Chapter Text
Embarrassment lay thick in his gut, coupled with equal amounts of dread and an awful want. Kevin figured that the last one hurt the most because it wasn't a feeling that he was used to. To his horror, Kevin longed for more contact.
Everything about this night was just wrong. Everything—from Kevin's decision to leave Evermore—to the fact that he'd chosen to seek refuge with his father, of all people.
He'd allowed Abby's touch out of necessity, forced to confront the reality of what his injuries meant if he let them be. But this? There had been nothing necessary about this. Kevin had asked Wymack to stay in the room; he'd been the one to reach out for his sleeve, and ultimately, he'd been the one to fall into Wymack's arms, despite everything in him screaming that it was wrong.
"I've got you, kid." Wymack had said when Kevin had broken apart, and what was worse was that he sounded like he meant it. However, Kevin knew better than to believe such platitudes. The older man was saying this now, but Kevin knew what would happen when the Master came knocking — he'd seen it all before.
I never wanted this, Kevin thought miserably.
Absentmindedly, Kevin wondered if he would have been better off ramming the car into the nearest brick wall.
Probably.
It felt like hours had passed until Kevin's breathing stabilized, longer still until his tears had dried into sticky tracks on his cheeks. His fingers were aching from the harsh grip he'd kept on Wymack's jacket, and his forehead stung as newly bandaged wounds made contact with Wymack's shoulders. His left hand ached due to the aggravation, but, for the first time that night, it was the least of Kevin's problems.
He'd told him.
Heat radiated off the older man, and although it had been comforting a minute prior, Kevin felt his skin burn at the touch.
In the end, Kevin was the one who pulled back, shuffling backwards a few inches until he felt his back bump against the footboard of the bed. He didn't remember how they'd ended up on the floor, but Kevin couldn't help feeling thankful for it. He knew himself enough to recognize the feeling of his legs lying useless against the ground. If they'd been standing, Kevin would have fallen to the ground the instant he'd detached himself from Wymack's side.
Wymack followed Kevin's cue and leaned back against the wall opposite the bed. Neither man spoke, with Kevin fighting to get the shaking in his hands to dissipate, having long since given up on attempting to hide the tremors.
Wymack leveled a heavy stare at him, Kevin shrinking into himself at the scrutiny. As if realizing, Wymack averted his gaze and cleared his throat. The man was clearly uncomfortable, but he didn't look angry, nor did he try to move further away.
"I'm sorry," Kevin said, his voice raspy. He combed back straggling stands of hair with his fingers, wincing as they brushed against the small cuts along his scalp.
Wymack seemed to know better than to protest by now and—to Kevin's relief—changed the subject.
"Will they come after you?" He asked, and Kevin didn't have to wonder who he meant.
"I don't know."
And that was true. Kevin had no idea what his current value to the Moriyamas was. Exy had been his main source of revenue, but he had other avenues to pursue that were lucrative enough to the Master to warrant spilled blood. The only thing that could stop him was losing face, and forcibly retrieving a player from another team after a switch was undignified. Still, Kevin didn't know if that would be enough.
When it came to his value to the Moriyamas, Kevin didn't have the right to decide that for himself.
And yet, sometimes, Kevin remembered wild red hair and a young boy's crooked smile. It passed by as quickly as he'd seen it, a warning attached. The boy's name a whispered threat; run, and you'll end up like Nathaniel.
Kevin purged the thought from his mind as quickly as it had come.
"The Master will know," Kevin offered, not wanting to lie more than he had to.
"The Master?" Wymack's face twisted into a sneer, incredulity apparent in the widening of his eyes.
Oh, right. Kevin wasn't supposed to call Coach Moriyama that in front of outsiders.
Well, too late now.
"Coach Moriyama," Kevin clarified. "He'll tell you what is allowed. My injury has damaged my value, but he'll let you know how to divide the revenue stream. We might have to seek additional permission to play, though, once I've recovered in a few months."
Wymack scoffed, but he couldn't conceal the anger in his eyes.
"And if I call, and he says that he won't let you go?"
Wymack wasn't stupid. He knew the answer, even if Kevin wouldn't tell him.
"Then I'll return," Kevin replied. The lie took more from him than he'd expected, draining the last of his reserves due to the uselessness of it all. It helped somewhat that he could see Wymack didn't believe him at all; the anger steadily bleeding out from the older man's expression and giving way to the same tiredness Kevin felt deep in his bones.
If he returned now, they wouldn't let him play ever again. Kevin briefly remembered passing a 24-hour gun shop on his way into the parking lot of the hotel. He'd learn from Jean's mistake; no one would be able to save him from a gunshot wound to his head.
"If I leave you alone now, will you run?"
For once, Kevin was too tired to lie. "Yes."
Wymack nodded slowly—seeming more surprised by Kevin's honesty than the answer in itself—before rising to his feet, offering his right hand for Kevin to take. Kevin didn't hesitate and let Wymack hoist him to his feet, numb to everything but a steady, dull ache thanks to Abby's ministrations.
Wymack picked up the zip-up hoodie that had fallen to the floor and held it up in front of Kevin. Kevin held his arms out in anticipation.
"I'll have Abby get the other Foxes," Wymack said as he helped Kevin slip his left hand into the corresponding sleeve, expanding the opening by pulling at the fabric. "We're leaving now."
Kevin had assumed they'd leave for South Carolina after the final gathering of the teams before lunch the next day, and that he'd stay behind at the hotel. Apparently, Wymack had had other plans.
Kevin nodded and let Wymack pull his right arm through the fabric, even going so far as to allow the man to pull the zipper up to Kevin's throat, then draping the hood to cover up as much of the mess that was Kevin's face as possible.
Wymack sighed as he scanned over Kevin's features before letting his eyes fall to Kevin's bandaged hand.
"I'll call Moriyama once we're on Campus," Wymack said, the words looking like they hurt coming out. "We'll deal with it. But not now. Now, you focus on getting better. He can't get you back when you can't even walk properly."
Wymack was underestimating the Master, but Kevin wasn't going to tell him that; he didn't have the energy for it.
"Abs," Wymack called, barely having to raise his voice to get a small hum of acknowledgement from the living room.
The walls were less than soundproof, and Kevin was more than aware that Abby had just heard him break down, but he couldn't bring himself to care. If he hadn't been so exhausted, he'd probably even be embarrassed.
"Gather the team in your room," Wymack continued. "Tell them what they need to know, no more. Come get me once they're in place."
Abby didn't reply, but the click of the hallway door was apparently all Wymack needed before he turned his attention back to Kevin.
"I'll give you some time to wash up. I'll need to debrief the team before we go, so Abby will come back and take you down to the bus."
"Okay," Kevin said, before turning away from Wymack to enter the en-suite bathroom. The absence of a heavy thud told Kevin that Wymack had left the bedroom door ajar. Kevin didn't mind, but still closed the bathroom door, swearing under his breath when he saw that it didn't lock.
Not that a lock had ever been enough to keep anyone out before.
Kevin warily eyed the toothbrush he'd used before, the bristles reddened from the harshness of his brushing. He didn't think he needed to brush again. His eyes continued to wander around the cramped space, finding a shower tucked in the corner. It was still wet; Wymack must have used it before Kevin had knocked on his door.
He took a small step forward and then stopped, catching himself.
Kevin didn't feel tempted to use the shower for more than a second; the thought of having to strip naked so soon after all that had happened was enough to nearly send Kevin into another panic attack. And that was not to mention that all his bandages would get wet, and Abby would have to re-dress them. Instead, Kevin opted to use a damp rag and some of Wymack's spray deodorant. He quickly finished up by filling his hands with water and holding them to his eyes, attempting to cool down the wretched heat behind them.
Kevin grabbed a small hand towel by the sink and began to dry his face with small, careful strokes to avoid triggering another breakdown.
In a moment of weakness, Kevin looked up, catching a glimpse of himself in the sink mirror.
He'd been good at not looking at his reflection too closely until now, but once he met his own eyes, he felt pinned.
Kevin looked, in a word, like shit.
His nose was swollen and red, despite Abby's care, and the right side of his face was mottled with scrapes and blooming bruises alike. There was some blood in the white of his eye, but Kevin dismissed it as irrelevant. If it were a problem, Abby would have taken care of it. He studied the small faded scars along his hairline, unable to see the deeper ones lying beneath a layer of black locks. Kevin refrained from touching his scalp, knowing that the hair Riko had ripped out would grow back; it always did.
But in the end, his eyes were his mother's, and the recognition eventually stung too much to bear, forcing Kevin to drag his gaze downward, landing on his cheekbone. A black roman numeral stood out starkly against pale skin on the side of his face, and Kevin found himself—for one traitorous moment—wishing that it'd bleed into his bruises and vanish beneath his flesh.
Kevin experimentally brought his right hand up to cover his cheek, his fingertips dancing across tender skin until he was no longer able to see the inked area in the mirror.
It didn't take more than a second until Kevin jerked his hand away, the sight rendering him nauseous. Covering his tattoo in any way was sacrilege, and Kevin found himself terrified to see that he couldn't recognize himself without it.
Kevin gripped the sink with a white-knuckled grip, muted spikes of pain shooting from where his broken hand rested. He searched the mirror for the tattoo, assuring himself it was still there, before he heaved for what felt like the fiftieth time that night.
His stomach had to be empty at this point, but somehow, Kevin felt it convulse, sending a string of yellowed water down the drain anyway. His throat was burning, an acrid aftertaste clinging to the back of his tongue. The room was quiet, save for Kevin's labored breaths. He avoided looking up at his reflection, instead opting for turning on the faucet. It did little to fix the smell that was steadily spreading throughout the room, but at least it cleaned the sink enough that Kevin could bear to lock his gaze downwards. He let it linger until no trace remained of his weakness, after which he brought his hand underneath the stream of water to splash his face once more.
Kevin still looked like he'd lost a fight with a bear, his eyes still bloodshot from crying, but he looked infinitely better than he had just a few moments earlier. He hoped the redness around his eyes could be chalked up to pain and nothing more. He'd indulged in his shameful fragility too much for a lifetime. No one could be privy to it.
Abby knocked thrice before entering the bedroom, despite the door having been left open, Kevin noting her presence behind the bathroom door. She must have heard the faucet running.
Kevin tried not to berate himself for his lack of awareness—the way Wymack had left and Abby had taken his place—but the self-reproach was inevitable.
"Can I come in, Kevin?" Abby's voice was soft, yet it carried clearly through the plywood separating them.
Kevin knew that she'd come in whether he wanted her to or not, so he just checked his eyes one final time before muttering. "Yes."
Abby sounded hesitant. "Are you sure? I don't mind waiting."
Right. Kevin didn't believe her for a second. Tricks.
A rebellious streak flashed through Kevin. Something inside him screamed in challenge, urging him to pull at his leash just a little bit. Kevin found himself curious to see how hard Abby would yank him back.
"No," he decided on, trying to mentally prepare himself for a volatile reaction. "Don't open the door."
He eyed the door handle in anticipation, awaiting Abby's inevitable tug at it with a sick fascination. It'd be so much easier if Abby and Wymack would just stop whatever game they were playing with him. It'd be so much easier if they'd just barge in and be done with it. Kevin couldn't handle their false patience and accommodation. He'd called Abby's bluff.
And yet, the knob remained unturned.
"Okay."
Abby hadn't opened the door.
Kevin reeled back as if struck, his back hitting the sink. He barely felt the pain when porcelain connected with the fabric resting over the torn flesh of his backside, his head ringing. Why was she doing this to him?
Was it fun? Confusing Kevin with some sort of hope, only to then crush it?
Why would she pretend to be different?
"Kevin?"
Kevin hadn't even realized that he'd stopped breathing until Abby's voice brought him back. He tried to inhale properly, but coughing impeded all his efforts, leaving Kevin's lungs screaming for air.
"Kevin, are you okay?" Abby was still speaking to him through the door.
"Please answer me."
"Can I come in?"
The last part registered, and Kevin pounded his chest with his right hand, forcing air in.
"No," Kevin choked through gritted teeth, wrestling a single syllable out of his mangled throat. "No."
It was a masochistic sort of pleasure. Riko would want him to protest, only to then knock down the refusal. Riko liked it sometimes when he said no; maybe Abby would too.
"I won't come in, but I need to know that you're okay."
Nothing.
"Kevin?"
Nothing.
Abby hesitated before speaking again. "Knock once for yes, twice for no, and thrice if you need me to come in. Okay?"
Kevin's heart was beating in his ears, echoing throughout his head. He fought to get his limbs under control, taking a slow step forward and bracketing himself against the door. The coolness of the door against his forehead was enough to get Kevin to clamp the fingers of his right hand together before bringing it against the plywood once.
"Thank you for letting me know, you're doing great."
Kevin didn't feel very great at the moment. And Abby's patronization made it no better. He wasn't doing anything other than being a nuisance, and they both knew it.
The whole notion was utterly ridiculous. Kevin tried to laugh, but it came out sounding more like a stilted sob. Black spots danced across his vision as hyperventilation set in.
"Can you sit down for me?" Abby's voice carried as if she were standing right next to him. Or, well, Kevin supposed that she was, only a thin door between them.
One knock.
"Good, we can take it slow," Abby continued. "Use the toilet as leverage. If it makes you feel safer, you can lean against the door. I won't come in."
Kevin nodded, despite knowing that Abby had no way of seeing it. He turned, pressing the back of his head against the door hard enough that he felt the cuts along his scalp reopen. A haze of static flickered across his vision, obscuring the mirror, but the pain helped; it cleared his mind enough to reach for the toilet, anchoring himself with an aching grip. He slowly slid down until his spine jarred, pain shooting up his spine as his tailbone hit the floor with a dull, sickening thud.
The bitter aftertaste of alcohol joined the iron in Kevin's mouth, itching at a gag reflex that Kevin had thought he'd rid himself of years ago. Somewhere, Abby was speaking, but Kevin couldn't hear her.
He was somewhere else entirely.
Jean was sitting in front of him, eyes dark with concern.
"Kevin," he'd said back then, holding Kevin's shaking hands in an attempt to comfort him. "What did he do to you?"
"Nothing," Kevin lied.
Jean's lips twitched in barely concealed fury.
"'Nothing?'" He echoed, disbelief thick and apparent.
It wasn't nothing.
Kevin wanted to scream it.
"Let me help you. Please?"
"I can't." Kevin's voice had barely been louder than a whisper, and yet Jean heard it loud and clear.
It was Jean's job to patch Kevin up for the next round of Riko's rage, just as it was Kevin's job to make sure that Jean was alive to take another beating.
That evening—way back—they'd both failed.
Jean, because Kevin hadn't let him stitch up the gashes, leaving a systemic infection to take hold. And Kevin, because he'd looked away long enough for Jean to attempt suicide two hours later, coding for two minutes before the doctors got his heart beating again.
It had been years, but Kevin still remembered Jean's words in the aftermath with scathing clarity.
"Don't delude yourself into thinking you saved me, Kevin. All you did was doom me to more years in hell."
Kevin absentmindedly wondered just how hellish Riko would make Jean's life when he discovered what he'd done.
Maybe he should have let Jean bleed out.
Maybe he would have been happier that way.
Maybe Kevin would have had the courage to follow him.
A steady stream of words broke Kevin out of the fog in his brain, Abby's voice ending the trance.
"—for me at least. I try to inhale for four seconds, hold for another four, exhale for four seconds, and then repeat. Want to try with me?"
The condescension Kevin knew had to be there didn't even register, and against all logic, Kevin tried to follow Abby's slow counting. It hurt way more than it should have when he failed.
"No, no." The words spilled out of him within seconds, every inhale too shallow to fill his lungs.
"That's fine," Abby was quick to reassure him. "We can do two seconds to begin with. But can you hold for two seconds after the exhale?"
Hesitation. Then, one knock.
Abby started to count again, Kevin's lungs holding onto her voice like a desperate prayer.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
Hold.
Repeat.
It was a routine, and Kevin was good at those. A routine meant that each repetition should get a little easier. Kevin lived for those small margins; when he realized that his arms felt just a little lighter each time he managed to execute a cross-court wall pass, that scoring became easier with each repetition.
Eventually, breathing became easier too.
Repetition.
A sanctuary.
A balm for aching joints.
Once he'd perfected the two-second intervals, Kevin knocked once to agree to Abby's request to extend the time to three seconds.
It was like showering after one of Riko's sessions; Rinse, Wash, Repeat.
Kevin thought perhaps he liked it.
Once they reached six-second intervals, Kevin started to regain the feeling in his feet, cool linoleum welcoming him with every shift. A quick swipe against his neck told him he'd sweated through the fabric of his shirt, and Kevin found himself wrinkling his nose at the smell. A harsh drumming in his head warned him off any unnatural expression, causing Kevin to settle slightly. With the feeling of his limbs returned the inevitable ache of his wounds.
Abby was still counting when Kevin rose to his feet, not faltering even when he grunted in pain as his wounds stirred. Kevin continued to follow along with the breathing exercise, even as he tried to gather enough willpower to press the door handle down.
It was just a door. It wasn't supposed to be this hard.
Kevin quickly ran through his options in his head, finding that he didn't have too many of those. His right hand twitched over the handle, metal emanating cold against the heated skin on Kevin's fingers. He closed his eyes and let his fingers roll forward, slowly letting them curl around the smooth shape until all he had left to do was push down.
One move, and he'd be out of the bathroom. But he couldn't.
Riko's breath was hot in his ear, asking him to stay. He hadn't been supposed to leave.
Kevin had been gone for less than a day, yet he missed his brother enough that he wanted to cry.
He wanted to go home; he wanted to go back to the Nest; he wanted to never set foot in West Virginia again.
But, at the very least, Kevin wanted.
Anything hurt less than apathy, even the steady throb in his left hand.
As long as Kevin wanted, he would be fine.
Kevin wanted to play Exy again, needed it.
In, for one, two, three, four, five, six.
Hold, for one, two, three, four, five, six.
Out, for one, two, three, four, five, six.
Hold, for one, two, three, four, five, six.
In—
Kevin pushed the handle down using his whole arm for leverage.
The door opened with a squeak, rusting hinges protesting the force.
Abby didn't seem startled to see him. She was sitting on the floor to his left, her head tilted back against the wall. She stopped counting at his emergence from the bathroom, offering a small, careful smile.
Kevin didn't want to look at her, but couldn't help searching her features for something—anything. A hidden edge, a flicker of cruelty, or perhaps the absence of it. She wasn't looking at him with pity, nor could he find any trace of derision on her face, even though Kevin just knew it was there.
Abby just looked… calm. It was obvious that she was tired—not that Kevin could fault her for it—but she didn't seem resentful of the exhaustion.
Kevin didn't know what to say. What could he even say in this situation?
Abby, thankfully, didn't press him.
Kevin regarded her, his expression slack and dull. He just wanted her to stop looking at him. The raw, exposed feeling of her eyes peeling back the layers of his skin made Kevin want to sink into the ground. He had no idea what she was thinking, what she was planning, and there was nothing he could do to influence her either way. She eyed him warily as he took a step back, moving up to a crouching position before she could maneuver to her full height.
"Don't…" Kevin trailed off halfway, Abby's eyes furrowing as she tried to decipher his meaning.
"You want to sit down again?" She asked, and Kevin looked away, shaking his head.
"Are you okay with going to the bus?" She tried when Kevin offered no further response.
Kevin wrinkled his nose at that. He wasn't a child.
He shot Abby a scathing look, one she met head-on, and took a couple of steps forward, pushing past her towards the bedroom door. He paused once he reached for the door handle, skin crawling at the sensation of Abby's eyes on his back.
Stop. Please.
Kevin knew Abby had to be scrutinizing his every move, likely calculating his value to the team. He'd be able to show her how well he did on court once he got better, but he couldn't do it now. He couldn't do anything that could prove his worth at the moment.
There was nothing he could do.
Kevin was, in a word, worthless.
Of course, he knew it. Intimately.
But maybe he just didn't like the reminder.
He hadn't realized just how long he'd stood frozen until Abby's form appeared in his periphery, a lithe hand entering his field of vision to bring his attention to her.
"Kevin?"
Her hand was too close for comfort, and yet, Kevin wanted to reach out.
Suspicion warred with a wretched longing. Kevin knew better than to trust Abby. He did.
But when Abby brought her hand up to touch his face, Kevin didn't flinch away. In a moment of weakness, Kevin pressed against the hand, warmth emanating from the flesh pressed against his. He closed his eyes—didn't want Abby to see through him.
The hand moved carefully, ghosting across the nape of his neck until Kevin felt his head move towards Abby's shoulder. He opened his eyes as his forehead made contact with the soft fabric of Abby's orange Fox hoodie. The angle was a bit awkward—Abby being a couple of inches shorter than Kevin—but he felt nothing but exhausting relief.
Maybe he didn't need to trust her. His trust had never mattered, anyway.
Abby would tell Wymack of his weakness, but Kevin had to learn how to accept that. He could do that.
If he wanted court privileges, he'd have to work for them. And the first step was following Wymack and Abby's directions. It was clear that Wymack deferred to Abby, and Kevin hoped the man would be more influenced by Kevin's acquiescence to her than his apparent lapse in judgment.
It was better to have a doctor loyal to the team than one who only served themselves.
Kevin knew that better than he'd ever wanted to.
"You won't see David and the Foxes when we're going downstairs. They're having a team meeting, so there is no hurry," Abby whispered when Kevin's breathing matched hers. "We'll move at your pace, no one else's. You won't need to speak to them on the bus. You won't need to speak to me on the bus."
Kevin answered by pressing his head harder against Abby's shoulder. He could feel the hesitation as she brought her other arm up to rest lightly against Kevin's back, avoiding his wounds by as large a margin as was possible, given the sheer number of them.
It surprised him—the desperation he knew lay thick in his gut. He didn't think he'd give in to it that easily. But how could he not?
It was heat, without the fire, without the burning.
Was this how it felt? Warmth?
Unbidden, an image emerged behind his retinas. He closed his eyes tighter, and the image dissipated, but the feeling remained.
Warmth.
It wasn't the scalding heat of a brand, nor the fever of an infection.
It was just… warmth.
As quickly as he'd fallen into the temptation, Kevin jerked away. Abby's hands withdrew the moment Kevin's hesitation became apparent, moving them to rest at her sides, palms pointed outwards. Kevin was torn between looking away and letting his eyes linger on them in anticipation of a blow.
To his horror, Kevin found himself missing the feel of Abby's shoulder against his forehead, her arms secured around his back.
He wanted her to leave. He wanted her to hold onto him.
He wanted nothing to do with her. He wanted nothing more than to have her comfort him.
Right now, she was the only one who knew.
Maybe it was the contrast with the last doctor who had known that convinced Kevin that Abby was okay to lean on.
So, while Kevin knew he could count on Abby's silence, he couldn't discount her seemingly genuine attempt to protect some of Kevin's privacy in front of Wymack. He couldn't understand why she'd done it, but he owed her nonetheless.
"Will it help if I walk ahead?"
Kevin hated himself for nodding, for willingly admitting to such a flaw in him.
He had no idea how she'd been able to pinpoint the issue, but he decided that he didn't want to know.
He didn't want to know any of it.
Kevin's shoulders sagged in exhaustion when she looked away. Abby stepped in front of him and opened the bedroom door. Kevin kept his eyes on the floor as he followed her to the hallway, pausing as Abby stopped to gather some of her things before they left the room.
Somehow, getting down the stairs was almost as bad as when he'd stumbled up them an eternity ago, despite the sedatives still coursing through his system. Despite his occasional hisses, Abby didn't look back, maintaining a short distance between the two.
The revolving doors of the hotel entryway creaked as Kevin and Abby reached the exit, cold December air hitting Kevin's face. He didn't mind, the harsh wind blowing some life back into his lungs. If anything, he wanted to stop and just breathe it all in.
But he kept moving. Because if he stopped now, he'd never be able to move again.
He had to be content with walking a few steps behind Abby, following her silhouette through the ill-lit parking lot. And he was.
Until he wasn't.
It was instinctual, falling into the old pace he'd maintained for years, a precisely measured distance between himself and his partner. It wasn't anything new, but it was enough to knock Kevin breathless. He couldn't help reaching out for Abby, his hand pausing mid-air before it could touch the hood of her jacket.
His fingers curled inwards as he dropped his hand again.
He'd really…
What am I doing?
What am I doing?
Kevin had dared to seek comfort from Abby; he'd had the audacity to mock every single one of his teachings with a single reach of a hand.
Comfort was a weakness; it was coddling, and seeking it was as infantile as it was pathetic.
And even if Kevin indulged, there was no guarantee that Abby wouldn't just swat him off and report his improper conduct to Wymack. But… would she really? After all she'd done to calm him?
Kevin exhaled loud enough for Abby to pause in her step, turning around to check on him for the first time.
"Okay?" She asked, thankfully oblivious to Kevin's near misstep.
"Okay," Kevin repeated without looking at her, immeasurably angry with himself.
Kevin couldn't for his life understand why it was so hard to just exist. He'd lived in the Nest for over a decade, belonged to Riko for what felt like a lifetime. He knew exactly what was expected of him, so why would he react as if he was being tortured just by falling into a routine carved into his bones? Why would the reminder of Riko leave Kevin anxious enough to retch all over the asphalt?
Fear wasn't anything new; it was his constant companion, the shadow that nestled deep within his ribcage.
"I'm okay," Kevin forced out, more to convince himself than Abby. "I'm okay."
She nodded wordlessly and continued to walk up toward an orange bus. It practically gleamed, even in the dark. Kevin felt stupid for not having noticed it earlier, and he felt a small sneer tug on his lips at the sight. It was almost amusing.
Almost.
Abby pulled a key from one of her pockets and leaned down to the bottom of the door, unlocking the bus. Another second passed, and the door hissed open as the automation switched on, revealing three steep steps leading up to the main body of the vehicle.
Abby looked somewhat regretful as she backed up and tilted her head at their new problem. She made a weak attempt at a smile, turning to Kevin before her expression was quickly schooled into a professional mask. Kevin found the sudden change jarring, but not as jarring as the apparent cause of the shift.
"The Kevin Day," a familiar voice remarked from behind, accompanied by slow, theatrical claps. "What an honor."
"As if you'd think my presence was anything but a nuisance," Kevin scoffed as he tried to school his expression into something less revealing, but his lips nonetheless quirked up to the side at the sound.
Of course, he'd be here. Kevin should have known better than to expect him to obey Wymack and stay behind with the other Foxes.
Andrew Minyard didn't look any different from when Kevin had last seen him a year back, the short menace wearing a shit-eating grin with nothing else behind it. He'd seen it a few times since then, in clips from the Foxes' matches patched into Exy news, scandal following the younger man like a moth to a flame.
Despite it all, Kevin found himself pleased to see the goalie. He was an anchor of sorts, something tethering Kevin when he was floating freely in the unknown that was escape. It made no sense, really, since they thoroughly disliked one another, but Kevin credited the familiarity to rage.
Chilling, cutting, rage.
After all, that was something they had in common.