentle tone of Neil’s voice remains present as he reprimands and simultaneously assures Kevin. It’s a strange mix that Neil has mastered, and a familiar, tired smile creeps onto Kevin’s face as his eyes fall closed.
"Is sleeping in a car bad?" He asks, already adjusting slightly to relieve the tension in his thighs and back.
Neil scoffs. "I would usually say yes, but this is you we're talking about."
Kevin’s smile widens. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means you’re a freak with freaky habits. Like sleeping in cars and calling your brother at four in the morning and continuing to talk until it’s nearly five."
Kevin's eyes fly open, and he just barely resists the urge to sit up. "Shit. It’s almost five?"
"Yes." Neil confirms, making no attempt to hide his amusement. "Hence why I told you to go the fuck to sleep,"
"You first," Kevin argues on instinct.
"A child. You are a child."
"I refuse to take that criticism from you,"
"For fuck’s sake," Neil grumbles to himself, going so far to move the phone away from him so Kevin is left listening to the echoey and muffled version. "It’s too early for this shit."
"Rude," Kevin says, knowing Neil can still hear him.
"Mm-hmm," Neil must have moved his phone back, because his voice is clear and slightly louder when it comes through. "Go to bed, Kevin. You have shit to do."
"So do you."
"Irrelevant; I always have shit to do."
"A problem on its own,"
"I'm aware. Now goodnight, Kev," Neil says in an animated voice, leaving no room for further argument.
Kevin rolls his eyes and really hopes that Vanya isn't watching him, and that his earlier thoughts about Riko's hidden cameras are total bullshit, because no one needs to see the ridiculously fond look that spreads across his face as he gives up on trying to stay awake. Sorting through all your insecurities and current life issues is a very tiring activity, okay? "Yeah, fine, whatever. Goodnight, Neil."
Kevin stretches his legs out further in the footwell until he physically can't, letting Neil end their call with a sigh.
Whatever thin layer of anxiety and pure fear that had adapted to him like a second skin when he finally rejoined the land of the living in Andrew’s car feels dimmed now, overcome by a low thrum of giddiness.
The sky looks dangerously light as Kevin drops his phone onto his stomach and closes his eyes for what is hopefully the final time that night, but he can’t be bothered to care about exactly how little rest he'll be getting. He's too busy picturing Neil, the best exy player he's ever met, at Palmetto with him. Wearing the uniforms Kevin already knows will clash with his hair as he makes his way onto the court. Kevin sees Neil, and he sees the goal, and he sees the number on the scoreboard tick up by one, and he lets these images of the now promising season before him take his scarred hand, guiding him into a sleep that will leave his back sore and his muscles stiff when he inevitably wakes up and is forced to face the mess his life has been left in.