Chapter Text
There is nothing Kevin likes about being deaf, but he is grateful he’ll never have to hear Jean cry out in pain.
There are rules in the Nest. Some are explicit, like: each Raven is assigned a partner, and as partners, you share successes, failures, and constant company. Others are unspoken but universally known, like: Jean belongs to Riko, and Riko can do whatever he wants to him. Kevin stands with his back against the wall, bound to the rules. He can’t leave Riko’s side, and he can’t stop Riko’s abuse.
Kevin can only watch. Kevin wants to look away from the gruesome scene, but he doesn’t allow himself the reprieve. The least he can offer Jean is his eyes as witness.
Riko backhands Jean, humiliation and harm alike. If he wasn’t already kneeling, the force of the blow would’ve taken Jean to his knees. It’s only Jean’s pride that stops him from falling further, sprawled out on the floor. His stubborn stoicism only pushes Riko further, stoking the flames of his anger. Riko fists Jean’s hair and slams him face first into his ground. Jean comes away bloody, mouth open and chest heaving. Whether he’s groaning or simply panting, though, Kevin doesn’t know.
It’s not the first time Kevin has watched Riko brutalize Jean, and it’s not the first time he's patched Jean up after either. Kevin has been cleaning up Riko’s messes since he was nine years old, long before Jean showed up at the Nest. It’s what’s expected of him, after all.
Fortunately, Jean’s nose isn’t broken, but it is gushing blood. Kevin holds a damp towel against the bleeding, and Jean tips his head back. Neither speaks until Kevin pulls away, finding his voice only now that they’re both stained with red.
“Are you alright?” Kevin asks.
Jean takes the cloth from Kevin, clenching it in his fist. Water drips over his knuckles and into his lap, leaving little teardrops in the cotton of his sweats. Looking down like this, the fresh pink of Jean’s cheek stands in stark contrast with the old bruise framing his left eye, another souvenir from Riko. Kevin imagines swiping his thumb over the mottled skin, imagines smearing the pigment of busted capillaries until nothing is left but pale skin. Kevin is so lost in the fantasy that he almost doesn’t notice that Jean is speaking.
Jean isn’t looking at him. Jean is looking down at his lap, chinning bobbing with language that Kevin can’t make sense of. A fresh wave of frustration splashes up inside him, lapping at his ribs as corrosive as acid.
“What?” Kevin asks.
Jean repeats himself, but he still isn’t looking at Kevin. Kevin still can’t understand him.
“Look at me,” Kevin says. He pushes his breath out of his lungs, hopes it makes his voice a whisper and not a shout. “Please.”
Gray joins the kaleidoscope of colors making up Jean Moreau. Red blood, pink cheek, green bruise, gray eyes. He looks at Kevin, and Kevin looks back at him.
Everyone knows Kevin was in the car when a drunk driver took his mother’s life. Everyone knows Kevin Day suffered more than grief that day, that he suffered a traumatic brain injury that left him hard of hearing and led to a slew of surgeries. But no one is supposed to know the extent of his silence. No one is supposed to know that Kevin Day is deaf. Kevin tells Jean anyway.
He’s not sure why he does it. Maybe because he’s seeing Jean in such a state of vulnerability that he feels he owes him some vulnerability in return. Maybe because he knows Jean has no one to spill his secret to. Maybe because he’s just tired of being alone. Maybe he just likes Jean, stubborn and prideful as he is. Whatever the reason, Kevin opens his mouth and says, “I can’t hear you.”
To Jean’s credit, he does not react with shock or vitriol. In fact, he does not react much at all, just twists his mouth in thought. He looks at Kevin, now, like the pieces of a puzzle are coming together before his eyes. The assessing gaze makes Kevin want to squirm or flee, but he holds his ground. It is too late for cowardice. He cannot take back the confession, even if he might want to.
“None?” Jean asks.
“None,” Kevin confirms. “You have to look at me when you talk, so I can read your lips.”
It’s how Kevin has gotten by all these years, staring at teammates’ and coaches’ and interviewers’ mouths and hoping he interprets their movements correctly. It isn’t a perfect system, but it’s the only form of communication Kevin is allowed. After almost a decade, he’s gotten good at it, and when he misses words, he has the lie of partial hearing loss to fall back on. He doesn’t need the excuse often, though, has gotten very good at filling in the blanks. His brain automatically supplies the missing pieces, like how the eyes don’t graze every word when reading but understand the message regardless.
Jean doesn’t answer, but he does nod in agreement.
Kevin asks again, “Are you okay?”
“I am fine,” Jean says, speaking slowly enough that Kevin knows it is for his benefit. It’s a kindness no one has ever given him, and Kevin catches every dishonest word with perfect comprehension. Banged up, bruised, and bleeding, Jean is not fine, but he hasn’t been since the day he arrived in the Nest and he has never once admitted his pain. The reticence is not unexpected, nor is the sardonic humor that follows. “At least he did not break it this time.”
Riko broke Jean’s nose his first week in the Nest, a display of power and a warning of retribution that Jean did not heed.
“At least,” Kevin repeats. Cautious, Kevin reaches into Jean’s space and takes back the balled up towel, prying it from between his clenched fingers. Careful, he dabs away the dried blood pooling under Jean’s nose and in the cradle of his cupid’s bow. Jean winces but doesn’t stop Kevin.
Neither speaks another word, but same as always, Kevin lingers longer than he should tending to Jean’s wounds.
· · ·
The only people that are supposed to know Kevin is deaf are Riko and the Master.
Sometimes, Kevin forgets the Master knows, because he has only ever directly acknowledged it once. The first time Kevin took to the Court under his guardianship, the Master held him back by the crook of his elbow, not allowing him the freedom to play until his warning was given. “I do not accept broken things,” he said. “You will not tell anyone you cannot hear, and you will not let it affect your skill.”
At the time, Kevin was too naive, grief-stricken, and desperate to recognize the threat that lay beneath those words. These days, though, Kevin knows the Master would’ve killed him or cast him out if he did not live up to the high standard expected of Exy’s prodigal son. These days, Kevin is grateful he was naive, grief-stricken, and desperate, because instead of feeling the fear he should have felt, he was only determined to find connection with his mother on the Exy court. It was that desire for connection that pushed him to be better, becoming a worthy player under his mother’s ghost.
The Master, also, was the one that forbade Kevin from learning sign language, forcing him to get by on stolen snatches of conversation as he built up his lip reading skills. Those first few months in the Nest, shrouded by newfound loss and silence, were the worst. He’d been a lucky, happy, loved child. He’d never experienced such pain, loneliness, and sorrow. He almost shattered under the claustrophobic weight of it all. In that, too, his passion for Exy was his saving grace, giving him a place to unleash all his many feelings.
Unlike the Master, Riko brings up Kevin’s condition constantly, in little ways that could be excused but could not be forgotten. He wields Kevin’s deafness like a weapon, and after years at his side, it’s hard for Kevin not to see it as one—as something that can hurt him more than anything else can.
An elbow shoves into the soft flesh beneath Kevin’s ribs, drawing him out of his daze and back to attention. Riko is smiling at him, wicked and wild, and Kevin recognizes his mistake already. He had his nose down to his lunch, counting his calories and otherwise ignoring the chatter of Ravens around him, and now, Riko is going to use it against him.
“Right, Kevin?” Riko asks.
He knows Kevin doesn’t have a clue what’s been said. Kevin doesn’t know if he’ll be punished for agreeing or disagreeing, but if he makes the wrong choice, the elbow in his side will become bruising. If Kevin were braver, he might look around the table for clues from his other teammates, but Kevin can’t peel his eyes away from Riko. He can’t miss another murmur from his lips. He is pinned in place like a bug under Riko’s boot. He is exactly where Riko wants him.
Riko raises an eyebrow at him, expectant, and Kevin only has seconds to come up with an answer. Saying nothing is worse than saying the wrong thing, that much Kevin has learned. He swallows thickly, and unaware what he’s agreeing with, says, “Right.”
Riko’s verdict doesn’t come in words, that would be too easy when Kevin refuses to look away, but instead comes in the form of a laugh. Without his sense of hearing, Kevin can’t tell if the sound is jovial or disappointed. He tries to smile back at Riko, the only response he can muster, but it feels more like a grimace on his face. Again, Riko elbows him, and again, Kevin feels it for what it is. A taunt. A reminder. A weapon.
When he was younger, Kevin used to be plagued by thoughts of fairness. It wasn’t fair that he lost his mom. It wasn’t fair that he lost his hearing in the same accident. It wasn’t fair that he was punished for something he couldn’t control. These days, he can’t quite manage to muster up that conviction. These days, he’s convinced this is what he deserves. Being deaf is a deficit and a liability, so of course, Riko has to work to keep him sharp. It’s his duty as Kevin’s partner. It’s a hardship Kevin has to bear for the sake of their team and their shared success.
That’s what Kevin has to believe, at least, to keep himself sane.
Riko looks away first, and Kevin’s shoulders slump in relief. Across the table, gray eyes stare at him from under a glower of eyebrows.
· · ·
“Riko is…” Jean trails off.
Kevin has had a soft spot for Jean since the first time Riko put a racquet to his gut and a fist to his nose. Kevin has had an affinity for Jean since the first time he talked back at Riko with blood pouring down his chin and jumbled, garbled, accented English that Kevin could hardly understand spilling from his lips. More than once, Kevin has pondered why he feels so drawn to someone he can barely communicate with. Maybe it’s because he can barely communicate with anyone, but at least Jean— Jean tries. And now that he knows Kevin’s secret, Jean tries even harder. Now that he knows, their connection has only grown.
They are alone now, hours gone since Riko’s lunchtime taunting, but the furrow of Jean’s brow remains. Kevin is tempted to reach out and smooth away the wrinkle himself. If Kevin cannot be angry on his own behalf, then Jean feels it for him tenfold. That soft spot, that affinity, burrows a little deeper into Kevin’s heart.
“He is…” Jean tries again, but again, he trails off. Unable to find the word he wants and undeniably frustrated, Jean switches gears to gesture his meaning instead. He gives a thumbs down.
Kevin laughs.
He doesn’t mean to, but the vibration builds in his chest and pools behind his molars. At risk of drowning in it, his lips have no choice but to crack and let the rumble free. It must be too loud because Jean’s palm rushes to his face, covering his mouth with cool skin. Kevin’s eyes widen as calluses tickle his upper lip.
Jean doesn’t scold him any further. Jean is gentle when he pulls his hand away, lingering a moment to drag along his jaw. If Kevin could grow facial hair, the skin might be rough with stubble, but he’s never managed more than a five o’clock shadow. The glide of touch is smooth and horrible. Jean slips away far too easily. Part of Kevin knows he is wrong to think like this, but mostly, Kevin is grateful for any gentleness he can get. Kindness is rare in the Nest, and they are all starving for it, Kevin included.
“Sorry,” Kevin says, as soon as he can speak again. He reminds himself there is good reason to be afraid of being caught like this, in attachment and allegiance both. His fear shrinks him down, and hopefully, shrinks his voice too. “It is hard to tell when I am being loud.”
It’s also hard to tell if he’s interrupting someone, or if his tone is too rude, or if he’s talking for too long. For all that Kevin has become an expert in reading others’ communication, he hasn’t yet managed mastery over his own. He is a stumbling thing, a foal right out of the womb. Jean never seems to mind, and maybe that’s another reason Kevin is so drawn to him.
Jean shakes his head, but it isn’t a dismissal, it’s a reassurance. It seems, sometimes, that Jean can have an entire conversation with Kevin without ever opening his mouth. Kevin adds that to his list of maybes, too.
· · ·
When Kevin isn’t paying attention, it’s most often because he doesn’t yet know he’s supposed to be paying attention. He misses some sort of auditory cue, and in turn, he misses his entrance into focus and conversation. He accidentally ignores things that he is not meant to ignore. When it is Riko, he gets an elbow to the flank. When it is the Master, he gets a cane to the shin. When it is a random Raven, he gets a confused look and a swat on the shoulder. When it is Jean, he gets a soft tug on his sleeve.
Kevin turns himself over into Jean’s hands, his whims, locked onto his lips before he can miss so much as a breath. Jean’s question must have been building for a while because the language comes to him easily. Either that, or his English is improving more quickly than Kevin can realize.
“Is this,” Jean points at his own ear, an easy indicator of Kevin’s own lack of hearing, “why you say my name wrong?”
The betrayal Kevin finds at reading those words from Jean’s lip is unexpected, but it runs through him with the same shock as Riko’s backhand or the Master’s whip. He frowns, disheartened. “I… did not know I said it wrong. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Kevin hates to think that he has been subtly offending Jean since the first day he met him. Kevin hates even more to think that Jean was afraid to correct him—afraid Kevin would perceive it as a slight and punish him or, worse, afraid that Kevin simply wouldn’t care. Kevin cares enough to hurt.
Jean merely shrugs, unaware of Kevin’s inner turmoil. “I thought you were rude, maybe.”
Which is fair. Kevin is not known to be nice, but he still does not like that answer. He doesn’t like that Jean doesn’t know Kevin wants to give him the same rare gentleness, kindness, tenderness that Jean gives him in this horrible place. He keeps frowning at Jean, and Jean shrugs again.
“Or I thought maybe it’s because of your accent. Is this,” Jean tugs on his own earlobe, “why you still have an accent?”
Kevin doesn’t often think about the fact that he still has an Irish accent, even after so many years grounded on American soil. He’s aware that Riko sometimes makes fun of him for it, but the twist of his words, foreign or otherwise, is lost on him. The reminder, though, that his mother’s lilt is still preserved between his own lips makes Kevin’s frown twitch toward something softer.
“Probably,” Kevin says. “I cannot hear the American voices around me, so I cannot mimic them, purposefully or subconsciously. Is my accent harder for you to understand?”
“Sometimes,” Jean says. “But I like it. It is… musical. Is my accent harder for you to understand?”
Kevin smiles, and echoes, “Sometimes.”
For a minute, they are quiet. Kevin fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, right where Jean touched him, smoothing it between thumb and forefinger. Like all of his clothing, the fabric is black and the item was bought for him by one assistant or another. It seems impossibly warmer now. From under his lashes, Kevin looks up at Jean.
“Teach me,” Kevin says, halfway to a plea.
Jean’s face contorts with something akin to pity. “I do not know how to teach you.”
It dawns on Kevin that language, like an accent, is something that must be heard and mimicked. Without the ability to immerse himself in the sound, Kevin doesn’t know how he can possibly replicate a language and a name that he cannot absorb the nuance of. But he has to try. “Just, um, describe it to me.”
Jean opens and closes his mouth a few times, repeating nonsense shapes and syllables that Kevin does not try to discern. It is obvious to him that Jean is studying the sounds, trying to figure out how to describe the difference between what Kevin has been calling him and what he should have been calling him. After a moment, Jean closes his eyes, and when they open, he is filled with steely determination.
He holds out a hand to Kevin, expectant, and Kevin stares at it a moment, unsure. Jean flexes his fingers in urgent request, and Kevin does the only thing he can think to do and puts his hand in Jean’s. It must be the right move because Jean takes it readily, eagerly, flipping Kevin’s hand over to reveal his palm. Against each other, Jean’s skin looks impossibly pale and Kevin’s impossibly tan.
“The way you say the end,” Jean says, and writes with his finger on Kevin’s skin, e-a-n, “is correct. But the J,” and he traces the letter into Kevin’s palm, waits for Kevin to nod his understanding, “is different in French than English. In English, you touch the tongue to the roof of your mouth. Jay. Jay. Say it.”
Kevin repeats the letter, taking note of how his tongue moves to shape it. “Jay.”
“Yes,” Jean says. “But in French, air is left between tongue and roof. English the J is harder, like John, but French the J is softer. Jshee. Jshean.”
Kevin tries it. “Shean?”
Jean’s mouth tugs in dissatisfaction, and Kevin knows he’s said it wrong. “Ah, no. You are,” Jean pauses, thinks about it, repeats a few more nonsense sounds or syllables to himself. “You are shushing me. You are pushing air through the top teeth, but I think it is more bottom teeth? Jzhee. Jzhean.”
Kevin tries again. “Jean.”
A smile crosses Jean’s features. “Yes. That is it.”
“And the rest of it?” Kevin asks.
It is a risky question when Riko made Jean give up half his name within his first week in the Nest, but if Kevin has been saying Jean’s name wrong all this time, then he decides he owes him the full thing. He wants Jean whole. If Jean is harmed by the question, he doesn’t show it, just takes it in stride.
“Eve. Rhymes with,” Jean searches his vocabulary, “leave.”
“Jean-Yves,” Kevin says. And again, “Jean-Yves.”
“Yes,” Jean says, and with his usually stern face turning as soft as it’s ever been, “Yes, Kevin.”
· · ·
Practice is a long and grueling affair, and it is also, other than the court on game days, Kevin’s favorite place to be. Doesn’t matter how many times a backliner shoves him into the plexiglass or how many times Riko trips him in an attempt to be faster, the pain is always worth the high. There is an addiction that comes with being great, with being the best, at something. There is a warmth that comes from being so close to his mother, a warmth the cold of the Nest doesn’t usually provide.
Sweat drips down Kevin’s face and over his tattoo. His hands tighten on his racquet as Jean, his current mark, tries to pull his racquet out of his grip. In a normal game, the move would be illegal, both because Kevin doesn’t currently have the ball and because Jean is pulling towards Kevin instead of away. Inside the walls of Evermore, there are no rules outside of doing whatever it takes to win. Kevin clenches his teeth against the discomfort straining at his wrists.
“Jean,” he complains.
If Jean answers, it is lost on Kevin, garbled by his mouth guard and the shield of his helmet. In any case, Jean does not go any easier on Kevin, but instead, keeps pulling. Kevin knows there’s a nasty bruise on Jean’s right hip, courtesy of Riko, that he could take advantage of. He could rock into the point of pain to make Jean falter, but he has no interest in playing dirty with Jean. Rather than toying with the lines of fairness, Kevin is strategic. He lets go with only his left hand, so his strength lessens and Jean’s momentum shifts. He trips, half a step and then another.
It’s enough.
Kevin’s racquet slides free of Jean’s, and Kevin takes off running before Jean can find his balance again. Moments later, the ball flies towards Kevin. He readjusts his net and lets the ball find the pocket of his cradle. He knows Jean is almost on him, knows he doesn’t have time to swap his racquet back to his left hand. He’ll have to throw with his right and hope that his other strikers can make up for his inevitable inaccuracy.
“Riko!” Kevin calls.
He throws the ball, and it lands a messy few feet in front of Riko, allowing another backliner to scoop it up instead. Seconds later, Jean slams into Kevin, sending them both careening into the plexiglass wall. Kevin goes down with the weight of his gear and another body landing on his chest, expunging air from his lungs in a quick gust of complaint. If Jean were slower to reach Kevin, the Master might have noticed Kevin was holding the racquet with his non-dominant hand, making the missed pass his fault instead of Riko’s.
But Jean is right there.
But Jean crashes into him only seconds after the ball leaves his net, and they fall in a heap of unidentifiable limbs.
When the whistle blows to call a stop to their scrimmage, all eyes turn onto Riko, except for Kevin’s. Kevin only has eyes for Jean. He whispers, “Thank you.”
Jean takes his mouth guard out before speaking.
“I do not know what you mean. I was trying to get the ball,” Jean says, glaring. Kevin can’t decide if Jean is being honest or not, if his protection of Kevin was purposeful or not. It’s possible even Jean wouldn’t be able to say for certain, with how instinctive those split second decisions in Exy can be. “You should have hip checked me. Do not go easy on me, Kevin. It is insulting.”
Kevin cannot stop his grin. “Sorry.”
He pushes Jean away from him and pushes himself to his feet. Across the court, the Master is spitting venom at Riko, and Kevin knows that whether Jean was trying to protect him on purpose or not is irrelevant. Either way, his efforts will have failed. As Riko’s partner, whatever punishment the Master deems worthy of Riko’s misstep will befall Kevin as well.
· · ·
The blow of the Master’s cane is familiar but ruthless. In another life, one where Kevin’s mother survived or one where his father knew of his son’s identity, he might not be accustomed to such pain. In this life, though, Kevin grits his teeth through each hit to his knuckles and his ribs. The Master never hits Kevin and Riko where the press could recognize the abuse, but he has no qualms for bruising their knuckles—excused by in-fighting—or their ribs—forever concealed by jerseys and gear.
When the Master is done, he leaves them with a final reminder of Riko’s failure. He takes Riko’s face in his hand, and with a tight grip along his jawline, forces eye contact. “You were slow. If our competitors saw you perform like that, they would laugh. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Riko says.
The Master lets go and leaves them, and Riko’s posture crumples. In silence, Kevin watches Riko’s contrition transform into anger. He flexes his fingers and presses down, hard, against the already bruising skin of his ribcage. In silence, Riko turns on Kevin, and Kevin has to fight to keep his shoulders square. He will not cower yet.
“That was a shitty pass, Kevin,” Riko says.
“I know,” Kevin says. “I’m sorry.”
Same as the Master, Riko is forbidden from hurting Kevin where the press might see, but that doesn’t mean he can’t threaten it. More than once, he’s told Kevin he’ll gouge out his eyes while he’s sleeping or punch him in the face till the swelling takes over his vision. He takes pleasure in the idea of limiting Kevin’s senses and communication further, often blindfolds him when he’s feeling his most vindictive. Kevin sort of assumes that might be where he’s headed tonight.
“You don’t deserve that number,” Riko says.
He pulls a knife from somewhere, and Kevin sort of assumes he’s going to carve the two right off his face, rules be damned. Instead, he grabs Kevin’s arm, pushes up his shirt, and cuts a harsh line down his already wounded flank. The thing about Riko is: he always knows where to strike to cause the most pain with the least amount of effort. He could’ve taken his time, taking Kevin to ribbons with the blade, but all he needs to ruin him is one well placed gouge along bruising skin. Kevin’s knees threaten to buckle, but Riko grips at his arm, holding him up right.
“Pay attention, Kevin,” Riko says. “Read my lips: you are a coward. Next time you let me take the fall for you, I will skin you alive.”
He lets go and leaves. Kevin wants to drop to the ground, but he doesn’t. If he goes down now, he won’t get back up. Kevin presses one palm against the bleeding and one palm against the wall as he stumbles toward the locker room. Riko’s already there, holding court with a murder of Ravens, like they don’t all know he just took a lashing from the Master. Riko watches Kevin stumble toward the shower, but he doesn’t speak to him and he doesn’t stop him, just levels him with a look of true disgust.
Kevin probably deserves it.
After all, he knew his pass was going to be bad, and he made it anyway. He let the ball fly free in the hopes that someone else would pick up his slack. He didn’t intend for someone else to get punished for his mistake, but his intentions don’t matter. He was selfish. He was sloppy. He’s better than the way he played today, and no matter how hard Riko and the Master hit him, Kevin is beating himself up worse.
Kevin is fumbling to open his locker one handed, the other still clutching his vulnerable side, when Jean swoops in to rescue him. He bullies Kevin out of the way and opens his locker for him, procuring a clean towel and clean clothes. He looks Kevin up and down, and Kevin waits for Jean to scold him too, but he doesn’t.
“Let me see,” Jean says.
But Kevin shakes his head. There’s too many people around, and Kevin doesn’t want Jean to get caught caring about him, not when it would only bring more pain upon them. Besides, the cut isn’t that bad, not nearly the worst either of them have ever seen or suffered. What Kevin needs right now isn’t Jean’s attention. What Kevin needs is to be left alone to lick his wounds and rebuild his broken pride.
Surprisingly, Jean lets Kevin go free. He hands over the clothes and towel, and Kevin takes them without saying thank you.
The warm spray of the shower stings, but Kevin perseveres. The lather of soap stings worse, but Kevin just breathes through it.
· · ·
Kevin spends a lot of time staring at Jean’s lips and hands.
He tells himself it’s a necessary evil, and in some ways, that’s true.
He has to watch Jean’s mouth to understand the words he speaks. When Jean says, “I wish business wasn’t so much math,” Kevin has to track the rise and fall of his lips, the click of his teeth, to get the message. If his eyes linger on Jean’s pronounced cupid’s bow, then that’s just part of the process.
He has to watch his hands, too, to pick up on the nonverbal cues Jean sends him. When they’re on the way to practice and Jean points at his own knee, Kevin knows it means he noticed Kevin tweaked his yesterday and is telling him to be careful today. If his eyes trail heavy over the knobs of Jean’s knuckles, then that’s just an accident.
He has to look, and it doesn’t help that so much of Jean’s communication with Kevin is a combination of lips and hands. Sometimes, he starts a sentence with his words and finishes with his hands. “Can you,” Jean begins. Kevin stares at the perfect circle formed on that last vowel. And then, Jean offers a rapid flick of his wrist. Kevin stares at the delicate motion and the blur of blue veins, pale skin, and paler bones. He means: Can you hurry up?
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Kevin says, of the lap they’re running around the edge of the court. It isn’t true and they both know it, but Kevin doesn’t like cardio unless there’s a racquet in his hand and they both know that too. He runs just fast enough to meet the Master’s expectations of a six minute mile and no faster.
Jean, six foot four and all legs and raring to go, flashes him a glare. He could leave Kevin in the dust and they both know that, but Jean matches his pace regardless.
Other times, Jean will start with his hands and finish with his words. Jean opens and closes his hand as if mimicking a bird’s beak. Kevin stares at the horrible combination of nails carefully filed and knuckles bloodied and bruised by the Master’s cane. And then, Jean says, “Again.” Kevin stares at the breath’s gap left between lips, a valley between mountains. He means: Say that again.
“Sorry,” Kevin says. Jean is always so careful to talk slowly and enunciate his words for Kevin’s sake. He never seems to forget Kevin’s needs while Kevin constantly has to be reminded that Jean struggles to understand him, too, with his thick accent and messy volume. “I said I think the Trojans are going to beat Penn this year. That means we’ll face them in the finals. Did you watch their last game?”
“No,” Jean answers, and here, he slams verbal and nonverbal together. “You can show me,” he says, then flickers his hands like two sets of exploding fireworks, “later.”
You can show me the highlights later, he means, and Kevin grins.
So, Kevin has no choice but to watch Jean’s lips and hands in order to communicate with him. But he’s not communicating with Jean when he tries to name the exact shade of Jean’s pale lips. Blush. Ballet slippers. Baby. He’s not communicating, either, when he tries to memorize the exact lines of Jean’s palm. A spiderweb of identity that cannot be replicated anywhere else. Whatever Kevin might tell himself, there is more than communication to the way he watches Jean. Deep down he knows that, but he doesn’t let himself think about it.
Instead, he keeps staring.
· · ·
Privacy in the Nest is hard to come by.
But Kevin manages to sneak away when Riko is busy with the Master, and Zane is never in his and Jean’s room when he could be with Colleen, and like a miracle, Kevin and Jean find themselves alone. It’s not the first time they’ve been alone in Jean’s room, but the novelty doesn’t ever wear off. There’s a weight off Kevin’s shoulder when Riko isn’t serving as his personal shadow. There’s a smile on his face when he leans against the bedpost and twists Jean’s sheets between his fingers.
The room smells like him, and it’s a comfort, a light in the dark or a balm against chapped skin. Kevin will never say that aloud, though.
“Jean,” he says.
Kevin says Jean’s name a lot these days. It’s like he’s making up for lost time, savoring the shape in his mouth now that he knows how long he spent unknowingly butchering it. Like Kevin, no one would describe Jean as nice, but he is nice enough to Kevin that he doesn’t make fun of him for the indulgence. Instead, Jean answers with interest each time, even if most of the time, Kevin has nothing to say. Today, Jean nudges a sock clad foot against Kevin’s thigh in acknowledgment. It’s his way of communicating in turn, an unspoken whisper of, Yes, Kevin?
“Can I show you something?” Kevin asks.
There’s a faint freckle under Jean’s left eye, right next to his tattoo. Kevin finds himself grateful that the ink doesn’t eclipse it. Kevin watches the freckle twitch with Jean’s expression, disappearing between folds of skin as he wrinkles with curiosity and intrigue. “Maybe. Do you have to…” Jean points at the door to finish his question.
“No,” Kevin says. “I brought it with me.”
Just in case they were caught alone together, Kevin brought his textbooks with him, so he could excuse their company as an attempt at studying—never mind that they were in different majors. From the pile, Kevin picks out a book that’s not quite like the others. Though the dust jacket calls it a history textbook, underneath an entirely different story resides, one that has nothing to do with history and everything to do with Kevin and his forbidden desire.
Kevin hesitates a moment with knuckles gone white gripping the book. Having this book could get Kevin beaten to a bloody pulp. Sharing this book with Jean, implicating him in this crime, could probably get Jean killed. Kevin’s already put Jean at risk by befriending him and confiding in him, but this is worse than even that. He hesitates.
Jean nudges him with his foot again. Kevin imagines grabbing his ankle, pinning Jean in contact with him, but he doesn’t act on it. After all, Jean has been caged enough in this lifetime. Again, the unspoken message is clear. The touch draws Kevin to look up at Jean, and Jean nods to him. He holds out a hand in request.
Slowly, Kevin removes the dust jacket, revealing a guide to learning ASL. Kevin gives the book to Jean.
Reading English still isn’t Jean’s strong suit, his English education focused instead on brutally abrupt immersion into spoken language, but it only takes him a moment to understand what he’s looking at. His eyes are alarmed when they lift to meet Kevin’s. “How do you have this?”
“I’ve had it for years,” Kevin says.
Before Kevin and Riko officially joined the Ravens, they were dragged along to the team’s every game like a pair of overeager mascots. This included bringing them to USC to watch two of the big three face off in the semifinals. It wasn’t something Kevin planned, but needing a break from the pressure and the spotlight, he snuck away long enough to see the coastline and stop at the campus bookstore. That is where he got the book. Truthfully, Kevin’s not sure how he managed to get away with the brief escape, let alone the unsanctioned purchase, but it’s been years without discovery or punishment. He’s gotten away with it, he knows, even as he risks it all now.
“When I have time to myself,” Kevin says, which means very rarely, “I’ve been trying to learn. I barely know the alphabet.”
Jean teases the edge of the cover with his thumb, like he’s considering opening the book, and Kevin considers stealing it back from him. He wants to hold it to his chest, a child clinging to innocence. This is too vulnerable. Kevin has spent so long convincing himself and everyone around him that lip reading is enough for him, that he can get by on meager rations of understanding, that he can communicate like a normal person. Having this book implies otherwise. Having this book is a confession of weakness and want alike. Kevin struggles to breathe.
Jean takes his thumb from the cover and puts it to Kevin’s knee, somehow both an acknowledgment of Kevin’s fear and a reassurance that it is unnecessary.
Sharing the book with Jean has already asked the question, but Kevin puts word to it anyway. He jostles his knee against Jean’s hand. He finds his voice, and asks, “Will you learn with me? It could be our secret.”
“Yes,” Jean says, and then he opens the book.
· · ·
As much as Kevin stares at Jean’s lips and hands, he also stares at, or perhaps into, his eyes. Gray as they are, they should blend in with the surroundings of the Nest, but instead, they seem to be the only spot of color in this damned place. It’s a relief when, even for just a second, Kevin can lose himself in thunder cloud, reflection pool, Kilkenny Castle irises. Kevin can’t look away, and so he follows Jean’s gaze as it lingers in places it shouldn’t. Kevin’s legs. Kevin’s lips. Kevin’s hands. Jeremy Knox, sweating and smiling after a win against the Bobcats.
Kevin shouldn’t acknowledge it, but he can’t help himself.
He pauses the highlight reel, capturing the moment Jeremy slips off his helmet and slips an arm around Alvarez, and waits. For a moment, Jean is glued to brown hair curling at the ends with moisture and the strip of skin between neck guard and chest armor, and then he turns his attention over to Kevin. He’s all gray eyes and want.
Kevin flicks his own gaze between Jean and on-screen Jeremy, and then he flicks a finger between them as well. It's supposed to be a lighthearted and teasing gesture, obvious to them in its meaning but also easily brushed aside or ignored. Kevin doesn’t mean any harm. Kevin doesn’t expect Jean to react the way he does. His expression shutters. His eyes harden. He grabs Kevin’s wrist and halts his movement in an almost painful grip.
“Do not,” Jean says.
And Kevin knows, then, that he’s not the only one that has noticed the way Jean’s eyes stray. Riko doesn’t tolerate anything that could be seen as a weakness or a defect or a distraction from the game. Riko has gotten to Jean first, punished him for looking, and now Jean is punishing Kevin for noticing. Kevin winces under his hold.
“Jean,” Kevin says, wounded. “Let go.”
Jean lets go quicker than Kevin can keep up with. His hand falls helpless between them. He wants to pull his wrist to his chest, cradling the redness, but he leaves his hand where it is. Jean glares at it, and Kevin can’t tell if he’s more angry at him or at himself.
Frozen on the laptop, Alvarez’s cheek is pressed to Jeremy’s shoulder and Jeremy’s is pressed to her helmet. If Kevin didn’t know better, if the whole country hadn’t witnessed Jeremy’s scandal in his freshman year, he might have thought them romantically linked. Kevin thinks about how easy it would be for them to pretend and how easy it would be for the world to pretend. Kevin isn’t thinking of Jeremy at all, but of himself.
“Jean,” Kevin repeats. “Look at me.”
It takes a moment, but slowly, Jean lifts his head. His mouth is contorted, ugly, with his frustration and his brows are furrowed, torn, with his shame. Kevin picks up his hand, red already fading from his wrist, and gives Jean a confession. After all, Jean already has his biggest secret. He might as well have them all.
They haven’t gotten far enough in the ASL guidebook for Kevin to sign it properly, but they’ve gotten good at forging their own language. Kevin points at his chest, meaning me. Kevin holds up two fingers, meaning too.
Jean’s face melts, away with anger and shame, away with any emotion at all. Jean looks at Kevin’s hand and lips. Jean looks at on-screen Jeremy. Kevin wants to crawl inside his head and think exactly what he’s thinking, but he knows it’s fruitless. Even if he could, he doesn’t know French. He can only know what Jean allows him to. He can only take what Jean tells him as gospel, as truth, as gold to match his silver eyes.
“You—” Jean starts and stops.
Kevin nods at him, some sort of assurance.
Jean swallows. Jean points at Kevin, meaning you, and holds up two fingers, meaning too. He repeats the gesture back to Kevin, but this time, it is a question rather than a confession.
“Yes,” Kevin says. “Me too.”
There are a hundred ways Jean could answer and a hundred ways he could use this information to destroy Kevin. Somehow, Jean chooses the best reaction possible. He simply signs the letters for OK and reaches for the laptop to start the video again. On screen, Jeremy’s jubilance becomes a smacking kiss against Alvarez’s helmet. Jean watches Jeremy, and Kevin watches gray eyes.
“He’s prettier in person,” Kevin whispers.
Jean holds a finger to his lips, meaning shut up.
Kevin grins and pulls the laptop closer, so he can better read the subtitles flying across the screen. Jean’s right, as he usually is, there’s nothing else to say.
· · ·
It’s a game day.
The stands of Evermore are filled with a sea of black. Fans wave posters bearing the numbers 1 and 2 and incite a wave of arms through the crowd, a blur of raven feathers. Kevin has a ritual on game days. He walks out onto the court, looks up at the crowd, and flashes them a single smile. He allows himself to look at their fans only once before his focus becomes lazer-like. He finds his spot on the half-court line, squares his shoulders, and readies himself for battle.
The Ravens win the coin toss, which gives them first serve. Their offensive dealer, Jacks, pops the ball from his net once, then twice. No one can move until the serve is made, but Jacks will still throw the ball as close to the away team’s goal as possible. Kevin lifts one heel off the ground, counts each second that passes, and then the ball flies free. Kevin flies with it, abandoning half-court and sprinting to find possession.
At his side, Kevin’s mark tries to use his racquet or his elbow to bully Kevin into slowing down. Kevin is not deterred, and instead, simply ignores him. It’s not a difficult feat. After all, Kevin has spent season after season practicing under the oppressive glare of Jean Moreau, best backliner in the league or maybe in history. This is nothing in comparison.
Kevin gets the ball, but just as quickly gives it up, tossing it to Riko. Seconds later, his useless mark barrels into him, shoulders colliding, but Kevin maintains his balance. He pushes back against his mark and stifles a laugh, biting hard on his mouthguard, when he stumbles pathetically. It’s hard not to be arrogant—cocky, even—when their opponents fail to measure up. Kevin leaves his mark in the dust.
Open now, Riko gives the ball right back to Kevin. It’s not often that Riko gives Kevin the first score of the game, but he doesn’t have a choice when one of them is available and the other is out of steps. Kevin relishes the weight of the ball hitting the back of his net, and then he reels his arm back, and then he releases.
In some ways, Kevin being deaf negatively affects his ability to play. He can’t hear the Master calling plays or teammates calling for a pass. He can’t hear the refs’ whistle or the buzzer igniting with a goal. He can’t hear the crowd exploding in excitement and disappointment alike. In other ways, Kevin thinks it helps him. His focus is singular, just him and the goal. His skill is inarguable, and he is not surprised when the ball lights up the goal unimpeded.
Kevin does not smile, and Kevin does not look up at the stands.
Kevin maintains his concentration, watching as the opposing goalkeeper gathers his pride and prepares to send the ball to the other end of the court. Kevin knows Jean will be ready for it when he does. If Jean is smart, which he is, he’ll immediately work to get the ball to Riko. Still, Kevin jogs back to the half-court line, lying in wait until he is needed, eyes constantly scanning for openings and weak points.
He wouldn’t ever admit it, knows it sounds ridiculous, but Kevin sometimes thinks his lack of hearing means he can feel the court beneath his feet in a way others can’t. He can sense the vibrations of each play, can sense the trajectory of his opponents, and uses it to his benefit. Probably it’s wishful thinking, but then again, even with his back turned, Kevin isn’t surprised in the slightest when his mark finally catches up with him.
“Nice of you to join me,” Kevin says, still not looking at him.
Sloppy, the net of his mark’s racquet scratches the floor as he rounds on Kevin in anger. More than likely, he’s spewing venom and vitriol at Kevin, but Kevin is immune to it. Kevin wouldn’t ever admit this either, doesn’t care to suffer the beating it would bring, but sometimes he relishes in how easily his ignorance infuriates his marks. After Exy, it’s his second favorite game to play. Wind them up and then ignore them, and like clockwork, they falter in their rage.
This time, when Riko gets the ball, he doesn’t dare give it up. He swerves through the opposing team’s defense and, when he runs out of steps, uses the wall’s ricochet to reset. Greedy as ever, Kevin thinks, but he trails behind Riko anyway, devoted and dog-like, in case he’s needed. Riko scores. The scoreboard ticks up to 2-0, and they’re only five minutes into the game.
They’re going to win, same as they’ve won every game this season. Maybe it should be getting boring, this constant success without challenge or struggle, but Kevin— Kevin doesn’t think he will ever get bored of winning. When he grins to himself now, chin ducked and hidden from the world, it’s a vicious and hungry thing.
· · ·
Kevin stands at Riko’s side under the flash of cameras and a barrage of questions. Kevin and Riko are the only Ravens allowed to speak to the press, meaning this post-game affair is almost as familiar to Kevin as the court itself is. Still, fruitless though it may be, he wishes he could hide out in the locker room with the rest of the Ravens. Sweat drips down his temple and Kevin pushes his hair off his forehead.
It’s a split second gesture, a simple adjustment of his appearance, but it costs Kevin his understanding. In front of him, a woman dressed in a traditional pantsuit holds a microphone. In front of him, the woman is speaking, but Kevin looked away for a split second gesture because he didn’t realize he was supposed to be paying attention, and now, it’s too late to properly tune back in. He misses half of her words.
“… first goal … what … you … make … that?”
It’s a jumble of puzzle pieces, and Kevin knows he could put them together given the chance. If he was allowed a second’s hesitation, he could make an educated guess of her question and give her a shiny nothing of an answer. With fake confidence and a winning smile, he could pretend he understood her perfectly and no one would be the wiser. But Kevin isn’t allowed to hesitate, even for a second, and Riko leans into the microphone to speak on his behalf. As he speaks, he steps on Kevin’s foot, a warning to do better and a taste of what’s to come.
Kevin keeps smiling.
Until the camera flashes fall and the questions hush. Until he gives his goodbyes and his thanks to the journalists and reporters. Until his back is turned on them and the hallways of Evermore stretch between them. Until, alone together, Riko grabs Kevin by the crook of his elbow and steers them into an empty office. Riko shoves Kevin away from him, as if disgusted by their mere proximity, and Kevin’s facade shatters. Light drains from his eyes and he is swallowed by darkness.
“Riko,” he tries to say, but Riko isn’t listening.
“You were slow,” Riko says, an echo of the Master’s words from all those practices ago, a grudge Riko has been holding just as long.
“I know. I know. I’ll do better next time. I—”
Riko fits one hand around Kevin’s throat, silencing him with the threat, and fists the other in his hair. Kevin does not wince or react as Riko yanks his head back. It’s not that he’s too stubborn to let Riko see his weakness or too brave to be afraid of him, but rather, Kevin is used to the abuse. It takes more than a strain in his neck muscles and a tear of his hair follicles to make him cry out in pain.
“What was her question?” Riko asks, purposely slow and enunciated, a luxury he only provides Kevin when his words are meant to hurt him.
And Kevin doesn’t know. And Kevin can’t tell Riko that, because Riko will tear him to shreds. And he can’t guess either, because if he gets it wrong, Riko will tear him to shreds. There is nothing Kevin can say. He stares at Riko and Riko stares back at him, one eyebrow lifted in expectation.
Kevin doesn’t speak.
Riko’s anger flares, impossibly hotter, and he cuffs Kevin in the ear. The pain is bright and hot and loud, somehow, a flash of sensation that drowns out everything else. Now, Kevin winces and reacts, eyes instinctively squeezing shut. It’s a mistake, another stupid mistake, because closing his eyes makes him clueless, and Riko uses that against him. He kicks him in the shin, and then the knee, and then Kevin goes down. Hard.
He opens his eyes. Riko’s mouth is twisted in sadistic glee, and Kevin knows he’s being laughed at.
“Too slow, Kevin,” Riko repeats. “If you can’t understand a simple question, maybe you will understand this.”
He keeps kicking Kevin, and Kevin just takes it.
Until he cries out in protest and agony alike. Until he can’t keep his eyes open against the blur of tears. Until Riko is satisfied that Kevin has learned his lesson. Until Riko leaves, and Kevin is left alone on the ground. He curls in on himself, knees to chest, and just— breathes.
· · ·
Jean finds him.
He doesn’t ask what Kevin did to deserve this beating. He doesn’t ask why Kevin is still kneeling on the floor—halfway to upright, as far as he could manage on his own—when Riko is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t ask Kevin if he’s okay. Instead, Jean just shoves his hands under Kevin’s arms and hoists him to his feet. He must be heavy, but Jean moves as if he weighs nothing. He keeps holding onto Kevin until he finds his balance, and then he just keeps holding on. He ducks a finger under Kevin’s chin, lifting Kevin’s eyes to meet his gaze.
“It’s almost curfew,” Jean says, a gentle reprimand. “You haven’t even showered, have you? You stink. You…” He either trails off or Kevin misses the end of the sentence, either possibility is as likely as the other. “What would you do without me?”
Kevin shakes his head, not an answer but a plea. It’s too many words. In general, Kevin struggles with heightened fatigue and a weakened social battery due to his constant struggle to communicate. After a game and press and Riko’s beating, Kevin is completely drained. Kevin is exhausted. Kevin has nothing left to give, even if he wants to give Jean everything and more, everything he deserves.
OK, Jean signs. He understands because he always understands. “Just come on, OK? We have to be quick.”
Kevin nods, and he allows Jean to drag him down the hall to the locker room. His ear still hurts, is probably hot to the touch, but his legs and center are worse. Each shin is already bruising, each knee is already aching. His stomach muscles are already tense, his flank is already strained. Still, Kevin does not let Jean help him undress and he definitely doesn’t let Jean help him shower. That, Kevin suffers through on his own, hand to the damp wall and hot water breathing life back into his bones. It was a rough one, but Riko is always rough. Kevin can handle it. Kevin was born to handle it.
Water pools around his ankles, leaving droplet kisses on skin mottled blue and purple. Playing in this condition will be hard, but it’s always hard. At least Kevin will sleep easy like this, hurt and exhausted both. He shuts the water off and stumbles, towel around his waist, back to the bench. Back to Jean.
“Blood?” Jean asks, keeping it simple for Kevin’s sake.
Kevin’s voice is still missing, but he signs, No.
OK, Jean signs back, like it’s the only word he knows and maybe it is. Jean hates water, but he dries Kevin’s hair anyway. He tucks a damp strand behind Kevin’s ear, and right where Riko hit him, Jean gives a soothing pinch to Kevin’s earlobe. Jean hates to look away, but he turns around while Kevin shoves protesting legs into black pants. His thighs, he notices, are bruised too. He presses down on a blotch of color, just a painful reminder that he’s still alive, he survived, and then he pulls his waistband up to his hips. With the damage concealed, he nudges Jean to signal he’s finished.
Jean looks down at him, and Kevin looks up. He wants to say something, but he has nothing to say. He thinks maybe Jean wants to say something too because he opens his mouth and then closes it, because his hands twitch at his sides. In the end, Jean simply takes the towel from Kevin and deposits it with the rest of the team’s laundry, and then he holds out an arm for Kevin. Kevin takes it, braces himself, pushes himself to standing. Jean doesn’t let him go it alone for even a moment, immediately wraps an arm around Kevin’s waist.
Side by side, they make their way to the dorms. If Jean were to speak now, Kevin wouldn’t know, and then what would be the point? If Kevin were to speak now, Jean wouldn’t be able to answer, and then what would be the point? Instead, they take to the halls in silence, one steady and the other stumbling.
As they walk, Kevin’s mind comes back to him and he realizes that Jean is risking being out after curfew for him. Kevin should brush Jean off, insist he’s okay, he can make it on his own, but he doesn’t. Kevin clings to Jean all the way back to the room he shares with Riko, and then he clings a little more. He doesn’t want to go in. He doesn’t want to leave him.
If Jean were to speak now, Riko might hear it. If Kevin were to speak now, Riko might hear it. Neither can say a word. Kevin tugs, softly, at the hem of Jean’s shirt. Jean smiles, even more softly, and traces the shell of Kevin’s ear with his thumb. It’s meaningless, all of it is meaningless when Kevin has to go in and Kevin has to leave him, but still, they linger. One touch and then another.
OK, Kevin signs.
Jean nods, and he lets Kevin go.
· · ·
K-e-v-i-n.
Jean signs each letter slowly, staring down at the pictures in the book and taking his time to get it exactly right. When he’s finished, he looks up at Kevin to seek his approval, questions and hearts in his gray eyes.
“Is that it?” Jean asks.
“Yes,” Kevin says, simultaneously sharing the word’s sign, a motion almost like knocking on an invisible door.
Jean smiles at him, proud of himself, and repeats Kevin’s name twice over. Something in Kevin aches that the first word Jean is learning, after the initial alphabet and the simple OK, is his name. Something in Kevin burns that Jean is learning this language, a fourth language, just so he can better communicate with him. Kevin needs this, but Jean doesn’t, but for some reason, he wants it anyway. That aches and burns and blinds Kevin.
“Show me mine,” Jean says.
Kevin has had longer with the book than Jean has, so he doesn’t have to look at the pictures to remember the letters. He’s still slow with it, though, clumsy with his lack of practice, as he signs, J-e-a-n Y-v-e-s.
“That’s too long. It’s inconvenient. Just do Jean.” He tries it for himself, J-e-a-n.
“Your name is not inconvenient,” Kevin says. “It is just your name.”
“Too long,” Jean repeats. “This,” he taps the book, “is supposed to make talking to each other easier. I am not offended if you shorten it. Are you offended if I shorten yours?” And then he does, dropping the second half of Kevin’s name, to call him only, K-e-v.
Kevin is not offended. If anything, Kevin is warmed by the nickname. In the depths of his memory, Kevin draws up his mother’s voice and the single syllable. His childhood bedroom was dark but for the nightlight in the corner, and his mother petted over his hair and the line of his forehead. She kissed him there, and whispered, “Sweet dreams, Kev.” He can remember that sound, quiet as it was. He can’t exactly imagine it from Jean’s voice, a voice he doesn’t know, but the flex and slope of his fingers is enough. He smiles.
“No,” he says.
Still, Kevin refuses to take from Jean what Riko has already stolen. If Kevin is going to use a nickname to call for Jean, then it is going to be one he’s given him himself. He thinks it over, trying to come up with a shortened way to keep both halves of Jean-Yves whole. He chews on his lip and pulls the guidebook from Jean’s lap, studying the alphabet with a new intention.
“How about,” Kevin says, and then he presents Jean with two letters, J-Y.
It won’t be until years later, when they’re both free from the Nest, that Kevin realizes the significance of this moment and this decision. If he knew that he was giving Jean his sign name, a name that would stay with him in every deaf community he breaches, then he might’ve given it more thought. He might’ve agonized and overanalyzed and done everything in his power to make sure it was perfect. He definitely wouldn’t have chosen something so rudimentary, so… simple.
But Kevin doesn’t know the significance of this moment, not when he’s in it. But he gives Jean two letters, one for Jean and one for Yves, and in doing so, he christens Jean with his official sign name. But it is perfect in its simplicity.
Jean echoes it, J-Y, and his eyes crinkle as his smile deepens. “Yes,” Jean says. “That is good. Easy.”
Kevin wants to tell Jean that he can ask for more than just easy, but then again, neither of them have ever known a life of ease. Maybe that’s exactly what they deserve and exactly what they owe each other. Kevin smiles back at Jean and signs, E-a-s-y.
· · ·
The last thing Kevin ever heard was his mother’s voice, singing along to a Cranberries’ CD and voice lilting over the lyrics to “Sunday.” If she screamed when the car hit them, Kevin doesn’t remember. If she managed a last word to him, reassurance or apologies or sentiments of love, Kevin doesn’t remember that either. His last memory of his mother is her tone deaf singing, almost ten years gone by now.
So much of Kevin’s life is ancient history. Really, it’s no wonder he’s obsessed with the subject.
The first time Kevin remembers being drawn in by history, he was nine years old and watching a Nat Geo documentary in the hospital after another surgery failed to restore his hearing. The documentary taught him how the dinosaurs went extinct: a meteor wiped them all out at once. There was something there, Kevin thought, about the earth’s ability to persevere, continuing to sustain new life, even after losing so much in a single fatal blow. History, Kevin realized as he grew up and learned more, is full of similar feats.
The Choctaw Tribe endured the Trail of Tears, and though they suffered great tragedy and turmoil, their hearts remained intact. They raised one hundred and seventy dollars, which today would be thousands, to send to Ireland during the famine less than a decade later. And later, Ireland survived the famine only to fall into the Troubles. They could have focused only on their own independence, but instead, Ireland turned to empathize with those whose struggles paralleled their own. Ireland was the first member of the EU to endorse and recognize the independent state of Palestine.
After every war, every natural and man-made disaster, and every terrible genocide the world has faced, major efforts are made to rebuild and heal. After every period of oppression, minority groups embark on political movement, refusing to accept less than they deserve. Over and over, history proves that life is terrible, but life is also resilient.
Kevin’s favorite of these events—if it isn’t weird to have a favorite—is Chernobyl. One of the worst nuclear accidents that has ever occurred, the Chernobyl disaster leaked huge amounts of radioactive material into the atmosphere, killing dozens and endangering more. But even then, even with literal poison in the air, the area didn’t die. Life came back. Life came back different and strange and seemingly wrong, but it came back.
That means something to Kevin. All of it, every instance of perseverance, means something to Kevin.
Jean slides into the seat next to Kevin, peering over his shoulder to get a look at his book. It’s an anthology of the Chernobyl disaster, collecting firsthand accounts of the tragedy and its aftermath. It’s been in Kevin’s collection of books for a while, and he returns to it every time he needs a reminder of strength. The pages are worn from years of use and the cover is folded from one unfortunate accident, but the book remains intact in its own way, too.
“Chernobyl again?” Jean asks.
Kevin closes the book. They’ve talked about this before, when Jean teased Kevin that his interest in Chernobyl was because it’s the most important thing, after his birth, that happened in 1986, and in return, Kevin frowned and said, “I just like history.” He couldn’t put it into words, then, why he cares so much about the past, and he can’t put it into words now either. Jean probably understands, though, to some extent.
“Yes,” Kevin says.
Jean reaches over Kevin to thumb over the cover’s folded corner.
“It’s originally a Russian book,” Kevin says. “It was translated to English. It bothers me that I’ll never fully be able to understand the— the— nuance and weight of the survivors’ testimonies. I’ll never know the true meaning of their original words or why they chose those words specifically.”
He’s not sure why he says it. Maybe because he’s been thinking a lot about the limits of language lately. He’s been thinking about how there will always be a barrier between himself and Jean, about how they will never know each other without armor, without translation. Kevin wants to know Jean raw, but Kevin doesn’t ever get what he wants.
Jean frowns. “But you understand the heart of it, non? Is that not enough?”
Kevin wants more than Jean’s heart. Kevin wants his bones, his brain, his blood, his muscles, his tissues. Kevin wants his lungs, his liver, his cartilage, his spine, his spleen. Kevin wants every tiny piece of Jean with nothing, nothing, left behind. But if he can’t have it all, if he can only have one thing, then he supposes the heart is a good part to have.
“It’s enough,” Kevin says, unsure if it’s true but needing it to be.
Jean flips the book open once more, somehow returning Kevin to the exact page he left off on. Kevin begins to read again. Jean probably isn’t reading along, but Kevin pretends he is.
· · ·
The Nest is never peaceful, but it is calmer when Riko is sent on press trips—extensive interviews that no one but Riko can be trusted not to screw up, not even Kevin. He’s been gone since early this morning and he won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon, after Kathy Ferdinand finishes stroking his ego to its full heights. There’s a buoyancy to Riko’s absence. They’re no longer treading water for every gasp of air but floating, weightless, on the surface.
It’s late. They should be catching up on much needed rest, or at the very least, they should be taking advantage of court time without Riko’s domineering presence. Instead, Kevin is laid out on his stomach on Jean’s bed, watching him.
Jean’s sitting on the floor, ASL guidebook in his lap. He uses his finger to underline each word as he goes, reading about the structure and syntax of ASL. The topic-comment grammar style, the importance of facial expressions. Jean lifts the book to Kevin, points to a bald guy smiling wide enough to split the earth in two, and says, “My face does not do this.”
Too lazy to get up, Kevin extends a hand to beckon for Jean, and Jean follows. He puts the book aside and moves onto his knees and into Kevin’s space. Kevin presses himself up onto an elbow. With one hand, he cradles Jean’s face, his cheek and jaw, and draws him impossibly closer. With the other, he presses at the corner of his mouth. He’s gentle, doesn’t want to hurt him, but he pushes, just a little. Instinctively, Jean gives way to his manipulation, lips spreading to a faint smile.
“Your face,” Kevin says, but he can’t finish his sentence without giving himself away. Cruel, he drags his hand up to Jean’s eyebrows, smooths one down and then presses at it the same as his mouth, coaxing it to lift. Jean looks ridiculous, pulled at and prodded, but Kevin doesn’t care. He still looks beautiful. “There.”
Jean stares at him, heavy, and Kevin stares back at him.
With one hand, Jean cups Kevin’s face, half covering his tattoo and half covering his ear. With the other, Jean slides his fingers into Kevin’s hair, tangling but not yanking, just keeping him still. Jean closes his eyes, and Kevin realizes what he’s about to do. Kevin should push him away. Kevin should pull himself away, but he can only drop one useless hand to dangle between them. Kevin should shut his eyes, too, but he can only watch the flutter of Jean’s lashes and the dip of his cupid’s bow as he leans in.
It’s late. They should be sleeping, or at the very least, practicing. Instead, Jean kisses Kevin.
Kevin sinks into him. He loses his vision, so all that’s left is touch and taste and smell. Jean’s lips and hands, Jean’s mint toothpaste, Jean’s deodorant and the laundry detergent they all share. Kevin loses himself in the swirl of boy, of man, of Jean-Yyves. He’s afraid he’s making hungry, starving, animal noises, but he also doesn’t care. Let Jean swallow them. Let Jean swallow him whole. Kevin has never been kissed before. Kevin doesn’t ever want it to end.
On his stomach like this, propped up on one elbow, Kevin barely has the freedom or the agency to kiss Jean back. He can only melt into him, into the cracks of his chapped and bitten lips. He lets himself be pulled under the waves, lets himself drown, until he can’t anymore. His arm goes numb. His breath goes shaky with need.
Kevin pushes away. Kevin inhales his desperation, and exhales it in the shape of, “Wait—”
Jean is off of him in seconds, falling back onto his haunches. Jean’s eyes are wide and his mouth is red, and Kevin wants to laugh, to tell him how expressive his face is now, but he can’t. Kevin can’t think beyond falling back into Jean’s orbit. He stumbles off the bed and to the floor, kneeling in front of Jean and then kneeling closer. He inches forward until their legs are slotted together, thigh against thigh against thigh.
“Kev,” Jean says, signing it too.
“Jean-Yves,” Kevin says. “More.”
Jean smiles, just once, just small, and then he dives back in. His hands slot back into Kevin’s hair, and Kevin’s knot in Jean’s t-shirt. It’s late. They should be sleeping or practicing, but instead, they indulge. Jean kisses Kevin hard, and Kevin kisses Jean soft, and they lose themselves in each other. There’s no such thing as peace in a place like the Nest, and there certainly isn’t any here, kneeling on the floor of Jean and Zane’s room and trading forbidden kisses. If they’re caught, they’re dead, but they won’t be caught tonight. For a moment, they’re allowed this. For a moment, they taste nothing but dangerous desire in each other.
Peace, Kevin thinks, with Jean’s tongue in his mouth, is overrated anyway.
· · ·
They’re running precision drills today, which really just means Kevin is trying not to show off more than he’s allowed. He excels at precision, at premediation, at perfected angles and footwork. When the freshman try these drills for the first time, they spend their time hesitating and staring at the cones for fear of tripping. Kevin doesn’t hesitate, and he definitely doesn’t look down. He weaves through the cones like it’s second nature, because it is, and he throws the ball without a breath. The back of the goal lights up red.
Kevin smothers his smile.
He falls back in line with the rest of the team, letting someone else take their turn. Really, these drills are most suited for honing the skills of strikers, but all Ravens are required to best them. After all, all Ravens are required to be the best. Kevin finds Jean and stands next to him. They don’t look at each other, but tension crackles between them like static.
Berger takes his turn after Kevin. Berger is one of Kevin’s least favorite Ravens, unnecessarily harsh and unearned in his arrogance. He’s been trying to earn Riko’s approval for years, and when that hasn’t worked, he’s tried to bully Jean into putting in a good word for him. He’s an idiot if he thinks Jean has any say in who becomes perfect court, and he’s an idiot if he thinks they need another striker. If there’s ever a number four, which Kevin doubts, it’ll be a defensive player who can level up to Jean.
Kevin’s only seen that once.
Berger slips through the cones without overtly tripping or knocking them over, but his footwork is sloppy. He’s relying on luck more than practice, and it annoys Kevin that someone this amateur still thinks they deserve a number on their cheek. If anything, Berger barely deserves a spot on this team. Berger shoots and scores, ball souring through Lyle Holden’s blindspot. Kevin rolls his eyes.
“Holden should’ve blocked that,” Kevin says to Jean.
Jean spares him a glance, but he doesn’t answer. They’re not supposed to talk during practice, and they’re definitely not supposed to gossip about their fellow Ravens’ weaknesses. Kevin, desperate for Jean’s attention, is brazen. He speaks again.
“Wish we’d gotten Minyard.”
It’s a sore spot for the perfect court. Riko didn’t take well to Minyard’s rejection, saw it as proof of Minyard’s incompetence and used it as a reason to punish Kevin, and Jean— well, Jean would like a partner within the perfect court. He didn’t put word to his disappointment, but in the weeks after Minyard turned them down, he was especially downtrodden, wearing a constant frown. Now, Kevin wishes he had kissed it off of him and promised that if he’s anyone’s partner, he isn’t Riko’s. It’s Jean that he belongs to.
“Shut up,” Jean says. “Do not let him hear you say that.”
Kevin shrugs. “It’s the truth.”
“You are a fool,” Jean says. “No one wants your honesty.”
Kevin smiles around his mouthguard, gummy and ugly. “Liar. You want every part of me.”
Jean taps his racquet against Kevin’s shoe, just hard enough to be reprimanding, and doesn’t say anything else. Kevin doesn’t mind, though, he’s gotten what he wants. When the next player steps up to the cones, Jean isn’t looking at them, but at Kevin. A sliver of amusement carves itself into the corner of his mouth, his cheek, and Kevin is satisfied.
· · ·
In a quiet corner of the Nest, they share a private, treacherous, reckless moment. Same as their first kiss, Jean is the one who initiates it. He finds an opening, finds Kevin, and drags him away by his wrist. Kevin allows himself to be pulled and guided, doesn’t even consider putting up a fight.
“Jean-Yves,” Kevin says, accompanied by J-Y.
Jean puts a finger to Kevin’s lips, constantly telling him to be quiet when everyone else is always expecting him to speak up, do more, be better. Jean takes Kevin as he is and takes him in hand, fist clenched in his shirt as he pushes him against the wall. Like this, the two inches between them seem a mile. Kevin tilts his chin to gaze at Jean, and Jean bends his neck to gaze at him.
Kevin’s not sure which of them closes the distance between them, just that it shrinks to nothing until their lips meet. It’s been days and days and days since their first kiss, and they haven’t had a moment alone in the interim. They should be greedy, needy, pent up. The kiss should be desperate, hungry, angry. Instead, they are gentle, tender, loving. Instead, the kiss is soft, chaste, easy.
Noses bump and lips part. If allowed, Kevin could do only this and nothing more for hours, forever. If allowed, Kevin would do this until his mouth was numb and tingly. They don’t have that kind of time, he knows that, but he imagines it anyway. Noses bumping and lips parting until they are so intermingled, so entangled, that they cannot ever be separated. Kevin knows he wants or needs too much, plagued by abandonment and abuse. Kevin knows this might be considered wrong, but he doesn’t feel wrong. He feels mended and put together and held up, strong and steady, in Jean’s embrace.
He feels right, like this.
And besides, Jean is made of the same hurts as he is. The only person who has ever been able to match Kevin shot for shot, want for want, need for need, is Jean Moreau. This can’t be wrong when it’s Jean Moreau.
Jean slides his hand under Kevin’s shirt, just at the neck, just to graze his shoulder, and Kevin is suddenly overwhelmed. He breaks their kiss and leans his head against the wall, but when that isn’t enough, he falls forward to rest his head on Jean’s shoulder. He breathes there, a moment, with Jean’s hand kneading at the back of his neck. If Jean is speaking, his words are lost on Kevin. If Jean is worried, he doesn’t show it.
“I miss you,” Kevin says, nonsensical.
Jean lets him hide a little longer, until his breath evens out, and then he uses his grip on Kevin’s neck to tip him upright. Jean looks at him, gray eyes twinkling under harsh fluorescent lights, and says, “I am right here.”
Kevin finds Jean’s waist with his hands and squeezes the meat of him, his center. Kevin nods. “I know.”
Jean pinches Kevin’s chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger. Jean plants a kiss at the corner of Kevin’s mouth, and he mumbles something against his lips that Kevin will never understand. Jean drags his lips to Kevin’s ear, and he whispers something else, a secret of exhaled breath.
“Jean-Yves,” Kevin complains with hands and mouth.
“Time’s up,” Jean says. “You are OK. Yes?”
Kevin nods, but still, he says, “It’s not enough.”
“I know,” Jean agrees. “I feel it too. Remember that.”
They hug, a fierce and tight embrace, and this time, it’s Kevin that has to remind them that time and safety are dwindling. Hands still on Jean’s waist, Kevin helps Jean find his balance and kisses his chin and walks away. He leaves Jean in that little private corner of the Nest, knowing that Jean will follow him in just a minute more. Though he wants to, Kevin does not allow himself to look back.
· · ·
They share more than just quiet corners and forbidden kisses. They share this, too, Kevin’s hand sliding through Jean’s, playing with his fingers, and Kevin’s mouth opening to speak a sentiment that hasn’t been spoken in years.
“I miss my mother,” he says.
He tries not to think about her often. He lets the media, the public, the world dilute her down to the version of her they knew: one half of the creators of Exy, one of the most important female athletes in the world of sports. It’s easier to live with the caricature of Kayleigh Day than it is to live with memories of a past he can’t escape to and questions of a present he doesn’t understand. Why did his own mother give him over to the Nest, a place of agony and torment, when his father is only a couple hundred miles south?
He knows the answer. He knows Kayleigh wanted Kevin to be her legacy. He knows Kayleigh wanted Kevin to be the best, and the Ravens, despite their many flaws, are the best. Sometimes, Kevin wishes she just wanted him to be her son, to be loved, to be safe. But these are perilous thoughts, and Kevin hates to think them.
Kevin is terrified of tainting the memory of his mother.
Jean’s hand tightens around Kevin’s, a squeeze that presses joints and palms and knuckles together. “I miss my sister.”
Kevin has always known that Jean left a sister behind in Marseille, but he doesn’t know anything about her. He doesn’t know if she was older or younger, doesn’t know if she played Exy too, doesn’t even know her name. Kevin drags the nail of his thumb over the nail of Jean’s pinky, a kiss in its own right. “What is her name?”
“Elodie,” Jean says, slowly.
“Elodie,” Kevin parrots. He contorts each syllable to match the shape of Jean’s mouth, the rise and fall of El-oh-dee. For the practice of it, he spells the name with his dominant hand as he speaks.
Jean nods. “Yes.”
They go quiet, neither offering insight into the people they miss and neither wanting to pry too deep into the other’s heart. There are some wounds that even time can’t heal, that will remain ripe and fresh until the day they go to their graves.
Jean puts his hand on Kevin’s shoulder, squeezing and massaging at the socket. His hand trails down to Kevin’s bicep, and he runs the pad of his fingers over the place where t-shirt and skin meet. Kevin covers Jean’s hand with his own, not stopping him from touching but stilling the extent of his exploration. Jean looks at him, a quiet question in the slope of his lips, and Kevin shrugs beneath his hold.
“Tell me about France?” Kevin asks.
“You would like the ocean, I think,” Jean says. He doesn’t explain why, so Kevin tries to imagine it, warm sun and salty air and the mesmerizingly predictable ebb and flow of the waves. “Tell me about Ireland?”
Kevin shakes his head. Kevin drops Jean’s hand, and in an instant, Jean is moving again, down to the back of Kevin’s elbow. There, his skin is dry despite the lotion he applies. There, Jean pinches loose skin, a weird and painless act.
“I—” Kevin starts and stops. He doesn’t remember much of Ireland. He only lived there the first nine years of his life, too young to realize that his experience was individual and not everyone grew up in a little island country. He didn’t take the time to appreciate it. He was only nine when he left, too grief-stupid to realize he was never going back. “I don’t know. I don’t remember it well. I remember our house and the court.”
“Was it nice?” Jean asks.
He’s probably asking about the court, a repurposed space for a fledgling sport. Kevin’s mind goes, instead, to their little two bedroom house, quilts hanging over the back of every chair and tea pot whistling to harken every new day. “Yeah,” Kevin says. “It was nice.”
“Good,” says Jean. His hand falls to Kevin’s wrist, and he prods at the bone. Kevin lets him, and once again, they go quiet.
· · ·
“Hold him down,” Riko says.
Jean’s wrists are already cuffed, metal chain connecting his hands to each other and to the locker room’s bench. Jean’s body is already weakened by hours on the court and Riko’s physical assault. Right now, there’s no need to keep Jean in check, but Kevin knows what’s coming and he knows, handcuffs and fatigue aside, Jean will fight. Instinctive, Jean will fight to survive as water crowds him.
Kevin wants nothing to do with this. Kevin is taller than Riko, bigger than Riko, probably stronger than Riko. He could refuse. He could rebel against him with his words and his fists. But Kevin is, logistically, an orphan and a piece of property while Riko has the full weight of the yakuza behind him. Riko might not be respected or loved by his father and his men, but he will be protected by them. A slight against Riko is a slight against them all, and Kevin is powerless to take them on.
More than anything, though, Riko is cruel, and Kevin is—
Kevin is bound to the knowledge, the gratitude, that the Nest took him in, sheltered and trained him, when they could’ve left him bleeding in that car. Kevin is bound to the knowledge, the sense memory, that he used to love Riko. When they were young and alone, when they were two kids with the same dreams and the same fears, Kevin loved Riko as if he was family because he was. Riko was his brother, and probably still is. The idea of striking out against him, even after all the harm Riko has caused, seems impossible. Kevin used to love Riko, and now he is paralyzed by him.
When Riko says to come, Kevin follows. When Riko says to hold him down, Kevin puts his hands on Jean’s shoulders. The towel, damp and dripping, is already covering Jean’s face, but even blind, Jean knows who’s holding him. Jean should hate him for this, but instead, he seeks comfort in Kevin and presses into his touch. It’s not much, but Kevin brushes his thumb over Jean’s pulse point, a reassurance and a promise that Kevin is here.
Because he’s not allowed to be anywhere else.
Because he can’t leave Riko’s side and he doesn’t want to leave Jean’s. Because, at least if Kevin is here, he can lie to himself that he’s here to stop Riko from going too far. That, somehow, in helping Riko hurt Jean, he’s also keeping him safe.
Riko reaches for the bucket of water, and Kevin’s fingers clench around the bulk of Jean’s shoulders. He’s not sure if he’s warning him or if he’s simply twitching with unreleased tension. No one in the world deserves this, but Jean Moreau might deserve it least of all. His performance on the court today certainly wasn’t flawed enough to bring this kind of malice. Kevin clears his mind of logic, knows he won’t find any here, and braces himself.
When the bucket tips, Jean thrashes, choking and drowning. When Jean thrashes, Kevin holds him down, dutiful and deadly. Kevin clears his mind of all thought, then, and lets himself forget this moment even as it’s happening right before his eyes.
· · ·
Jean doesn’t show up to breakfast the next morning.
Annoyingly, Zane Reacher, his supposed partner, sits in the cafeteria without a care that Jean is about to be late to practice. Kevin considers scolding Zane for his negligence, warning him of the punishment that will befall both of them if he can’t keep his partner in line, but decides against it. He’d rather wake Jean himself. He steals a rare piece of fruit from the pile and slips out of the cafeteria unnoticed.
Jean is still asleep, bruised cheek pressed into his pillow and hair splayed in a halo around his head, when Kevin finds him. Kevin sets the apple on the squat table next to Jean’s bed and kneels, in reverence and in his hesitation. There’s no such thing as peace in the Nest, but Jean sure does look the picture of it. If Kevin is going to wake Jean up, then he is going to do so gently.
Slow, Kevin cards his fingers through the tangle of Jean’s curls, one or two still damp through the night. Soft, Kevin leans in to press a kiss to Jean’s forehead, skin as smooth as marble beneath his lips.
“Jean-Yves,” he whispers.
Despite his best efforts, Jean still startles when he rouses. His eyes widen and his muscles tense, pulling against the touch of Kevin’s hand in his hair. He winces, and then he throws an arm out. Kevin lets go and backs up before he gets hit, though he wouldn’t have begrudged Jean the blow if it landed.
“Jean-Yves,” he repeats, trying to signal to Jean that it’s just him, that he’s safe.
Gray eyes fall onto Kevin, kneeling in supplication, and his eyes and muscles soften all at once. He exhales a shuddering breath, twisting against his pillow to return to comfort and to sleep. Kevin smiles fondly.
“I brought you a present,” Kevin says, reaching for the apple.
Jean tracks the movement, and now, his eyes widen with something just shy of excitement. He curls his fingers at Kevin, a request and a plea, and Kevin would give him anything he’s ever wanted if he could. Their hands brush as the fruit is passed between them. Jean takes a bite, crunching through skin and slipping into sour sweetness, and his eyes fall shut. He doesn’t even sit up, just lies there like a god accepting his sacrifice. He chews and swallows.
“Good?” Kevin asks.
Jean doesn’t speak, but he takes another bite, so Kevin knows the answer. Fruit is a rare treat in the Nest, and no one appreciates it as much as Jean does. He adores it in a way that Kevin longs to understand, wishes he could share in Jean’s unique tastebuds. Instead, Kevin is often overwhelmed by fruit, the brittle flavor and fickle texture.
“You need to get up,” Kevin tells him.
“Don’t want to,” Jean says, voice a little hoarse from the night before, mouth a little full from his indulgence.
Once more, Kevin threads his fingers through Jean’s hair, careful not to pull on any knots. He applies the slightest pressure to the back of Jean’s skull, as if he can push him to sit up with just the tips of his fingers. Jean leans back into him instead, sinking into the cushion of Kevin’s touch. It’s awful how much this affects Kevin. He is overcome with devotion.
When Kevin kisses Jean, he tastes like apple. When he pulls back, he whispers, against the curve of his lips, “Get up.”
Jean frowns, but he nods and signs, OK.
Just for the sake of it, Kevin kisses Jean again, and he thinks he could get used to fruit if it came only from Jean’s lips.
· · ·
“Why do I need to learn to introduce myself?” Jean complains. “Teach me something useful. Tell me how to say that we are going to beat Penn State on Saturday.”
“I can’t teach you something I don’t know myself,” Kevin says. He lets the pages of the ASL guidebook flutter under his thumb, flipping in quick succession, even though he knows a phrase like that is nowhere within this beginner’s textbook. “The first thing you need to tell someone is your name. We should’ve looked at this weeks ago.”
Jean rolls his eyes. “Who will I be introducing myself to, Kev?” The shortened form of Kevin’s name has become more and more common since it was first used, but it still feels special. “We are learning this in secret, remember?”
Kevin shrugs. “We won’t be in the Nest forever.”
“But you will be forbidden from telling anyone you’re deaf forever,” Jean argues.
Kevin doesn’t want to think about that. Kevin doesn’t want to admit that he hopes it isn’t true, hopes that someday he has enough sway and pull and power as a professional athlete and Olympian to share this truth with the world without the yakuza immediately killing him. Kevin shrugs again. “You might meet another deaf person at some point.”
“I don’t care about that,” Jean says. “I am only learning this to talk to you. Who cares if I can’t introduce myself to a hypothetical deaf stranger years in the future?”
It’s not a revelation. Kevin is the only deaf person Jean currently knows, after all. Kevin specifically asked Jean to learn ASL with him, after all. There is nothing novel about the words, but still, Kevin’s heart churns with gratitude and affection.
This is Jean’s fourth language, Kevin reminds himself, both a symbol of Jean’s genius and an evidence of Jean’s effort. To learn another language just for Kevin is the most impressive, most worthwhile, most incredible thing anyone has ever done for him. Kevin thinks about shoving the book aside to make out with Jean instead. He thinks about flipping through the book to find a phrase strong enough to praise and thank Jean for his hard work, though Kevin’s sure no adequate words exist.
“Stop … teach me … knowing.”
Jean’s words skate by Kevin, too caught off guard and lost in his thoughts to comprehend them. If it was anyone else, Kevin would pause to gather his wits and come up with an educated guess at their missing meaning, but Kevin doesn’t care about looking stupid or slow in front of Jean. He cares too much about knowing him, understanding him, to worry about his own image.
“Sorry,” Kevin says. “Repeat that?”
“Do not say sorry,” Jean says, touching his thumb to Kevin’s jaw. He intentionally slows down in his repetition. “I said: stop being stubborn and teach me something worth knowing.”
Kevin laughs. “What do you want to say?”
Jean thinks it over, and as he thinks, he pushes against the muscle of Kevin’s jaw. His masseter flinches and spasms in response, but is just as quickly soothed by Jean’s touch the same as the rest of Kevin is. If Kevin tilts his head a little further into Jean’s fingers, then at least no one is here to witness his greed.
“Tell me how to say,” Jean decides, “Fuck you, Riko.”
Kevin laughs again, probably too loud. Jean’s thumb twitches towards his mouth, like he might plunge the digit into Kevin’s depths to keep him quiet and keep them from being caught. Embarrassing though it might be, Kevin likely wouldn’t mind that.
The phrase Jean requested definitely wouldn’t be in a book sold by USC, but Kevin has been deaf since he was nine years old. There are some things that you find a way to learn, school sanctioned or not, and swearing is one of them.
“Fuck you, R-i-k-o,” Kevin says, fingerspelling his name.
Fuck you, R-i-k-o, Jean repeats, grinning as he goes.
· · ·
There are many sounds Kevin has never heard.
He’s never heard music released later than 1995. He’s never heard the rap of the Master’s cane against concrete floors. He’s never heard locker doors slamming open and closed as the team rushes to get ready for practice or a game. He’s never heard the American national anthem, at least not that he remembers, that plays before they’re allowed to let the ball fly. He’s never heard Sergio Perez’s infamous snoring. He’s never heard Riko’s insults.
There are many sounds Kevin has never and will never hear, and most of them, he doesn’t mind missing out on. In another life, he might’ve liked listening to and identifying birds chirping overhead. In another life, he might’ve liked snoozing his blaring alarm two times over, just to get eighteen more minutes of sleep. In another life, he might’ve liked closing his eyes as waves crashed against the shore of Marseille. In this life, though, Kevin will never hear birds, a morning alarm, or the ocean of Marseille, and that’s okay with him. Nothing worth wasting his time wishing for.
Some things, though, dwell stubborn in his mind.
“Say it again,” Kevin says, not because he hasn’t understood Jean’s words, but because he craves more of them. Kevin places his palm over the span of Jean’s throat, so he can feel his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows, so he can feel the vibrations rumbling through his voice box when he speaks.
“Can I kiss you?” Jean asks.
Moments before, it was a demand, kiss me, but on his repetition, Jean softens into asking. Jean stares at Kevin with a pleading want burned into his irises. He won’t come any closer without Kevin’s permission, as if Kevin has ever thought to deny him the press of their lips. He hasn’t, and he never will.
Kevin’s hand slides to the back of Jean’s neck, tickled by the thin hair at his nape, and he uses his grip to draw Jean near. He brings him just near enough that their breath mingles and their noses brush. He holds him there, centimeters from kissing, until Jean’s eyes fall shut, lashes and yearning too heavy to bear.
“Yes,” Kevin whispers, and then he kisses Jean.
He tastes like birdsong, alarm clocks, and sea spray. He tastes like everything Kevin can never have and can never keep. Kevin, not for the first, second, or third time, wonders what Jean’s voice sounds like. Kevin wonders if Jean sounds different before and after he’s been kissed. Kevin wonders if Jean emits tiny sounds into his mouth and wonders what those might taste like.
This is Kevin’s most stubborn desire. This is something Kevin will consider for the rest of his days, and he’ll count himself lucky just to wonder about it. As far back as Kevin can remember, he’s never heard a French person speak. He can’t even imagine the accent plucked from Jean’s teeth.
“I wish I could hear your voice,” Kevin says. He keeps his words pressed into Jean’s lips and keeps his eyes pressed closed, so he can’t bear witness to Jean’s answering pity or sadness. “Just once.”
Jean kisses his lips again, just once, and then trails kisses across his face. Jean kisses his ear and his eyelid, and he chases those kisses with his thumb. Jean breathes on Kevin’s mouth, and Kevin has to know if it’s just a breath or if it’s a word. He opens his eyes to him.
“Jean-Yves,” he says, fingers twitching into shape between them.
“It is just a voice,” Jean says.
“But it’s yours,” Kevin says. Kevin lost his hearing before he went into puberty, meaning before his voice dropped, meaning he’s never even heard his own voice, but Kevin doesn’t care about his. He only cares about Jean’s. “It’s you.”
“It is just a voice,” Jean says. He takes Kevin’s hand from the back of his neck and puts it over his own heart instead. There is a silent reassurance, or maybe a confession, in that movement. To anyone else, it might not be clear, but to Kevin it is obvious. In this, Jean tells him, you have the rest of me.
It’s not enough to quiet Kevin’s longing, but it’s a balm over this hurt. Kevin clenches the fabric of Jean’s shirt in his hand, as if he’s trying to claw through to the skin and bone and organs below, and nods his understanding. Jean leans in for another kiss, and Kevin lets Jean have him.
· · ·
Kevin doesn’t like to sleep on the bus.
It’s too vulnerable—to close his eyes, to lose all his senses, to succumb to the complete ignorance and helplessness of sleep—when he won’t wake unless the bus jostles or someone jars him, usually not kindly. They’re on their way to an important game against Penn State, and Kevin is tired from horribly short days of practice and exams and more practice, but he will not take this time to sleep.
He stares out the window, and he pretends that watching the trees blur as they descend from the mountains of Appalachia equates to rest.
Of course Jean notices his plight. Of course Jean knows that Kevin suffers fatigue worse than the rest of them and needs to sleep before the game, or else he’ll be tired and sloppy during and even more tired and grumpy after. Jean finds a way to steal the seat next to Kevin while Riko is prowling the aisles like a predator, and he says, only one word, “Kevin.”
“Jean,” Kevin says, barely looking away from the window. If he doesn’t look, then he doesn’t have to face Jean’s concern.
Jean splays his leg a little wilder, a move that to outsiders will just seem like he’s getting comfortable but to Kevin is obviously just a way to get closer. Responding is the most natural thing in the world. Kevin adjusts his own legs, so his right knee knocks against Jean’s left. With each bump in the road, they collide again and again.
“If you want to sleep,” Jean says, no mention of need or the bags of exhaustion hanging under Kevin’s eyes, “I will sit here the whole time.”
Jean is smart, and he knows Kevin well. He’s trying to make Kevin think this is his own idea, so that he will be more likely to go along with it. It’s smart, but Kevin sees right through it, because he knows Jean well too.
“And you?” he asks. “You are tired too. You can’t sleep and watch over me at the same time.”
Jean shrugs. “I am fine. I do not mind playing guard dog to the rest of these pests.”
Kevin cracks the smallest of smiles. His limbs feel heavy and his brain feels even heavier. If he agrees outright, he’ll hate himself for asking this of Jean. If he disagrees outright, he’ll hate himself for passing up the opportunity to get the rest he needs to perform well on the court tonight. He compromises.
“Wake me at the halfway point,” Kevin says, “and we will switch.”
Jean frowns, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he considers the deal. “I would prefer if you slept the full six hours.”
“Jean,” Kevin says. He jostles his leg so, for a moment, their thighs meet. “Neither of us have gotten six hours of sleep in years. Three is plenty. It is either this, or I don’t sleep at all.”
“You are so stubborn, Kevin Day,” Jean says, but he gives in. “Fine. Close your eyes.”
Kevin flashes Jean the briefest of smiles, and then he leans his cheek against the window. He closes his eyes, and when he does, he knows nothing but the rough road beneath the bus, the cool glass on his face, and Jean’s leg against his. It is still vulnerable, but Kevin trusts Jean to keep vigil at his side. Kevin trusts Jean to keep his word and protect him.
It doesn’t take long for Kevin to drift off.
· · ·
The game ends in Raven victory.
Kevin shakes the hands of the opposing team, more willing than usual when he actually respects Penn State as part of the big three. He stands with Riko and answers the usual questions from the press. He follows Riko into the locker room, where they’re informed the ERC has called an impromptu meeting. The Master will hang back in Pennsylvania while the bus departs for West Virginia.
Peripherally, Kevin picks up on curious murmurs about the meeting and a glower contorting Riko’s face, but Kevin doesn’t worry about it. If anything, he thinks six hours without the Master’s presence will do them all some good. He’s sated with exercise and the win when he falls into the seat next to Jean, the bus jolting beneath them as it winds its way back into the mountains.
It’s not until later that night that Kevin realizes his mistake.
He should’ve wondered what the ERC wanted to discuss that was so important it couldn’t wait till morning or till the Master returned to the Nest. He should’ve done something to alleviate Riko’s anger at being left out of the loop of information.
The Master doesn’t usually disturb their sleep, but that night, he raps on Riko and Kevin’s door. The sound wakes Riko, but Riko has to wake Kevin, pulling on his arm and prodding Kevin’s shoulder. When Kevin opens his eyes, Riko is peering over him to say, “Come on, Kevin. Up.”
Kevin gets up. Riko opens the door to the Master.
With a flick of his fingers, the Master beckons for Riko and Kevin to follow him. They’re still in their sleep clothes. They’re barefoot as they pad behind the Master. There is a vulnerability in this that, momentarily, binds Riko and Kevin together. They are too drowsy and confused to conjure hatred or cruelty. They glance at each other as they go, just two terrified kids. If Kevin knew at the time that this walk in the dark would be the last time he and Riko were ever united, he might’ve appreciated the moment more.
The Master’s office is cold and dark, but he flips a lamp on to bathe concrete walls in cool light. Nothing good ever happens in this office, Kevin knows. His toes curl against the ground.
“The NCAA is concerned,” the Master says, with no preamble, “that internal politics are contributing to dynamics on the field. The NCAA believes Riko is holding you back, Kevin, and that you are truthfully the better player.”
Time slows down.
Kevin blinks. Kevin’s ears are ringing, worse than the phantom tinnitus he was plagued with constantly in the first year of his hearing loss. Kevin doesn’t dare look at Riko, but he doesn’t dare look away from the Master either. Kevin hopes that he is dreaming or that his half asleep mind has misread these words. Still, Kevin is the first to say, “That’s not true.”
“I want you to prove it,” the Master says. “Tomorrow night, I will watch you. One on one.”
And that’s it.
He has destroyed them, and he doesn’t even care. He dismisses them with a wave of his hand, sending them back into the dark of the hall. The weight of the challenge, the accusation, and the world bears down on them, and they have no choice but to crumble. Kevin wants to scream or cry or fight this, but he doesn’t. Kevin just follows Riko to their room with his heartbeat in his throat and the gallows in his future.
· · ·
The worst part of Riko’s abuse is his intentionality.
It cannot be excused as heat of the moment passion and anger. It’s not a slap across the face when they lose and an apology later. It’s a towel over Jean’s face and handcuffs around his wrists. It’s a knife over Kevin’s bruises and a shock of heat to his ears. It’s a calculated and conscious endeavor, a deliberate decision to inflict the most amount of pain possible.
Back in their room, Riko pulls out a swath of fabric Kevin recognizes all too well. It’s the blindfold Riko uses when he’s feeling his most vindictive, and it makes sense that he’d reach for it now. He can’t brutalize Kevin with his fists and his knives when their matchup is set for tomorrow and any newfound weakness in Kevin will be viewed as foul play. He can, however, torture Kevin’s mind.
“Riko,” Kevin says.
He knows there’s no use trying to find logic or rationale within Riko, not when the Master has just placed Riko’s worst fear over his head, a dangling sword of Damocles. Riko has always been terrified that, despite his lineage and his hours of practice and his desperation for success, he still isn’t good enough to be loved and respected. He still isn’t skilled enough to be the best. The Master has called the numbers on their faces into question, and so Kevin knows that Riko is lost to panic and fury.
Still, he tries. “Riko.”
“Shut up,” Riko says. “God, just shut up. Who have you been talking to? Did you slip a word to Penn’s useless coach? Is that what this is? Are you vying for my spot, Kevin? You’re conspiring against me, but you will never be first. Don’t you know the world will never accept a cripple for a king?”
Kevin flinches. “I’ve been at your side all day, Riko. This wasn’t me. I’ve always been content with number two, you know that.”
Kevin doesn’t know if that’s true, but it’s what he needs to believe and it’s what he needs to say, so he says it.
“I told you to shut up,” Riko says. “Or did you not understand that?”
Riko crowds into Kevin’s space, and Kevin smothers the urge to back away. Riko kicks Kevin’s knees out from under him, and Kevin stares up at him in an awful mixture of fear and defiance. Riko pats his cheek twice, and Kevin braces himself for a sharp smack of pain that never comes. Riko grins, or maybe he laughs, and Kevin wants to beg him for forgiveness, but what does he even have to apologize for? He does as he’s told and keeps his mouth shut.
Riko ties the blindfold, too tight and snagging at his hair, over his eyes. Kevin goes very still. If he doesn’t move, maybe he’ll feel the vibrations of Riko’s movements. If he doesn’t move, maybe he’ll cease to exist and this moment will end and everything will—
A hand grips his chin. Something warm and wet hits his cheek. Kevin burns with shame and sorrow and humiliation and hatred.
“Riko,” he says, stupid.
A hand pries his mouth open. Fabric presses down on his tongue. Kevin could get up. Kevin could find strength in his hands to rip away the blindfold and pry away the makeshift gag and shove away Riko. Instead, Kevin is very still. Kevin is very quiet.
Kevin endures.
· · ·
Kevin doesn’t want to tell Jean.
He doesn’t want Jean to know about the NCAA’s accusation, or the Master’s challenge, or Riko’s ensuing rage. Partly because he doesn’t want Jean to worry, but also because, if Jean knows, then it becomes real. Kevin doesn’t want it to be real. The ache in his knees says it’s real. The ache in his skull from hours of sleep deprivation says it’s real. But Kevin doesn’t have to listen to his body the way he has to listen to Jean.
It was just a nightmare, he tells himself, even as Riko snarls and snaps at him at every turn. It was just a nightmare, he tells himself, even as incomprehensible whispers and impossible tensions bubble through the Nest. It was just a nightmare.
The problem with Kevin refusing to tell Jean himself is that Jean can hear the whispers that Kevin can’t. It’s only midday when Jean catches Kevin by the back of his shirt and pulls him into the communal bathroom. The door doesn’t have a lock but Jean pushes a half-full trashcan in front of it, and then he pushes himself into Kevin’s space. He looks Kevin up and down, and Kevin doesn’t think about how pathetic and tired and scared he must look.
“Kev,” Jean says.
Kevin shakes his head, tries for the first time in his life to deny Jean anything. Kevin tugs at his own earlobe, tries to force the ringing that’s been blaring since last night to stop. Kevin collapses into Jean, throwing his arms around him and burying his face where neck and chest meet. He nuzzles his nose into skin and fabric. He smells like salt and, of course, the laundry detergent they all share.
If Jean is shocked by Kevin’s cave-in, then he shows no signs of it. He is ready to take Kevin into his embrace and hold him upright. He wraps strong arms around Kevin’s waist and squeezes tight enough that Kevin feels some trace of security and safety. He kisses Kevin’s forehead and his tattoo sweet enough that Kevin feels his shame and self-hatred alleviate.
With one hand on the small of Kevin’s back and the other pillowing his jaw, Jean guides Kevin out of darkness and into the light. He does it slow enough that Kevin doesn’t panic. He watches, observes, studies Kevin, and Kevin just stares into the melody of gray eyes.
“So, it’s true,” Jean says.
Kevin doesn’t want to say it aloud, but he nods for Jean. It’s true that the NCAA thinks, by virtue of the Master’s order or influence, that Riko is being put forward as the best player while Kevin is being held back. It’s true that the Master, in order to save face or to see his biases dashed before his very eyes, has challenged them to a one on one competition. It’s true that Riko, full of anger and fear, spent the night tormenting Kevin. Kevin lets it be real for Jean, and he lets himself feel his fear.
“You have to lose,” Jean says.
“I know,” Kevin says.
Jean nods, and they say nothing more about it. They can’t hold this bathroom captive much longer, but Jean pulls Kevin in for another hug, and Kevin takes all the comfort he can get. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen tonight, but he knows that Jean’s shoulders swallow his. He knows the dip of Jean’s cupid’s bow fits perfectly between Kevin’s lips.
It’s not enough, but in another life, it could be. It’s not enough, but still, it’s everything.
· · ·
Kevin does what is expected of him, now and always.
Kevin is one of the Sons of Exy, but he is the Son of the Daughter, and Riko is the Son of Man. Riko is supposed to be the heir to the throne. Riko is supposed to be King. Riko is supposed to be first, and Kevin is supposed to be second. When they take to the court that night, Kevin is supposed to lose, and so he does.
When the game is finished and the Master joins them on the half-court line, he’s supposed to be satisfied. He’s supposed to be vindicated by a performance which proved the NCAA’s allegations incorrect. He’s supposed to be proud of his nephew. But instead, the Master is angry. Instead, he lashes out at Riko. Kevin catches one thrown out phrase, “he let you win,” and then the rest is a blur of too fast and too mean.
Unable to do anything but watch, Kevin thinks of Chernobyl, a test gone wrong and an explosion of death and destruction. The Master is angrier than Kevin has ever seen him, angry enough to break the rules. He whips his cane at Riko’s face, turning his cheek with the force of the blow and sure to leave a gruesome mark. It is only Riko’s stubbornness that keeps him upright, and that only makes the Master’s fury grow. With his own hand, he slaps Riko.
The Master’s mouth moves quicker than light, and it’s possible he’s speaking Japanese now—there’s no way for Kevin to know when he can’t understand him either way. He throws the cane at Riko’s feet, and a moment later Riko is picking it up and holding it out to him, as if asking for another brutal hit of contrition. Punishment in exchange for forgiveness. Pain as a show of loyalty or a promise to be better. The Master shakes his head in disgust and denial, but he takes the cane.
He says something else, and then he turns his back on Riko, and then he leaves the court. Twin doors shiver to close on Riko and Kevin, to cage them in. There’s a note of finality there that Kevin can’t hear.
There’s a moment of total stillness.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Kevin thinks. His mother wasn’t supposed to die and his skull and its contents weren’t supposed to be damaged beyond repair. His mother’s last wish wasn’t supposed to send him somewhere so twisted and terrible. His brother wasn’t supposed to hate him, but it’s clear that Riko does. His head is bowed and a hand covers his cheek, blooming red already.
If there was anything Kevin could say to fix this, he would. But they have been doomed since the start, haven’t they? The Sons of Exy were always going to buckle under the pressure of expectation and greatness. Their fate has been sealed since the first time they took sharpies to their face, since the moment the NCAA called an impromptu meeting of the ERC. They were always going to end up pitted against each other. Kevin stands in stillness and watches Riko. There’s nothing else he can do.
Riko drops his hand to his side. Riko turns on Kevin, and he explodes. Unable to stop him, Kevin thinks again of Chernobyl, poison spreading to permeate and consume every living being in sight.
“You think you are better than me,” Riko says.
“No,” Kevin says. “I don’t.”
“Liar!” Riko shouts. “Stop lying to me.”
He’s got his racquet in his hand, a heavy that can do a good amount of damage even through layers of padded armor. They were instructed not to wear their armor or their helmets for this, irrelevant when they were two strikers who wouldn’t hurt each other. Kevin feels like a fool. Kevin thinks a racquet looks an awful lot like a cane, and he braces himself for Riko to mirror the Master’s abuse, to whack him across the face with the force of his fury.
Instead, Riko keeps yelling. He’s talking too fast for Kevin to comprehend or maybe Kevin’s vision is simply blurring with tears. His mind is a foggy wasteland of distress and panic. There are glimpses of understanding, slurs and degradation, but they vanish before Kevin can feel their impact. He doesn’t realize he’s shaking, weak in the knees, until Riko laughs and shoves him. Kevin goes down easier than he’s supposed to.
“If you … play … best … not … weak … take … away.”
“I don’t,” Kevin is breathless, panting. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course not,” Riko says, and suddenly, his anger dulls to a terrible calm. The worst part of Riko’s abuse is his intentionality. He is fueled and motivated and egged on by his emotions, but he is never controlled by them. He is purposeful in inflicting pain, hitting right where he knows it really hurts. Riko raises his racquet. “Maybe you will understand this.”
Kevin doesn’t have time to flinch before the racquet comes down on his left hand. He knows he screams, but he doesn’t hear the agony curdling in his throat. He knows bones snap, but he doesn’t hear them splinter to tiny pieces. He knows the racquet reaches the court floor, but he doesn’t hear the echo of impact. Blood pools on skin and floor and racquet, and Kevin is obliterated. One blow, and Riko has killed him.
There is pain, and then there is this.
This is waking up in a hospital bed to a nurse writing out the words, your mother is dead, and only after reading them realizing why they couldn’t be said to him aloud. This is one surgery and specialist after another until someone finally told the Master that he wasn’t going to get better and the disappointment and anger that followed. This is two boys, different in every way but united by legacy and passion, growing up together and then growing apart. This is watching Riko descend into darkness and knowing that nothing he could do would stop it. This is devastation. This is catastrophic.
This is nuclear.
Kevin stares at his own hand, mangled and murdered. Kevin can see his bone, and he turns over on his side to wretch. Bile spills down his chin to join the mess all around him.
This is death, Kevin thinks. He’s going to die.
There’s only one person who can save him. There is one person who promised to be here, no matter what, to witness the showdown. In the mess of chaos and the blur of fury, Kevin had forgotten, but he looks for Jean now, and he finds him in the stands. He’s on his feet, hand over his mouth, frozen in shock and fear.
With his right hand, Kevin signs to him, Please.
To anyone else, it would look like he is easing a pain in his chest or soothing a pain of betrayal, but Jean knows what he means. Jean nods, and he disappears. Kevin’s good hand drops, useless, to the ground.
· · ·
With the damage done, Riko leaves the court. Riko leaves Kevin broken and alone.
Kevin has suffered enough in his life to know that wallowing does no good. If he stays here, he’s going to die. If he can get up, he’s still probably going to die, but probably isn’t enough to sign his death certificate. Maybe he can find Josiah Smalls and beg him to follow the hippocratic oath, just this once, and help him. Maybe he can get to the locker room, rinse off the blood, and find that the injury isn’t as bad as he thought.
Kevin presses his right palm to the floor and staggers to his feet. Kevin cradles his left palm to his chest, terrified to move it. He stares, for just a moment, at the puddle of his own blood.
He’s halfway to the locker room when Jean returns. He’s got a pile of bandages and the keys to Kevin’s car in his hand. Kevin doesn’t understand how he got the keys, but he doesn’t have the strength to ask. He’s not sure he can speak at all, and he’s not sure he wants to. He might never talk again.
There are many things Kevin Day loves about Jean Moreau. His skill on the Exy court, his wit and sarcasm, his tenacity and intelligence, his gray eyes and the freckle beneath one, his lips and hands. More than anything, though, Kevin loves that Jean always knows exactly what Kevin needs. In this moment, he could flounder in panic or fall to coddling Kevin, but he knows Kevin needs certainty and stability. Kevin needs someone to tell him what to do, to tell him how to get through this, and Jean gives him exactly that.
“You have to go,” Jean says. He wraps the bandages around Kevin’s hand, staunching the bleeding. It should hurt to touch, but Kevin has gone numb with shock. “You won’t be allowed to live like this. You will be killed, either at his hand or your own.”
Kevin doesn’t want to talk, but for Jean, he finds his voice. “Come with me.”
“You know I can’t,” Jean says. “They might not come after you alone, but me? They will never let me go.”
It’s awful, but it’s true. There’s a hierarchy in the Nest, even among property like them. Kevin was a gift from the Daughter of Exy, but Jean? Jean was stolen as collateral damage, meant to repay an endless debt. As long as Jean lives, the main branch will ensure that he is kept in line and every drop of his revenue makes it into their hands. If he leaves, they will find him. But if Kevin leaves, permanently broken as he is now, they might decide he’s no longer worth the trouble and cut him loose.
“Promise me, then,” Kevin says. If he has to leave Jean behind, then he wants to know that Jean is going to be safe, or as safe as he can be, in his absence. “If you stay, you survive.”
Jean doesn’t want to make this promise, Kevin knows, but Jean will do it. He will say whatever he has to say to get Kevin out of the Nest to freedom and safety. He frowns, but still, he signs and says, “OK.”
There is a moment of hesitation. They stand on the precipice of separation. They stand on the brink of the unknown. Kevin doesn’t want to abandon Jean in this place of horrors and hurts, and he doesn’t want to leave behind his life of Exy and success. Kevin lingers even as time trickles away around them, sand pulled from the shore as the tide recedes. Kevin lingers even as Jean tries to get him to move, planting his feet in the inhabitable ground beneath him.
K-e-v-i-n, Jean signs. Please.
He’s clumsy and unpracticed with his right hand, but Kevin finds the letters for Jean’s sign name. He says, “Jean-Yves.’’
In the gray of Jean’s irises, desperation mounts. In the gray of Jean’s irises, there is a warning that they need to go now, or else they will be caught and stopped, or else the damage to Kevin’s hand will be irreversible and untreatable. In the gray of Jean’s irises, Kevin allows himself to linger and lose himself for just three seconds more.
OK, Jean-Yves, he finally allows.
Jean exhales with relief, and he slips a hand around Kevin’s center, supporting his weight as they hobble out of the locker room and down the hall. This escape should be impossible in the insular and self-obsessed Nest, but somehow, there are no prying eyes or witnesses. Through each door, they stumble closer and closer to safety, until Jean is depositing Kevin in the front seat of his car.
Kevin doesn’t know how to drive, but he’ll figure it out. Kevin only has enough gas to get to the nearest gas station and no money of his own to buy more, but he’ll find a way to fill up his tank. Kevin will survive this night. It’s the only option.
OK, Jean signs. “Be safe.”
Kevin nods, and he lets Jean buckle his seatbelt for him. He wants to linger here, too, but he knows their luck is running out. He has to go, and Jean has to stay. It’s the only option, or at least that’s what they tell themselves.
In the dark of the parking garage, Jean kisses Kevin’s forehead, and Kevin links their pinkies. One is a goodbye and one is a promise.
Broken hand held to his chest, Kevin starts the engine with his right. Jean shuts the door, and Kevin watches him in the rearview mirror until he disappears entirely out of sight.
· · ·
Kevin’s mouth is dry.
Instinctively, Kevin tries to reach for a glass of water that isn’t there, but he can’t move his arm. His left hand is confined to a cast from fingertips to wrist, and on top of that, a sling pins his arm to his flank. Memories begin to surface. Riko’s rage, Riko’s racquet, Jean’s lips against his temple. Slowly, Kevin opens his eyes.
He’s in a hospital, that much is obvious. More memories float to find him. The blur of the highway, stumbling out of the car to Wymack’s door, Wymack’s shocked expression. Wymack opened his mouth to say something, but Kevin couldn’t make sense of it as his vision went black. He must have passed out, then, because he doesn’t remember how Wymack got him to the hospital. His hand hurts, even under the weight of the drugs.
If it weren’t for the pain, he might think he’s gone back in time, nine years old with staples in his skull and a mixture of damage to his conductive and sensorineural pathways leaving him in permanent silence. At least now, Kevin’s tinnitus has ceased its squealing. At least now, Kevin isn’t drowning in waves of dizzying vertigo.
When Kevin looks around the hospital room, he expects to find Wymack with him. Maybe Wymack doesn’t know he’s Kevin’s father, but he knows he’s Kayleigh’s son, and he cares for him in that way. He should care for him in the same way he cares for all of his broken, orphaned strays too. Kevin wouldn’t be surprised, either, to see the Master. Instead, only Andrew Minyard is sitting with his back against the wall and a book in his lap.
Obviously, Kevin knows Andrew is a student at Palmetto, but he doesn’t get why Andrew is here. Kevin’s arrival in Palmetto should be under lock and key, known only by the most select few, so as not to inform the press or the Nest of his location and condition. Kevin’s father should be here, not this goalkeeper who rejected him again and again.
“Where’s Coach Wymack?” Kevin asks.
“Dealing … mess … Tetsuji … happy … stole … impressed, Day.”
Mind addled with a cocktail of drugs and pain, Kevin can’t make sense of what Andrew is saying, catching every other word at best. Not asking people to repeat themselves, especially veritable strangers and supposed outsiders, is so ingrained in Kevin that he doesn’t even consider the option. He just asks, “Will he be back soon?”
“How am … know … of men? … just … missed … though—”
Kevin stops trying to understand. Kevin misses Jean like a lung. Thinks again of his lips, the shape of them. Thinks of his hands, the strength of them. Jean would’ve been able to explain all of this to him. Kevin’s fingers twitch in his cast, and he winces, letting his agony trail into a groan, made known only by the feeling of gravel in his throat.
He doesn’t realize Andrew is still talking to him until he’s standing over Kevin’s hospital bed. Dressed all in black, he’s the picture of the grim reaper. Once more, Kevin considers the possibility that his injury and his escape will be his demise.
“You can’t hear me,” Andrew says.
Denial is branded down to Kevin’s bones. “Yes, I can.”
Andrew tilts his head, and he smiles at him, a mean and twisted thing that reminds Kevin of Riko. “So, not only do they break your bones, but they make you lie? Starting to really appreciate the decision I made not to join your cult. Show me the alphabet.”
It’s too much and too fast, and Kevin doesn’t know what else to do. Kevin is hurt and alone, and he doesn’t trust Andrew, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He does what he’s told and gives Andrew, an outsider and a stranger, his greatest secret. Letter by letter, his right hand stumbles over the alphabet with its lack of practice.
Andrew only has to see the alphabet once to have it memorized. Letter by letter, he signs, “I w-i-l-l h-e-l-p y-o-u.”
“Why?” Kevin asks.
“Because I’m bored,” Andrew says. “And this? This is interesting, Kevin Day.”