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Kevin was still on the bus. The person in front of him wasn’t Andrew. He tried to find why he would think it would be Andrew. And then, why isn’t it Andrew?
As for the body: his eyes were blurry; his head hurt; his hands were cold, and shaking; trying to account for all the other parts, he found that he could not feel the throat. Oh. It’s not a concussion, then. Where’s Riko? He has never left Kevin by himself after choking him.
“Kevin? Kevin, can you answer me?” the voice was indistinct, but it was also not masculine, and he couldn't place it. Besides Riko and Jean, who would be allowed to see him like this? Most of his thoughts went into controlling his breathing. Shallow in, hold three, out four, hold three. Start again. Start again.
The person in front of him sighed, exasperated. “Kevin,” they called him again.
Shallow in, hold three, try to say: “I’m sorry.” Sometimes afterwards his throat wouldn’t let him say anything; it was normal.
“Are you having trouble speaking? Just answer with a nod if yes,” the woman asks.
He nods yes.
She asks if he’s having difficulty breathing, to which he says no. It just hurts some, but he can do it. Can he get up and follow me? Maybe. He can try, so he nods. Besides her, there’s someone else he can’t quite see.
The person leads him to the front of the bus. It’s Abby, he thinks, and she doesn't pull him, just directs him. Eventually she stops him, and he tries to sit, hoping he isn't blind enough that he will try to sit in an occupied space.
He doesn’t, thank god.
“Okay, I’m going to ask you some questions,” Abby tells him, “can you hold my hand? It’s so you don't have to speak.”
The other person followed them to the front of the bus, and is behind Abby, so they are too far for Kevin to see them as more than a blur. Then come the questions. Should he answer honestly? If it were Jean asking, he would. But Jean is still trapped. And Kevin is on a bus, outside of their nest.
Abby asks if he is having pain swallowing. Unconsciously, Kevin tries to swallow and it burns, but he hesitates to answer. He can feel his hand, still on Abby’s, go colder.
“Kevin, be honest with me,” she says. That first time, she said the same thing. You need to be honest with me. But he’s so naive. When a command comes, he obeys.
Does he remember what happened? Any incontinence? Severe headache? Is your vision fine? Can you still see? I’m going to check for lesions and swelling in your neck. Can I?
Abby does a quick neurological exam, like a concussion protocol. He’s just a little slow. Like the other times, give him a couple hours and his brain will come back.
“Renee, can I ask you to stay here with him for a bit? I need to check on the others. Alright, thank you, sweatheart, just make sure his breathing is still okay, and don’t let him fall asleep,” Abby says, in a soft tone.
The person might be Renee. She has Renee’s voice as well.
“Kevin, hello. I’m just going to sit here with you for a moment. Is that fine? Good. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on you.”
There’s no need. Kevin will be fine. Give him a couple hours, and the body will come back.
Later, Kevin knocks on Abby’s hotel door. Everyone else was in the other room together waiting for news, but after her emergency first evaluation in the bus, she told Kevin to look for her afterwards so she could look at his injuries better.
Later, when his brain got better, he recognized that her tone with him was cold, clinical. Different from how she spoke to Renee, which means, probably, that Kevin was the issue. But she treated him then — and not halfheartedly — and she still will.
Probably.
Abby opens the door. She looks tired, defeated. She is still wearing the same shirt since before the game, and the soft beige is stained with little specks of blood.
“Come in,” she says.
Kevin’s knees are still a little shaky, and he goes slowly so he doesn’t need to lean on anything. A thing to brighten the day: there’s a sofa near the door, only four steps. “I’m doing better,” he rasps.
Abby won’t look at him.
“I need to ask you some more questions. Don’t talk, just nod. I need to write them down if we need to bring you to the ER. Don’t argue with me right now, I swear…” her voice rising at the end. She interrupts herself, and takes a deep breath. Abby is always like a rock in these situations, even when she gets emotional. No matter what, Kevin has always seen her treat the foxes the same — from serious injuries in the court to dumb ones they got infighting.
“You don’t have to,” Kevin continues. It’s just his throat.
“Don’t talk,” she says over him, still with her back turned while she searches for something she can write on. Anyone could tell that, right now, Abby is a spark away from an angry “shut up”.
The questions come, again, but more detailed. Having them written down makes nausea churn in Kevin’s stomach, but Abby almost always does that. She says it’s important. Kevin is still a little slow on the things she asks of him on the neurological exam. He still needs a little more time.
When he sits down at the end, Abby sits down next to him. It’s Abby, so he doesn't flinch. She’s seen so many awful parts of him and still helped him, that, like Jean, being scared of her is subconsciously impossible. Sitting down, she sighs and seems to deflate.
“Are you… okay?” Kevin asks.
She takes a deep breath. “No.”
“Oh.” Well, who would be? Stupid questions. The silence bears down on them. Kevin’s pulse continues to wreck pain in his throat. Abby looks like she’s doing box breathing.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispers, “I’m worried about Neil, but it’s not your fault.”
Kevin doesn't regret keeping Neil’s secret. The thing Neil understood better than anyone: even if it kills you, life is only worth living when you are alive. The dying is inevitable, and always will be. You can only run away from it. Keeping Neil’s secret allowed him to keep up the fragile house of cards of the life he built with the Foxes. Kevin wishes it weren’t like that. But it is.
So he agrees: it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault. It really wasn't his fault. He knows it wasn't his fault. Sometimes he deserves these things, and sometimes he doesn't.
The thing that was his fault: that he didn't expect it. He knew he would poke the bear, and thought, like a stupid child, that the bear would spare him retaliation. But a beating is a beating is a beating: and Kevin is the same as he always has been.
“It’s not my fault,” he repeats, weakly. And then: is he worried about Neil?
Yes. He is worried that maybe he didn't die yet. It’s been too long. The drive to Baltimore by car isn’t long, and also, a car never stopped anyone. They would make sure that Neil couldn't kill himself, too. “I’m worried about Neil, too.”
Abby gives him a look like she knows there is a lot he isn't saying.
“Stay here,” she orders, “I’ll need someone to come keep an eye on you for the next six hours, at least. You shouldn’t be alone for the next two days. I’m worried that with your medical history you might have delayed complications.”
“I’ve never had any,” Kevin argues.
“Are the symptoms this time worse than before?”
Kevin has to admit, voice almost gone: “I’ve never had the blurred vision before.”
Abby leans back and melts onto the sofa’s back. She puts her hands on her face and makes a grunt-yell sound. The humor of the situation almost hits Kevin beyond the numbness. He does smile a little: it’s not very nice, but seeing Abby like this is so novel.
“It was more than once?” she asks, still behind her hands.
“Uh, yes. A couple of times.”
A couple of times, he says, Abby whispers to herself. Kevin is aware that the amount of times he’s been choked is kind of a lot, but doesn't everyone get choked once or twice in their life?
“No, Kevin, it’s not normal to get strangled. Most people never get strangled at all.”
Oh.
Abby sends Renee.
“Hello, Kevin.”
He nods at her. He passed his speaking quota for the day with Abby, honestly. From all the foxes, Renee is probably one of the better to stay next to. Kevin vaguely remembers her helping to pull Andrew away from him. And also, she is so quiet. Her presence is like a still water lake.
And then behind her comes Allison. “Holy fuck, Day, that looks awful.”
Kevin wants to toss back: No shit, asshole. or As awful as yours? or Fuck you, Allison. But he can't be angry enough to get past the way his throat is holding back all his words. The ice pack is helping the pain, but not enough that he will risk talking more if he doesn't have to.
“Do you know where Abby’s kit is?” Allison demands.
Kevin flicks a hand to the closet. Renee comes to sit next to him on the sofa. She sits down slowly, like the act hurts her, but doesn't show a thing in her face. Kevin tenses at how close she is. Renee doesn't notice. Not for the first time, Kevin is impressed by how composed she is about everything. He wonders if he will ever be as far removed from his past as Renee is from hers.
“Shoo,” Allison says, flicking her hand at Kevin, “I need to help her with her wrist.”
Renee gives Allison one of her small smiles. She is holding her left wrist, immobilizing it. It looks a little swollen.
“Did you ice it already?” Kevin rasps at Renee. It doesn't look bad enough to be a true sprain, but depending on the severity, she might have to stay off the court for too long.
“Obviously, dipshit,” Allison answers for her, rolling her eyes. She gives Kevin’s calf a kick — just a poke — and continues, “I said shoo. Go somewhere else.”
Renee usually would give her a disapproving look; she does it a lot when the upperclassmen treat Kevin, or any of the monsters, like this, with venom behind their words. But she must be too tired from the adrenaline, or maybe too caught up in Allison’s care to do anything like that, now. She is still smiling at Allison.
Kevin gets up and goes to sit down on one of the beds. Allison is whispering something to Renee and holding her wrist, delicately, while strapping the brace on. Then — and this delicate worship is not something Kevin thought Allison capable of — she holds the same hand to her lips and gives it a little kiss. “There,” she says.
Renee is blushing under the purple swelling of her cheekbones.
Kevin looks away. Something about the view threatens to make memories rush up his throat like inconvenient nausea. He can't think of Jean right now. If he does, he will have a reaction that will fuck up his throat even more. He brings his knees to his chest and discards the already-warm ice pack. Putting his head down into the dark of his closed arms helps with the splitting headache.
Allison and Renee are quiet. The window is closed, and no sound from the streets slips inside. The silence is no help. Anything loud would make his headache worse, but he would welcome it.
In the dark and quiet, Kevin can hear it, almost far away: a man trying to scream when his tongue has just been cut off; the noise a meat cleaver makes cutting through fingers. A pinkie. The thumb, for novelty. The ring finger, cut in the middle, the screech when the knife hits bone — oh, so sorry! and a woman’s giggle — then the squish of blood from the knuckle. So many fingers to go, yet. There should be a point when a boy’s heart should just give up — but Neil, stubborn as he is, would probably keep going for the sake of spite. Even when it would be better for him to be dead.
What time is it, he tries to ask the girls. His voice won’t come, so he tries again: “What time is it?”
Renee answers. It’s been twelve hours since they last heard from Neil. The trip to Baltimore is probably less than that by car, and then there were the hours in the car. But they wouldn't kill Neil in the car. His father would wait for him in Baltimore. Neil is good at running away: maybe — please — he’s already roadkill on the interstate somewhere. Not alive, still, with his butcher.
“We should just go to sleep already,” Allison complains, “Wymack’s got the monster on hand and he’ll send Abby for us with any news.”
Renee hums. “I promised Abby I would look after Kevin for at least six hours.”
“Tch, he’s fine! And you almost went to the hospital today. Aren’t you fine, Day?”
Sure. Kevin gives her a faint thumbs up.
“Abby says he has too many red flag symptoms and we should have taken him to an ER already,” Renee disagrees.
“I mean, it looks awful, but it can’t be that serious.”
“She said it might get worse in the next two days. And that without a CT scan, we can’t say he’s not at risk for a stroke.”
The next part, Allison whispers, “I didn't really see it. Was Andrew trying to kill him or something?” The thing is that Allison doesn’t know how to whisper quietly.
“I don’t think so,” Renee murmurs back, “I… don’t know what Andrew was thinking.”
“You make too many excuses for that monster, anyway. You always say he has his reasons for doing the things he does.”
“Yes.”
Allison releases a breath more like a buff, but she sounds more fond than angry when she says, “You’re impossible sometimes, Re.”
More silence. In it, the squish-thunk of a knife cutting fingers repeats in Kevin’s ear.
“I guess I won the bet, huh? Andrew picked Neil over Kevin. There’s no way they’re not fucking.”
“I’m an impartial observer,” Renee says, loftily.
“You’re full of shit,” Allison sighs, “Not that it matters anyways. If our queen here is right, there is no way we’re getting Neil back in one piece.”
“Is that what you truly believe, Kevin?” Renee asks.
The light hurts his eyes when he raises his head. If they’re talking, it’s the only thing he can hear; Kevin will prolong this conversation as much as he can. “Do you want the truth?”
Words with tee and yu are a spark of pain in his throat. They make him want to cough to scratch the itch, but coughing is the worst idea ever, right now.
“Why else would we ask, dumbass?” Allison shoots back.
“Last person didn’t like it so much,” Kevin rasps.
“We’re not the same as your guard dog. Guess that will teach you not to rely too much on pitbulls, huh?” she sneers.
There’s no admonishment from Renee for calling Andrew a pitbull, which is impossible not to notice. Maybe it’s because Andrew isn’t here to hear it.
“You just seem like the person with the most knowledge of the situation, that’s all,” Renee says, gentle.
Kevin is, in many ways, not the same as he was in the nest. There, any slip of his tongue would cost him, so he was better at minding what he said. Here, it’s a free for all: there isn’t anything anyone can say to him that he can't say back, and nothing anyone can do that he can't meet at the same level. Accepting violence is a choice, here, and not survival.
And there’s the fact that Kevin came here broken, and rebuilt himself in this environment where he could — sometimes — have a taste at freedom like real people have. So really, he is not as good as holding back the things he wants to say anymore. That’s why he replies:
“If you truly believe in God, you better pray that Neil is already dead,” he tells her, “I saw what his father and his dogs can do to people they don’t give a shit about, and Neil has been his father’s shame for a decade, now. Every hour they have with him,” he has to breathe through the pain, “they’ll be doing things to Neil no one should ever live through.”
And Kevin has seen people live through a lot.
“Fucker,” Allison spits, and runs out, slamming the door on the way. The sound rings from Kevin’s ear to pinpricks in his brain.
Renee holds her necklace in hand. She seems to be digesting what Kevin said, instead of being angry that he said it. She is hollow-face Renee, now, instead of the kindhearted girl she usually is. Kevin’s known her — for a given definition of knowing — for long enough, now, that he doesn't think of any of the two as an act. Renee is always genuine with the people she cares about. For now, that Kevin’s no longer Andrew’s, this probably includes him.
“You said Neil’s father was the Moriyama’s cleaner, if I remember correctly,” she starts, “but what else?”
How can Kevin even begin to explain? He goes to take a deep breath — and gets reminded of why he shouldn't. “It’s not like… I’ve been keeping up with what he’s done.”
“But you know more,” she refutes, “or you wouldn't be so certain.”
Kevin doesn't like to think about that day. He’s forgotten many things in his life — his memory is full of holes from times Kevin was alive but somewhere outside his body — but that day is one he is glad that he forgot. Except that he couldn't forget it entirely.
“I saw him at work. A demonstration. Me, Riko. Neil. I heard it, I still hear it, but I won’t remember it, Renee,” he whispers, “don’t make me remember.”
“I won’t,” she promises. For what little promises from anyone are worth, Kevin believes her.
They wait for Allison in silence. Kevin, with the echo of Guantanamo bay sounds, and Renee, praying that the worst things she can think about aren’t true.