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Kevin is silent on the drive to the stadium but Neil’s eyes burn into his skin as he leaves the car. The feeling of being watched is inescapable. The electric lights buzz on row after row of empty bleachers when Kevin takes to the court alone, but he sees himself through the eyes of hundreds of imagined spectators: watch the perfect machine of Kevin Day’s body as it checks its equipment, readies the first ball, fires on an empty goal. The goal flashes red.
Watch the perfect machine of Kevin Day’s body do exactly what it was designed to do. Shot after shot, mechanical precision. He reaches the bottom of the bucket. His head is full of static.
Neil bargained with Ichirou Moriyama for his life. Kevin belongs to himself for the first time in his life. No one owns him.
He feels like an agoraphobe under the open sky. The possibilities are too vast. He bites his cheek, hard and then harder, until he is rewarded by the familiar taste of blood. The iron tang is a singular thread holding him to the earth.
He trades his racquet into his left hand.
Immediately hairs rise on the back of his neck. Without looking, he knows Neil and Andrew are watching him. Good. Kevin is a trick of the light, created in the eyes of others, and he needs it to be their eyes and not anyone else's. He needs them to look.
The first shot goes wildly off, and so does the next. He tongues his cheek, searching for blood. Flexes his left hand on his stick.
It’s foolish to risk injuring himself, but he doesn’t care; he has to keep their eyes on him. His disused muscles warm and soften as he works them, and movements that were once easy become easy again. He fires and fires on the goal until the chain of actions and reactions—look, aim, shoot, hit, flash red—melts into simple cause and effect. He thinks it, and the goal lights up red.
The door of the court slams open and Kevin pulls up short at the sight of Andrew. For a moment it feels like the same trick. Kevin thought it, and it was so. Mere desire made manifest.
Then his head clears a little and he’s angry at himself for thinking that Andrew was there because Kevin wanted it. Kevin has wanted it since the first time they met.
Andrew looks impassively at him under his helmet. His chest armor is strapped over a thin black pajama shirt, and he didn’t bother with knee pads. Neil sent him in, he must have. Kevin turns an accusing look on Neil, dimly lit in the stands, but he gestures innocence.
“Are you here to waste my time?” Kevin demands.
Andrew shrugs expansively.
Kevin motions impatiently at the goal. Andrew does not comply. Kevin thinks of Neil watching the two of them. He thinks of how unshakeably stubborn Andrew has been the entire time that he’s known him, and how easily Neil steers him now. Kevin’s skin is hot under his helmet and his shirt clings to his back.
Is it because they’re hooking up?
He didn’t believe it when Nicky first told him. Andrew hasn’t said a damn word about it. But you can see what's invisible by the effect of its gravity. After two years locked in orbit with Andrew, Kevin can’t miss the pull of a new celestial body.
The thought antagonizes him further. He fires a ball at the goal. Andrew doesn’t even try to block it.
Did Neil tell him to go onto the court, but forget to specify that he had to actually practice? It was like dealing with a fucking sphinx. He fires another ball on goal. Flash of red.
He fires at Andrew’s helmet with a satisfying thunk, and Andrew finally takes up his position.
Yes, says a voice at the back of Kevin’s mind. Yes yes yes.
Kevin fires and Andrew shoots it straight back at him. Kevin barely catches it, foot sliding back for balance, then fires it back. This time Andrew returns it lightning-quick at his knees. Kevin narrowly avoids it.
A live wire unfurls up Kevin’s spine. It takes seven tries for him to land another goal. That’s unheard of. Andrew’s movements are economical, blisteringly fast, breathtaking. The twist of his racquet next time he deflects shouldn’t be possible.
Kevin forgets how to breathe as Andrew reaches for another exquisite block, shirt riding high to reveal a pale triangle of stomach. The warmth in his muscles has turned into a steady burn.
“You could have played like this all season!” Kevin shouts.
Andrew doesn’t answer, too focused on returning Kevin’s shots. The snap of racquets echoes through the stadium. Faster and faster they go, and Kevin is drunk on the heady rush of a challenge, an equal. No goalie in the world can keep up with him like this.
But Andrew has not refined his talent. As Kevin lavishes him with his undivided attention, the tiny patterns of his performance appear, and what Kevin can predict, he can exploit. Andrew starts letting more balls in. The god becomes a man once more. Kevin’s fury returns. Andrew is angry too—at his own failure, Kevin hopes spitefully, but it’s almost certainly at Kevin. Kevin’s left hand is aching, his whole left shoulder is past the point of exhaustion, but he forces Andrew to leap one way and then the other, failing again and again.
The heat that has been simmering in Kevin’s body boils over. His racquet clatters to the ground and he storms toward Andrew. Andrew shoulders his own racquet, breathing hard. Kevin closes the distance between them, grabs the grill of Andrew’s helmet, and throws him into the goal wall.
The flash of red is blinding. In Kevin’s mind, Andrew returns the push with a fist, or better yet, the perfect clarity of a knife at his throat. Whiteout pain is the only possible ending to this long, unbearable crescendo of desire.
Instead, Andrew goes absolutely rigid with unspent violence.
“You could have played like this all season,” Kevin hisses. “You are a god on court. You waste more talent than most of your teammates could dream of having.”
Andrew’s breath is hot against Kevin’s fingers. The court’s nighttime lighting casts a lattice of shadows across his mouth. “Do not try to convince me that that is the reason for this tantrum.”
“You could have matched me. If you had practiced this year like Neil, you would be—” Kevin stops, lip curling, grasping for a word that’s good enough. The way Andrew was, for a fleeting moment on the court with Kevin—he could be like that always. The afterimage of Andrew’s performance is burned into Kevin’s retinas like he’d been looking like the sun. “You would be incandescent.”
There’s movement in Kevin’s peripheral vision and he readies for a blow, but Andrew’s racquet hits the ground and not the side of Kevin’s head. Andrew locks his fingers into the grill of Kevin’s helmet and pushes it up and off his head.
Cool air hits Kevin’s ears. He feels naked and exposed, and draws up the haughty walls of his indignation higher to compensate.
Andrew shoves off his own helmet and sends it rolling across the floor. Kevin lets it go, other hand fisted in Andrew’s black cotton nightshirt, over the muscles of his chest.
Andrew’s face is flushed with exertion, white-blond hair plastered to his temples. The evidence of his ferocious performance awakens a hunger in Kevin’s gut.
“You don’t know what you want,” Andrew says.
But that’s not true. He wants the Foxes to win the championship. He wants to go on to US Court and he wants Andrew to be with him. He wants Andrew to play every game the way he played tonight, and he wants the world to see them together, and he wants everyone to know that Kevin found him and Kevin made him this. He wants it to be as hard for Andrew to imagine a future without Kevin as it is for Kevin to imagine one without Andrew. He wants that look of utter intensity that Andrew reserves for Neil, and he wants Andrew’s hands on every inch of his skin, and he wants Andrew’s mouth against his neck.
“I want you to take this as seriously as I do,” Kevin hisses.
Andrew looks at him. His silence is the answer Kevin already knew he was going to get.
Ichirou gave Kevin a future, but Kevin doesn’t know how to have a future and be alone. He had Riko; he had Jean; he had Andrew. For the first time he is looking at a future of freedom and no one beside him. He tightens his grip on Andrew’s shirt.
“Push me away,” Kevin says.
Andrew’s posture is tense and coiled, wanting to pounce. His hooded eyes look almost black.
“Cut me off,” Kevin says. “Let me go.”
Andrew takes Kevin by the hair and pulls him down until their foreheads are pressed against each other, skin on sweaty, sticky skin. Kevin’s world tilts. All sight is erased by proximity but he feels the damp heat of Andrew’s breath on his face. Mere inches separate their mouths. Heat rushes up Kevin’s neck and his stomach twists with unwanted, desperate desire.
“I will not,” Andrew says.
Footsteps skitter onto the court and stop at the sight of them. Neil. The sensation that jolts through Kevin is more electric than the shame he should be feeling. Does Neil see how Andrew’s grip tightens on his hair until his scalp stings?
Kevin’s heart beats wildly. He is Icarus at the height of his flight. Neil approaches.
Andrew says something in German. The words are hot against Kevin’s mouth and not meant for him.
“Don’t,” Kevin says. It’s not fair. “You have to let go.”
“Why?”
You have to, or keep me forever, Kevin thinks. Andrew’s mouth is so, so close to his. The tips of fingers dig into his scalp; his thumbs press into the hinge of his jaw, under his pulse. His hands are hot and sweat-damp. Kevin’s whole body is taut as a freshly strung racquet.
And then Andrew pulls him down, or Kevin leans in. Their mouths crush together. Andrew’s teeth catch Kevin’s lip and a shiver rolls down Kevin’s back. Andrew is solid and real and tastes faintly of cigarette smoke. Kevin is lightheaded. The soft sound he makes is swallowed up by Andrew’s mouth.
When Andrew loosens his grip, Kevin slides to his knees. He isn’t self-possessed enough to stay standing.
Andrew looks down at him. His expression is blank, but a dark flush colors his ears and neck.
“Have you done that before?” Neil asks curiously.
Kevin jolts. He tries to turn his head to see him but Andrew’s hands tighten in his hair, lighting up nerve endings under his skin.
His gut buzzes with the contrast: Andrew holding him assuredly in place like he’s only a prop in this conversation, and yet knowing Neil’s talking to him when he says, “I don’t blame you.”
How could you not react to Andrew like that? Neil’s tone implies, admiration and want, and Andrew likes that. Kevin can see it in how hard Andrew tries not to let him see it, how steadfastly he refuses to dart a glance away from Kevin’s eyes to Neil’s.
Kevin swallows. “We haven’t.”
“Have you wanted to?”
Andrew’s fingertips rub tingling half-circles into his scalp. He’s mesmerized by the flush under the pale skin of Andrew’s neck. He’s mortified by the need to answer. “Yes.”
“How often?” Neil asks.
Kevin must be as red as Andrew. Abruptly, he’s certain he’s being mocked. “I shouldn’t have—” he starts, angry, trying to turn his head to the now-close shape of Neil in his peripheral vision but Andrew pulls his grip so tight Kevin’s mind goes white.
“He asked a question,” Andrew says.
“What?” he manages.
“How often do you want to kiss Andrew?” Neil supplies.
“I’m not gay.”
“Anyone would want to kiss him,” Neil says incredulously.
“Have you kissed him?” Kevin asks.
Andrew’s hand moves, palm to the flat of Kevin’s neck, thumb stroking down his throat. Any further deflection dies in the shiver of his skin. Andrew’s eyes are heavy-lidded, his lips parted to show a white sliver of teeth, a dark sliver of tongue. “Kevin, Kevin,” he says, “answer the question.”
His palms slide down Kevin’s neck, back up, the feeling hypnotic.
How often does he want to kiss Andrew? “Too much,” Kevin says, bitten off.
Andrew kisses him again.
Heat licks up his spine. The angle’s no better than before, but this time instead of being pulled down to meet Andrew’s mouth, he’s stretching up, knees digging into concrete, head tilted to the point of aching.
The kiss is an answer to his honesty: maybe a reward, maybe further entrapment. In the moment it hardly matters. Kevin couldn't stop himself if he wanted to. Andrew's mouth is warm and insistent. His callused fingers frame Kevin's jaw and he's aware of every brush of skin on skin, the itch of fabric, the whisper of air across his overheated skin and the brightness that lights every nerve ending in his body.
Andrew slips his tongue against the seam of his lips and Kevin opens his mouth unthinkingly, feeling a thrill of pleasure as Andrew’s tongue pushes into his mouth. It’s a level of physical closeness that he never dreamed of, yet he wants more. His body feels like it’s really his when it’s being touched by someone else.
Then Andrew jolts backward, opening space between them. The absence of him is devastating. Lips tingling, it takes Kevin a second to see what’s happened: Neil startled him with a kiss to the neck. Neil’s attempt to pull away is cut short by Andrew grabbing a fistful of his shirt without looking at him, pinning him in place. Andrew’s too-wide eyes are fixed on a point above Kevin’s head.
His gaze drops to Kevin, who frowns up at him. A tiny bit of stiffness melts from his expression as he taps a finger to Kevin’s still-parted lips. Then, with a contemplative look, he grabs Kevin’s chin and tilts it towards Neil.
Kevin’s heart hammers. The circuitry of his brain is throwing sparks. Andrew doesn’t always react well to unexpected touch, and he needs a second to collect himself, but surely he can’t be offering what he seems to be offering.
Neil looks from Andrew to Kevin and then, with the smallest What can you do? flicker of eyebrow, bends down to kiss Kevin instead.
The night has taken too many unexpected turns for Kevin to keep up with. He kisses back. Neil’s lips are softer than Andrew’s. More like a girl’s, Kevin thinks, stomach twisting inexplicably at the thought. He doesn’t stay put for long. He kisses the corner of Kevin’s mouth, then the edge of his jaw—Kevin’s breath hitches—and then the soft patch of skin over his pulse. Kevin inhales sharply at the pleasure of the feeling.
“Is this okay?” Neil asks between kisses, the words buzzing into Kevin’s skin, as he moves down Kevin’s neck. The angle is becoming awkward. The next thing he knows Andrew is manhandling him backwards so he’s sitting on his heels and Neil is kneeling beside him, heat radiating from the point where his knee presses into Kevin’s thigh.
“Answer the question, Kevin,” Andrew says.
Neil bites gently at his neck and Kevin makes a noise that is not an answer. He’s leaning back on his hands, eyes squeezed close.
“Not gay,” Andrew mocks.
Kevin flinches. He sees himself from the outside: head tipped back, whimpering, lost in pleasure. “Stop,” he says, hand going to the side of his neck, and Neil does without question. Kevin didn’t want him to. His skin feels cold where Neil’s mouth was a moment before.
Andrew’s eyebrows draw together into one hard line.
“This isn’t allowed,” Kevin says.
“Fuck that,” Andrew says.
“You can’t just make the rules go away. That’s not how it works,” Kevin says. “That’s not how it works for me.”
“Make whose rules go away?” Neil says.
Kevin gestures at the rows of bleachers. The fans. The world.
“There's no one there,” Neil says.
“You know what I mean.”
“I don't. The stadium’s empty. The only people watching you are me and Andrew.”
“There's no one here now. But that's only tonight.”
“No, it's not,” Neil says, exasperated. “We practice like this every night.”
“But it can't be like this every night.” Kevin's left hand aches. He tries to massage the pain away. “You understand that, right?”
“Can't be just us? Who else are you inviting?”
“That's not what I meant.”
Andrew grabs Kevin's left hand and takes over ministrations.
“Can't be like what?”
“This!” Kevin drags a finger down his neck, over tender skin. He can't even think about the possibility that Neil left marks. Neil follows the line of his finger with too much interest and Kevin thinks he'll protest.
He's wrong.
After a beat, Neil says, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Kevin repeats.
Neil glances at Andrew, who's focused on Kevin's hand, with a question in his eyes. How to handle Kevin. Disappointment and frustration roil in Kevin’s stomach. Why didn’t he protest?
“If you don't want to kiss us, you don't have to,” Neil says, and the word us is unbelievably galling, turning Neil and Andrew into a unit from which Kevin is excluded.
“That's not it.”
“Fine, you don't want to kiss me,” Neil amends, “you already said you want to kiss Andrew all the time.”
“Are you willfully misunderstanding me?” Kevin demands. “I didn't say I didn't want to. I said I couldn't. The person I am supposed to be exists between parameters that were picked out a very long time ago. I know what he does and doesn't do. You know; everyone knows. Maybe you can invent a new version of yourself every six weeks but that's not an option for me. I can't ruin this. I can't lose control of Kevin Day. Because if I lose everything else—if I lose my hand and the court I grew up on and the respect of everyone I knew and my home and my brother, it's all I have—ow!”
“And me,” Andrew says, bored, thumb dug viciously into Kevin's palm.
“Motherfucker,” Kevin hisses. “What?”
“If you lose everything, your hand, blah blah, you don't just have your spit-shiny little TV personality. I do not know how much it'll take to get that through your thick cranium.”
He goes back to rubbing the soreness from Kevin's hand, smoothing over the fresh nail-mark in his palm. His fingers are rough and steady, a few shades lighter than Kevin’s skin. He's telling the truth. He always is. Kevin doesn't know how to believe him.
“That Kevin Day isn’t real. You know that, right?” Neil says. “The one you were supposed to be. The perfect one. You made him up.”
Kevin tries to glare at him, but the heat he wants to put into his gaze must look more like desperation. He has the prickling, all-over feeling of a thousand imagined spectators’ eyes on him.
“Well, you and Riko and everyone at Evermore, and on TV. You fucked it up. You left the Nest, you broke the rules.”
The stadium seats are empty. He knows it. The only eyes on him are Andrew’s and Neil’s. “That,” Kevin says, “is not comforting.”
“It’s true.”
“I didn’t have any other choice.”
“Maybe,” Neil says. “You have a choice now, though. You could break their rules on purpose.”
He’s unsettlingly fervent. Kevin still hasn’t gotten entirely used to the new color of his eyes. They’re too light, too piercing. He’s myth-making as he speaks, inventing another version of Kevin with steel in his spine. Kevin contemplates the idea.
“Why did you kiss me?” he asks Neil.
“I wanted to,” Neil says. It’s not a come-on, exactly, which Kevin has gotten before, but he says it so unhesitatingly that Kevin thinks he’s telling the truth.
“Why?”
There’s a fluttering tightness in Kevin’s chest, worried that Neil will scoff or grow impatient, but he gives no indication that the question is stupid. Instead, when he answers, his tone is open and a little searching. Amidst Neil’s million secrets, this is a piece of honesty that he’ll turn over to Kevin for free. “I thought you would like it. I thought Andrew would like to watch.”
An image comes to mind of the look of intensity that Andrew so often turns on Neil, and Kevin imagines that hungry look turned on both of them. He imagines the shapes of their mouths moving against each other, seen through Andrew’s eyes. The itching under his skin has given way to something less complicated, less aware, something warmer.
He considers his words, then asks, “Did you like it?”
A smile spreads across Neil’s face. “Yeah.”
Kevin’s heart beats erratically. A distant corner of his brain is concerned about the health implications. “Okay.”
“Did you?”
He can feel his pulse, tachycardic, under his ears. “Yes,” he says. He keeps the defensive edge in his tone to just that, a bare edge. Then, because one difficult admission deserves another, he says, “I thought you and Andrew were together.”
Andrew objects with another cruel dig into his palm.
With a hiss of pain, Kevin turns a withering look on him. “Nicky said he was your boyfriend!”
“He’s my problem,” Andrew says.
Kevin looks at Neil, not knowing what reaction to expect, but Neil has an air of satisfaction at Andrew’s answer. Like no further elaboration is needed. No, more than that: like Andrew’s answer amuses him, and he thinks Kevin will share in the amusement. Their feelings towards Andrew are a language in common.
“Am I your problem?” Kevin asks Andrew.
Andrew blinks, light catching in his pale eyelashes. “Always.”
You have a choice now, Kevin thinks. You could fuck it up on purpose. “Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly.
Andrew stares at him, too long. Behind his dead eyes, so faint Kevin might be imagining it, something softens. He nods minutely.
Action, reaction. Kevin curls his fingers around Andrew’s hand, squeezing, then leans forward and fits their mouths together.
It won't be the last time.