Archive of Our Own

It goes to shit well before Andrew lets in a goal, but it only gets worse after that.

They still win the first game of the season, of course. Even though Three is sent off the court with a yellow card and an injury bad enough to keep him down, and Four plays at a detriment with a sprained ankle, and the rest of the team unravels as they always rely too heavily on the two of them to uphold the defence on their own.

Andrew only lets in the single goal for his half of the game, and the score is wide enough that it's almost an easy, boring victory. Andrew's miss is an easy write-off for most: he's got near-perfect statistics, but a few skilled strikers have managed to score on him before, and the hit had been good.

Most, if not all, goalkeepers wouldn't have been able to save it. Not even Andrew, reporters and fans alike assume.

But the Ravens know better. Tetsuji knows better.

Andrew shouldn't have let the goal in. He wouldn't have any other time.

When he gets off the court as the buzzer calls an end to the game, Tetsuji stares at him with a gaze that promises punishment. Andrew just stares blankly in return, a silent attempt to goad him into letting the mask slip in front of the entire stadium, and then feels the edges of annoyance creep into his chest.

Tetsuji's methods are nothing new. Andrew knows all too well that the mask won't slip, not here. He knows better than to try.

In the changing rooms, Riko is like a hunter behind a rifle's scope, target lined up in the crosshairs. He leans against the locker closest to Andrew with a predatory grin, waiting for Andrew to give his attention.

Andrew reaches into his locker for his change of clothes with one hand, dragging out the time to make Riko wait without making it obvious he’s doing so. With the other hand, out of Riko's sight but in line with his head, he draws a circle and an 'X' running through it.

He has to admit to himself, in the relative safety of a black-painted locker door, that he's on edge. Tetsuji is old and stale with his methods, but the punishments make sense if one is following the stupidest fucking logic caused by this game. Riko is just as boring most of the time, though he veers more towards sadistic than he does logical, and that's when things get a little more unreliable.

Usually, the sadistic tendencies are not directed wholeheartedly at Andrew. His silence and blankness feed very little to Riko's ego, and he’s not as much of an interesting play-toy as Two all the way through to Four seem to be.

Five and Six, the dealers, do not interest Riko right now. He's skipped all the way down the line from Four — who seems to have disappeared along with his assigned partner — to Seven. After all, Riko has been waiting for the chance, for something to slip, to see if there's anything he can use to crack apart Andrew's hardened walls.

It seems like he thinks he's found the way in. One missed goal, and he's got Andrew's head lined up.

Andrew shuts his locker. He goes towards the showers without looking back, not interested in giving Riko the attention he's desperately after, but Riko clicks his tongue.

He's not even annoyed by Andrew's defiance. He's amused.

And that—

Well. Andrew has played in the den of monsters plenty of times. He knows what it's like before they reveal their winning hand.

"Seven," Riko says. "Come by my room after.”

Andrew tilts his head in acknowledgment and then heads towards the showers without stopping. The other goalkeeper — Eight, Andrew calls him, because he doesn’t care for his name and he doesn’t care for the fact Riko has stopped the numbers at Seven, and he’s certainly not calling him his fucking partner — follows close, as he always does, but knows better than to get near him.

But he'll still hang around, all too fucking close, like a starving dog. Like Andrew's a meal that he's begging Riko for the scraps of.

Missing a goal doesn't, shouldn't, equate to this punishment. But it's not about missing a goal, not really.

Four was having a rough time with his Striker during the game — even Raven-style brutality and trickery hadn't been enough to get his target to trip. He'd been checked hard, and Three decided to respond, drawing the ire of a target almost twice his fucking size. The retaliation had been swift and brutal: even with his helmet, Three had hit the plexiglass hard enough that Andrew felt the reverberations in his teeth.

He'd gone down. Swayed as he tried to get back up. Didn't call for the referee to pull him.

Moments later, the goal behind Andrew lit up red.

It's not about the score at all.

He turns the water as hot as it will go. The back of his throat tastes sour, burning with acid rising from his chest. He washes himself down, fingers pressing hard enough to scratch, reddened, raised lines meeting the humid air. Pre-emptively scrubbing himself down, rubbing himself raw.

They clean him of the worst of it, sure. Plenty of ragged, damp flannels they use and bundle and throw in the corner. They don't let him go anywhere during the night, though, not alone. Never fucking alone.

He can shower properly in the morning, before classes. Let the night run down the drain with scalding water. Eight showers then, too. But so do Three and Four, and they're enough of a deterrent for most to stay away.

Andrew pauses as he reaches for the soap. Three hasn't returned yet. It's unusual for any of them to be with the medic for so long. Three can certainly handle himself, but if he's managed to get himself benched this early in the season, Andrew certainly isn't looking forward to Tetsuji and Riko's reactions to that.

That's all it is, he firmly tells himself. Besides, while the medic is a piece of shit, at least Three is in better hands than if he were to be in Riko's.

If he stays in the shower any longer, he knows it will come across as avoidance rather than apathy. He's typically one of the first in and out of the showers, and he knows every second, every movement, is being watched. He turns the water off, dries himself down, and feels a few miles away from his body.

Three and Four still aren't in the changerooms when he comes out. Eight stays in his peripherals. Andrew doesn't bother telling him to leave — if he wants to stay close, then he will live to regret it.

He walks down into darkness and towards Riko's wing. In the shadows of the hallway, a few steps away from Riko's room, a tall figure stands.

It's Four, with a hand pressed against his mouth. Fingers digging in sharply to his cheeks. Chest heaving with barely-contained panic. When Andrew walks closer, Four's eyes lock onto him.

He's alone. One half of a set.

Andrew doesn't waste the effort asking where the other half is. Four answers anyway, eyes flicking to Riko's closed door.

"Seven," Four hisses quietly, reaching for him. When Andrew glares and purposely moves his arm away, Four concedes and smooths his hands down by his sides. Twitching. Something he's probably picked up from spending all that time with Three. Four lets out a ragged breath, glancing back at Riko's door, before he steps closer to Andrew and a little further away from whatever clusterfuck Andrew's about to walk in.

Considering Jean—Four is out here alone, Andrew has an idea of what he might be walking into.

It's not about missing the goal. It's about everything that led up to it.

"Andrew," Four says quietly. A quiet, dangerous disobedience, only a few breaths away from Riko's door. Three truly is rubbing off on him. Dangerous, dangerous. The most docile dog of them all, trained and beaten that way, is slowly starting to work his jaw again. Remembering what it's like to bite back at the hurt.

"No," Andrew cuts in. He does not need whatever Four might be trying to ask of him.

"He is paying for your mistake," Four hisses anyway, disregarding Andrew's warning.

Andrew's already shuttered down as much as he can. Put everything behind lock and key, not allowing anything to batter against his walls. He tries, now, to put in reinforcements.

The only reason he does not reach out and twist Moreau's wrist back until he hears a pop is that it isn't worth it. He's not saying anything Andrew doesn't already know, anyway.

"Some partner you are," Andrew muses quietly, knowing the reaction he will cause, watching the way Jean pales.

"He won't let me in there," Jean Moreau—Four—Four—Fucking Four grits out.

Might be Three, trying to remove the weapons that can be used to hurt. But Andrew knows it's Riko. He would have kept Four in there for the sake of hurt, and for all of his bite, Three's words mean nothing in command against Riko's.

But it's not about hurting Three. It's about the missed goal and everything leading up to it.

It's about Andrew.

Andrew steps forward because he learned this so long ago: it's better to get it over with. Instead of waiting for the hurt to come, it is easier to invite it, to let it make a mess. The clean-up process, whatever it consists of, can only begin after the worst of it is done.

Four steps aside.

"Doe," Four whispers, trying Andrew's patience again, eyes flickering to the door once more. Doe — a regression. A whimpering dog, remembering the taste of blood. "Do not make this worse."

This. This.

Three. This, now, is about Three.

Andrew presses his lips together and avoids the urge to push Four up against the wall. He's too fucking close. Long-limbed and shadowy and shaky. Andrew does not say anything as he walks towards the door and pushes it open. Four, at least, stops Eight from trying to follow.

"Ah," Riko's voice says, echoing in the room. Like all the stage props of the desks and the books aren't there at all to soak up the sound. "Here he is."

One and Three are alone — Two, in the middle, gone for the night.

"Lock the door," Riko tells him.

Andrew reaches behind him and blindly does so, not turning his back to the scene. The room feels even more claustrophobic than before.

Three stands in one corner of the room. The lamp does little to help Andrew assess the state of him. Andrew can't see if his eyes are glazed over, if the hit to his head had been as bad as he'd made it look, but he's careful not to look at him for more than a passing glance.

Still, Riko watches every movement with a growing hunger. A grin starts to pull at the corners of his mouth, slow and satisfied. Ready for the meal.

He turns to Three, who has not looked over at Andrew at all.

"Sit, Nathaniel," Riko says to Three.

When Three does not move, Riko hums and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a switchblade. He flicks it open, admiring the glint of the blade in the low light. Now that he's currently interested in Three, Andrew takes the chance to look him over.

And finds Three looking back. Just for a single heartbeat, just one hushed breath. He looks away first, before Riko can see it.

"Was that hit too hard on your head, Nathaniel? Do you need a reminder of your place?" Riko taunts. He puts the switchblade down and gestures for Three to approach.

Three finally does. He's walking steadily in a straight line, with no sign of an injury affecting him.

But they've all since learned it's better to hide the hurts, better to hide the pain, lest they make those points an easier target to strike.

Three goes to sit on the edge of the bed, as far as he can get from Riko, but Riko makes a noise of displeasure.

"On your knees," Riko tells him.

Three stills.

For just another heartbeat, his gaze flickers to Andrew. There one second, gone the next. Not even Riko catches it.

In a decisive, sure tone, Three says, "No."

"No?" Riko questions. Surprised, for a moment, at the defiance. And then, slowly, a grin stretches that makes Andrew's hair stand on end — danger, fuck, fuck, the door's locked, the lights are dark.

The defiance is nothing more than amusement. Nothing more than an added game of pleasure.

"Kneel, Nathaniel," Riko says again. Andrew pulls himself back to the present before he can get lost too far. Riko is cruel, but he isn't quite the same monster. He'll lock the door, but he'll stand on the other side of it. He won't be the monster under the bed, just the one keeping everyone trapped in the room.

It's no better, but the distinction is important enough in this moment.

"Fuck you," Three replies, with his own spreading smile. Just as wicked, just as promising in its deadliness, but the sharp edges of it defy the shadows around him. There is no reminder of any of Andrew's monsters in the corners of it.

"Nathaniel," Riko tuts.

And Andrew understands, then, why Three has suddenly kicked up his rebellious, troublesome streak another notch. He is the most defiant of them all, a fire that refuses to go out. It's why he attracts Riko's ire most of the time.

The only time he suppresses it is when that gaze — when Riko is smart enough to look beyond his own arrogance and ego — turns to hurt someone else in his stead.

Three is trying to keep the attention entirely, wholly, on him. By aggravating Riko, he is trying to create curtains made of anger, shrinking Riko's scope down.

Andrew is furious. He glares at Three for his stupidity, but Three is keeping his gaze on Riko now.

Idiot. Idiot. Has he not realised that him getting hurt was the entire god-forsaken-fucking reason Andrew missed that stupid goal?

"Yes?" Three crows out, head tilting slightly, the smile still pulling at his features.

Riko picks up the switchblade. Three watches him, acting unaffected, but Andrew has learned the ways tension pulls tight under his skin.

He must have done something. Shifted. Breathed a little too hard. Reminded Riko that he's standing in the doorway, watching all of this happen. Because suddenly Riko's turning his head, and getting to his feet, leaving Three alone on the bed.

He's still spinning the switchblade, but Andrew watches it with a bored expression. Riko examines him, but realises he's not going to get a rise out of Andrew with it, as he pockets it again.

"Doe," Riko muses.

Andrew stares, silent.

"You missed a goal," Riko reminds him. Andrew minutely quirks a brow. Riko's face contorts, some of his anger slipping in, but it smooths over too quickly. He reaches out and Andrew bites down on the insides of his cheek to resist a flinch as Riko's fingers press against his cheek. "Seven. I welcomed you into my Perfect Court. And you missed. What will you do to make it up to me?"

Andrew stares at him, willing this entire show to end already. The theatrics don't interest him.

But there is an audience, for once. One that Andrew is paying attention to. Sitting on the bed, tense, careful not to make a misstep.

It's one foul and one goal too late for that.

Riko taps at his chin in thought, dragging out the moment, enjoying the self-made suspense.

"You know," Riko says, hand dropping slowly. "I would like to hear that you're sorry."

The bed creaks as it shifts. Riko's grin, lopsided, stretches out his features.

"I've never heard you beg, Doe," Riko muses.

"And you won't," Three cuts in, snapping his gaze quickly from Andrew to Riko before he can be caught. "Why should he? You've missed scoring plenty more easy goals than he's missed saving."

Shut up, shut up, shut up. You fucking idiot, shut up.

If Andrew says it, he gives it all away.

It's not about the goal. It's never been about the fucking goal.

It's just Riko, wanting to get under Andrew's skin. Wanting to break him down and pull him apart, a new toy for him to play with now that he's learning how it works.

"Oh, Nathaniel," Riko sneers back, Three cutting too close. Always too dangerous. "I've almost missed your smart tongue lately."

He walks back over to the bed, flipping his blade back out. Three sits still, watching him carefully as he faces Riko, both of them sitting right on the edge.

"Open," Riko says, tapping the tip of his blade against Three's lips.

Andrew's blood runs cold through his body. It pounds loudly in his ears.

Riko isn't like the monsters Andrew knows so well. Not like this, not like this, not to them, not to Andrew, not to Three—

Three's eyes flick towards him. There's anger burning there. Defiance.

But it quells, suddenly, when he sees Andrew. His expression cracks, just the slightest amount.

Three's lips part. Riko slips the blade inside. Rests it there for a moment before he starts to push it further, until the wider parts of the blade press against the corner of Three's lips. It catches on skin, beads of red welling up. It won't be deep enough to cause a scar — even Riko knows there are lines not to be crossed. Ones, particularly, caught by cameras. Visible enough to pull sponsorships and deals into question.

He keeps all the greatest injuries out of sight, of course. The blade won't cut any further, any deeper, than it has.

But still, Andrew's heart is so fucking loud. He wants to reach into his own chest, wants to pry apart his ribs, wants to tear the stupid, beating thing out of it.

"Knees, Nathaniel," Riko says.

And slowly, slowly, Three starts to lower himself from the edge of the bed. Down, down. Bristling with anger and defiance, but on his knees nonetheless.

Riko whistles, low and appreciative. He looks over at Andrew.

Andrew doesn't know what he feels. He doesn't feel anything at all. He feels all too fucking much. Halfway out of his body, halfway in it, unable to leave. He can't leave this. Can't leave Three. Can't leave—

Whatever he shows, Riko seems encouraged by it. He leans over, putting his hands on Three's jaw, pushing his lips further apart. Three can't go anywhere, blade still pressed to his tongue.

The entire time, Riko is looking at Andrew. Is looking at him as he leans down, right next to Three's ear, and stage-whispers.

"Grayson has asked for this view before," Riko says. "And perhaps I will give it to him."

No.

"Don't," Andrew says, before he can stop himself.

Nathaniel damn near cuts his tongue off with the way his body jolts.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Fuck, but Andrew is truly the stupid one. Letting Three — Nathaniel, Abram, Neil, sometimes, when it was more than nothing — in was always going to end badly. Of course it was. Here he is, just dealing with the consequences of a mistake he should have known better than to make.

"Don't?" Riko drags out, sitting back, all too fucking pleased with himself.

"Riko," Nathaniel tries. But Riko warns him with a shush, tapping the blade against his tongue.

"It isn't your begging I want to hear right now," Riko tells him. Whatever expression is on Nathaniel's face makes Riko laugh, but it only keeps him entertained for so long. He looks back at Andrew, mocking his earlier eyebrow raise. "Well? You'd best get to it. I only have so much patience, Doe. Grayson is just down the hall. He’ll be so appreciative, don't you think, if I bring this one to his door."

Andrew's tongue is heavy in his mouth. Nathaniel is doing his best to crane his head, trying to look back at Andrew, but the blade in his mouth stops any movement. He's using his hands, instead, keeping them behind his back as he tries to signal to Andrew not to listen.

But Andrew knows he has to. Andrew knows better than to think he won't follow through on his threat.

"I'm sorry," Andrew says, voice flat. Unemotional. Careful, careful. He doesn't mean them, not truly, but he'll say what Riko wants to hear if that's what this is going to take.

"I don't think you are," Riko hums.

Andrew lets out a measured breath. Again, he says, "I'm sorry."

Tries to inflict something into his tone, though it tastes like ash.

He thinks about putting his fingers around Riko's throat. Tightening, tightening, until Riko feels a portion of what it feels like now. Until Riko can't breathe, until he never will again.

"Hm," Riko contemplates. Tilts his head. "Try again."

Every fucking time. Andrew knows better than to pretend anything he says will change the outcome.

But Nathaniel's on his knees, all for Andrew's sake, and he is one more smart comment from Riko making his threat all too real.

Jean's right — this is Andrew's mistake. He won't have Nathaniel pay it.

Andrew's next breath is a little more strained, mostly with annoyance. "What else do you want me to say?"

Get it over with. Make the mess. Hurry up.

Riko looks down at Nathaniel, then a little further. At the floor, right under Andrew's own feet.

His soul can't get very far, not with all the oppressive darkness in this room, not with Nathaniel so close, but he tries to let it float anyway. Keeps it up high as his knees drop to the ground.

Nathaniel makes a noise that makes Andrew's fists clench.

"I'm sorry," Andrew says, "for missing the goal."

"Ah," Riko says. "That's better."

Still, he sits on the bed, the blade in Neil's mouth. Both of them are still on their knees.

"But not quite," Riko eventually says, after drinking in the scene, like he's committing as much of it as possible to memory. Andrew's going to smash his head against the plexiglass until his brain matter splatters the entire court. Black and red, and red, red, red.

Nathaniel makes a noise of protest. Riko leans forward again, his breath tickling against Nathaniel's skin until goosebumps rise across it.

"Manners, Doe," Riko says.

Now, Nathaniel truly causes trouble. He pulls back as Riko is distracted by Andrew, letting the blade free of his mouth. And when Riko goes to rectify it, pulling back so he can watch as he lines the blade back up, Nathaniel spits. Right onto Riko's cheek, a glob made of saliva and the faintest tint of pink.

"Fuck you," Nathaniel manages.

Fuck killing Riko. Andrew's going to kill Nathaniel. Abram. Neil. Whatever fucking part of his soul has made this stupid decision. Here Nathaniel is, making it all so much worse.

Four won't blame Nathaniel, though. Andrew doesn't either, as much as he wants to.

There’s no one here to blame but Andrew.

Riko rears back, hand swiping through the spit on his cheek. He stares at it in disbelief. Andrew would almost find himself amused if dread wasn't choking him so heavily. He can tell that Riko's about to retaliate, that he's not going to let this one slide, and whatever Andrew says might not be enough to stop this from happening.

He'll do what it takes. If it means wrestling the blade from Riko's hands, he'll do it. He'll do it before Riko can pull Nathaniel from the room, before he can call out for Grayson.

But the blade is pressed to Nathaniel's throat, too close to the firing line. Riko is angry enough that he'll forget his rules, that he'll forget to keep an injury below the clothes, that he'll forget not to make it permanent.

And he can see the way Riko is turning the plan over in his mind. The way to make this hurt Nathaniel the most. A punishment worthy of the transgression.

"Riko," Andrew says, voice loud enough to crack through the air like a whip. "Please."

He promised himself he'd never say it again. No matter what, no matter for whom. A plea, never to be believed, never to be listened to. A pointless word, a show of hope that would ultimately change nothing at all. A damnation, self-proclaimed.

And here it is, spilling from his lips anyway.

He can't look at Nathaniel. He hardly looks at Riko. Just a point beyond him, a trick he learned as a child to act like he was properly looking without actually forcing himself to stare into anyone's eyes. He never liked what he saw, the reflections of so many jagged, harmful pieces.

Riko's anger, slowly, turns into fascination. Amusement, once more. Realising he's finally got Andrew's pained submission.

"Again," Riko demands, because he's always been so overly greedy, a child who can't help but reach into the cookie jar until it's empty.

It's even harder to drag it up the second time, but when Riko starts to get impatient with the waiting, eyes flicking to the door in warning, Andrew swallows it down.

Saying it again doesn't take back the first time. It's the same. You've said it once. Just damn yourself again; you already have.

Riko already knows the way, now, to strip what's left of him apart. The pieces, carefully pulled back together by Andrew, by Three-Nathaniel-Abram-Neil, that he's going to be able to grasp the seams of and rip. Until there's nothing. Until he's empty.

He feels it already. Hollowed out. The darkness has already crept in, slipping through the cracks, swallowing him whole and entirely.

He's given Riko nothing. Everything. One and the same, sitting at Riko's feet and at mercy to his whims.

"Please," Andrew says again, "forgive me for missing the goal."

Riko taps the knife against Nathaniel's throat. Once, twice. Nathaniel starts to press right back into the edge of it. Daring Riko to spill more blood than he already has, a quiet demand: how much more is this going to take? How much more?

"Well," Riko eventually drawls out. He leans back, the knife no longer to Nathaniel's throat. "When you beg so prettily like that..."

Nathaniel rocks forward. Riko, expecting his anger, leans forward again and pushes him back down. "You—"

"Will you make him say it again?" Riko cuts in, casually cruel in his flaunting of power.

Nathaniel settles. His hands move behind his back again, out of sight of Riko so that he can curl his fists. His nails cut into flesh. More bloody pieces Riko is making of him.

Riko's smile has not quite left his features. It curls them up now, shadows twisting and reaching, clawing up across his face.

"There we go," Riko says. He taps the blade against the side of his thigh as he looks over the two of them on his knees. Like he's imagining carving into Nathaniel anyway, just to see the mess he'll be able to create.

But finally, eventually, he flips the switchblade closed with a satisfied sound in the back of his throat, done for the night. He's already made it clear to everyone in the room: he now controls the pieces on the board.

Andrew should have known better. Of course it'd end up this way. The goal was a mistake, but one he was bound to make at the end of this.

Riko slowly gets to his feet, looking down at Nathaniel and Andrew.

"I trust there won't be any more issues on my court," Riko says. He reaches out, putting his fingers through Nathaniel's hair. Andrew's mouth dries.

Don't. Don't, don't.

Will it take a third time? Three times for Neil-Abram-Nathaniel-Three?

Riko's fingers curl until the strands of hair are tight in his grip. He tilts Nathaniel's head back, back, back.

"If you spit at me again, I will make sure to repay you," Riko tells him. Then looks right at Andrew. "Do you understand?" For a moment, Nathaniel is silent. Riko curls tighter until Andrew's sure hair is being ripped from his scalp. He jerks Nathaniel's head back. "Do you understand, Nathaniel?"

"I understand," Nathaniel says quietly.

Riko lets him go with a vicious jerk. Done with him for now as he heads towards Andrew.

Andrew wants to take that switchblade from his pocket and stab right into him. Right into soft flesh, ripping tendons from bones.

"You look good like this, Doe," Riko tells him.

Andrew is somewhere in the corner of the room. Somewhere high above. Somewhere deep within himself, trapped underneath rubble and shadows.

"Get up," Riko says.

Nathaniel is quick to get to his feet. Andrew takes a moment longer. Riko looks between them, dragging the moment out for a few more cruel moments. It's a heavy, thick weight in the room: Riko has them beaten at this game. He's basking in the glow of it, the enjoyment of knowing he's just figured out the best way to strip down and break apart the two most fortified and resistant pieces.

Then, eventually, he waves his hand to the door. It's a quicker dismissal than Andrew thought he'd get. He doesn't wait for Nathaniel as he turns on his heels and unlocks the door, then walks out of the room.

Nathaniel is on his heels, but he's mindful to keep a couple of paces of distance.

Andrew should go back to his room. But Eight is on the bed, and Andrew, suddenly, cannot stand the thought of those beady eyes staring at him. Trying to figure out if Riko has yet to flay him apart and has left him to feast on the scraps.

"My room?" Nathaniel offers quietly.

Andrew stiffens, footsteps coming to a halt as he stands in the middle of the hallway. No one else is around right now, but Andrew feels all too watched.

That might just be Nathaniel, though. Who has always been able to see things that Andrew long since thought he had learned to hide.

He curls his fists, ever so slightly.

"I'll get Jean to leave," Nathaniel says. His footsteps are louder as he comes closer, purposefully so that Andrew can step to the side as he comes closer. Andrew stays where he is, but Nathaniel is still mindful to press as close to the wall as possible, giving Andrew the space that he can. He opens the door, and Jean's low French greets him.

Nathaniel keeps his own side of the conversation in English, though, disobedient in a way he usually isn't with Jean. "Just give us an hour. Stay with Kevin."

Jean's response is certainly not friendly, but he slips out of the room all the same. For his large stature, it is impressive how small he makes himself as he haunts the halls.

His gaze flicks to Andrew. Studying him over, in that same way he does sometimes to Nathaniel. Surveying the damage after Riko has gotten his hands on them. Quickly, though, it flitters away, and he makes his way down the hall. Out of Riko's sight, at least. Out of sight of any of the others who try to pick at the scraps left of them.

Nathaniel slips into his room. Andrew stretches out his fingers, feeling them tingle, before he follows. Nathaniel takes up a seat at the head of his bed, resting against the headboard, letting Andrew take his preferred seat at the desk. He shuts the door behind them, swallowing down the bitterness in his throat.

Jean's turned on as many lights as he could, and Nathaniel leaves them that way.

Andrew tilts his head. Studies the pieces of the boy in front of him, so eager to avoid thinking about his own body, his own expressions, his own everything.

Not Nathaniel in here. Neil.

Neil slips a hand under his pillow, searching under it for a moment, before he pulls out a small, bright candy.

They're not allowed any such delicacy in the Nest. But Neil suffered the punishment of showing the crowd, once, of unwrapping and popping a sweet into his mouth before a game. It'd caused an uproar: a flash of colour that'd filled all too many forums. Pictures of Neil's tongue darting out of his mouth, the curve of his grin as he'd met the gaze of a fan with a camera, haunted Andrew for days.

But out of sight of the crowd, Andrew had caught the grimace as the sweetness had burst across his tongue, not used to and not liking the taste of it.

Neil has managed to create a secret game of it: the fans bring candy in droves, hoping to get Nathaniel’s attention, knowing they have to do it without being caught. Most of the time, Neil manages to pocket something, keeping it hidden from the rest of the team.

Andrew has since caught every single satisfied grin on his face, as he always offers out the winnings of his little game to Andrew.

He caught the third such smile with his own lips.

Here, his newest offering, placed on the edge of the bed. Three bright candy wrappers, this time. Somehow managing to do it, somehow managing to hold onto them after everything tonight.

Andrew wheels the chair over. He wants to resist the sweets out of spite, because the damn things had been one of the small stones on this path of damnation, but his tongue is still coated bitterly. He reaches for it, untwisting the wrapper of one, and pops it on his tongue.

Neil is looking down at his hands. There is no satisfied smile to be caught tonight.

"Grayson..." He tries to lead into.

"Don't," Andrew cuts in. Too sharp, too quick. Giving away all too much. Neil had been asking a question, he knows. Asking if Andrew is familiar with Riko's offer.

He is. Jean is, too. But they're both familiar with keeping it out of Neil's line of sight — a quiet agreement between them. Neil, stubborn and stupid, is not to know.

Wasn't to know. Riko's gone and blown that one right open.

Neil's fingers turn over in his lap.

There's too much here. Andrew feels suffocated by it.

Neil, now knowing. All too much.

About Grayson.

About the fact that Andrew missed the goal because of the foul.

And that Andrew will get on his knees, and he will beg.

And he will do it for Neil.

"I didn't realise," Neil says.

Andrew wheels the chair back towards the desk. He can't do this now, he decides. Or ever. He's so fucking stupid.

"Andrew."

He stops. Fuck, he stops. Of course he does.

His fingers are digging into the armrest of the chair. Neil's head finally looks up, and they meet each other's eyes.

"I won't let that happen again," Neil tells him.

Andrew almost laughs. It catches in his throat, jagged, catching on the sharp edges of razors. Who is Neil to promise such a thing? It's already happened. Once, twice. Riko will make it happen a third, a fourth, a fifth, sixth, seventh time.

Neil swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Neil—Nathaniel.

The Butcher's son, here in all his glory.

He's not the only one pulled raw. Stripped down to the bones, broken apart.

Perhaps being on Riko's floor, on his knees, with the true other half of him dangled like a toy — he is not the only one who hit the breaking point there.

"We're getting out of here," Neil-Abram-Nathaniel says.

Andrew twirls the candy around on his tongue. Pushes into every corner of his mouth until he can taste nothing else.

He shouldn't believe in this. He knows better, he knows better, he knows better.

But already stripped apart, with nothing and everything in front of him, he reaches out.

Believes him. Damned and stupid, he believes him.

Kisses him until he feels a slow curl of lips, slow and satisfied and sweet.