Archive of Our Own ^beta

When the reporter asked him about it, he hadn’t been thinking of Riko at all.

For the first time, Kevin truly felt like his life was truly going well—a stable kind of well that he could rely upon. He was at the top of his game, fresh off of a championship run and already optimistic about his team’s chances for a repeat. Not just his team—Jean and Jeremy’s, too, since the season before last. They shared an incredible penthouse apartment that overlooked Central Park, and their friends and family regularly visited. Including Andrew and Neil, who were a short drive away in Philadelphia. None of them were anywhere close to retirement, but Neil had already spoken with Ichirou to ensure their deal would allow them to retire in peace when the time came.

Life was good—so good that Kevin had forgotten to worry about it becoming bad again.

And then, at the pre-season press conference, the reporter asked him about it.

“This question’s for Kevin.” An innocent enough start. The reporter looked young, even to Kevin. “Tomorrow marks the five year anniversary of the death of Riko Moriyama.”

The buzzing that filled Kevin’s ears was instantaneous. Everything else kept going, but he froze.

He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten entirely.

Everyone was looking at him expectantly; the question, whatever it was, had been asked. His mouth was unbearably dry. He had no idea what the question was. The reporter would repeat it, if he asked. But he still wasn’t sure he could hear, and knew he wouldn’t allow himself to ask a third time. “As you know, I’m a strong advocate for mental health, as well as physical,” he said. “I hope that answers your question.” It didn’t—he knew it didn’t—but it was the only answer he had to give. The press conference probably wasn’t over yet, but Kevin couldn’t breathe. He was pretty sure his face had defaulted to his press smile—inappropriate; they were talking about death—and he needed to get out of there before he did something worse. He stood—the chair made an unbearably loud screeching noise on the floor—and left the room.

Kevin made it all the way to the locker room before he sank down to the floor. He counted his breaths; it almost helped.

He wasn’t sure how long he was sitting there before he heard Jeremy’s voice. “—should be over by now, or at least close. Come on, let’s—” He rounded the corner and saw Kevin sitting on the floor, and he rushed to his side. “Oh my god, Kev, what happened?”

Kevin looked past Jeremy and stared at Jean. “Did you know?” he asked. “Did you remember?”

Jean’s brow furrowed, then relaxed in a hollow sort of recognition, then creased in anger. “Which one of them asked you about it? They should be banned from the premises.”

Jeremy looked between the two of them. “Asked about what?”

“Riko.” Jean pronounced his name like it was a curse. “Tomorrow, it will have been five years.”

“Oh.” Jeremy’s shoulders went slack. “Are you—are both of you—” His gaze settled on Kevin. “Are you okay?”

Kevin took a deep breath. The obvious answer was no. But that wasn’t the answer he wanted to give. “Can we just go home?”

“Of course,” said Jeremy. He stood, offering Kevin a hand. “We’ve got your stuff. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The next morning, Kevin was still feeling off, but he was doing a better job of hiding it. He successfully dodged Jeremy and Jean’s concerned looks through breakfast and the drive to the stadium and, by the time he finished changing out for practice, he had almost convinced himself he really was fine.

Then Coach Gallagher called him into his office.

“Day,” said Gallagher sternly, “what the hell was that last night?”

Kevin froze.

“I had to spend my whole evening cleaning up after your messy exit,” Gallagher continued. “Am I going to have to send you back to press training?”

Gallagher didn’t know—couldn’t know—that the Master used to ask that exact question whenever Kevin made a mistake in front of the press. Gallagher also had no way of knowing what “press training” meant in the Nest.

Kevin remembered, though.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quickly, looking down. He fought back the urge to kneel. “It won’t happen again.”

Gallagher leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’m more concerned about why it happened in the first place. You were gone by the time I was able to get away and go look for you.”

“I just—wasn’t expecting the question,” said Kevin, eyes still trained on the floor. “I should have been. I will be ready next time.”

“I wish I could promise you there won’t be a next time,” said Gallagher with a sigh. “That particular reporter won’t be back, and we can hope the others got the memo, but—well, I don’t need to explain to you how the press can be. Hell, you’ve been dealing with them about as long as I have.”

Kevin stayed silent. He hadn’t heard a question, and the Master didn’t like it when he spoke out of turn.

Gallagher studied him for a minute. “You all right, Day? If you need to take today, get some rest, and come back tomorrow, that’s fine.”

It was a trap—it had to be a trap. “You don’t need to bench me.” Kevin risked looking up at Gallagher. “I can play.”

“No one’s benching you, kid. I’m just offering you a day off. The reporter’s question was shit, but I still heard it. I know why today might be . . . difficult.”

“I don’t need it,” said Kevin without hesitation. “I’m fine.”

“Now say it in a way that’ll make me believe it,” said Gallagher.

Kevin turned on his press smile. “I’m fine. Really. I want to practice.”

“There’s the Kevin Day we all know and love,” said Gallagher. “Where was that guy yesterday?” Kevin’s face fell, but Gallagher had already turned back to his paperwork and didn’t notice. “Go on, warm up. Tell the rest of the team to focus on mobility, we’re doing footwork drills this morning.”

When he got out to the court, Jeremy was there to meet him. “Hey, Kev, everything okay?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” Kevin still had his press smile on, which made Jeremy frown. Kevin didn’t give him time to say anything. “Hey!” he called out to the rest of the team. “Coach says it’s footwork today. Warm up accordingly.”

There was some grumbling—especially from the goalies, and some of the bulkier backliners—but Kevin threw himself into warmups, and then the drills, with an almost fervent enthusiasm. Usually, Kevin loved footwork drills. There was a certain rhythm to them that helped ground him. Plus, he was good at them—he always had been.

Today, though, he was distracted. He felt slow and uncoordinated, and it was reaching a level where his coach and teammates were noticing.

“Day!’ Gallagher called out. “Get your head in the game!”

“Yes, Coach.” Kevin’s mouth was dry. Some of his teammates were giving him looks that ranged from critical to curious to concerned. Jean was among them, watching him from a distance with a furrowed brow. They made eye contact, and, for a second, they were teenagers again, and it wasn’t safe for Jean to be openly worried about him. Kevin was having a bad practice, which meant the Master would punish him, and he would punish Jean, too, at the smallest of provocations. He couldn’t protect Jean—not in a way that mattered—but he could at least try to keep from making things harder for him.

But they weren’t teenagers. They weren’t in the Nest. The Master couldn’t hurt them anymore.

Kevin looked away anyway.

It didn’t feel safe to look at Jeremy, either—he shouldn’t be here; he was too good, too kind for the Nest, but he was too good, too talented to avoid it if he caught the Master’s attention, so Kevin had to keep the Master’s attention off of him—so he kept his eyes on the court in front of him and refocused on the footwork drills.

Kevin lost himself in the drills, turning off every part of his brain that wasn’t centered on his steps. They took balance and precision and concentration, and he was determined to give them his all. By the time Coach Gallagher blew the whistle, he was thoroughly winded, and feeling a little bit better.

Of course, it didn’t last.

“Hey, Day,” called Wellington, Kevin's least favorite teammate, during the water break; Jeremy tensed beside him. He was a recent addition to the Dealer line, but he'd been in the league for years—he was four years senior to Kevin. And this wasn't the first time he and Kevin—and Jean—had played together. He had been in his fifth year with the Ravens when Kevin and Jean joined the lineup as freshmen. “What gives? You going soft?”

Kevin bristled. “Fuck off.”

Wellington stepped closer. “I'm serious. You used to do harder, more complicated drills in your sleep.”

“Stand down, Wellington,” said Jeremy, warning in his voice.

“Or you'll what?” Wellington taunted. He turned back to Kevin. “You really have gone soft if you're letting a Trojan fight your battles.”

“We're all on the same team here,” said Jeremy.

“Whatever,” said Wellington, rolling his eyes. He sneered at Kevin. “I liked you better when you were a Raven.”

“Hey, Wellington,” called Landry, the team captain, “save that animosity for opposing teams on the court! Everyone, we're back at it in five.”

Jeremy gave Kevin's arm a squeeze. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

Kevin's eyes snapped over to him. “Of course. Why?”

“You just—hadn't moved in a minute there.”

“Oh.” Kevin forced himself to relax. “I'm fine.”

“You don’t have to be, you know,” said Jeremy.

Yes, he did, but he didn’t think Jeremy would understand. Jeremy had been raised to believe it was okay to show weakness. That had never been true for Kevin.

He looked up to see Jean walking towards them. Kevin gave an urgent, subtle shake of his head, but Jean ignored him and kept coming. “You shouldn’t be over here,” he said in French as soon as Jean was within earshot. “You should stay with the backliners.”

“We are on a break, and this is not the Nest,” said Jean, also in French. “Wellington has always been an ass. Don’t let him get in your head.”

Kevin stared. Jean was right—his words made sense—but Kevin couldn’t process them. “Practice is about to start up again,” he said. “I need to focus.”

Jeremy shook his head. “This isn’t focus, this is . . . something else.” His French was slower, and less refined, but he stuck with it, which Kevin appreciated. It gave them some semblance of privacy. They had to be careful, though; Riko didn’t like it when they had conversations he couldn’t understand. “It’s okay if you need to take a break.”

“We are on a break right now,” said Kevin, confused.

“A longer one, I mean,” said Jeremy gently. “We’re still weeks away from the start of the season. You can sit out half a practice if you need to.”

“No,” said Kevin quickly, swallowing a flare of fear. “Don’t bench me. I promise I’ll do better.”

“No one’s benching you,” said Jeremy. “Just—it seems like a break could help.”

Jean shook his head. “No. It will not help him.”

Jeremy looked at Jean incredulously. “You’re telling me you think he should play like this?”

“Yes,” said Jean. He glanced at Kevin, then took a step closer to Jeremy and lowered his voice; Kevin could still hear him. “He has been having flashbacks to the Nest. At the Nest, missing practice was not an option. He will panic.”

Jeremy let out a long breath. “I don’t like it.”

Jean shrugged. “You do not have to like it.” He looked at Kevin. “You want to keep practicing?”

“Yes,” said Kevin immediately.

Jean nodded. “And you understand that this is not the Nest? That you can take a break if you need to?”

Kevin hesitated, but he knew the correct answer. “Y-yes.”

Jean looked at Jeremy. “There. Are you satisfied?”

Jeremy made a strangled noise of protest. “Seriously? I’m just supposed to take his word for it?”

“Do you think it will be helpful for you to tell him you do not believe him?”

Jeremy pressed his lips together. He looked—frustrated. Not angry. Jeremy didn’t get angry. Not the way Riko did. “For the record, I don’t like this.”

Jean looked at him flatly. “Really? I am having the time of my life.”

Jeremy’s shoulders slumped; Jean’s sarcasm seemed to get through to him where his matter-of-fact honesty had not. “All right,” he said to Kevin, “I’ll shut up and let it go, but I’m here, and I’m paying attention, so let me know if you change your mind. If you need to—if you need anything.”

Kevin nodded quickly. He was used to being watched; he wouldn’t give Jeremy anything to worry about.

“Okay, team, break’s over!” called Landry. “Pick up your racquets. Precision drills, passing and shooting, let’s line it up!”

This was good—a chance for Kevin to prove himself. Even if his brain wouldn’t provide the stillness necessary for complex footwork, it would give him enough for this—his aim was all but automatic. Racquet in hand, Kevin hit the target again and again, feeling more like himself each time he did.

Gallagher blew the whistle. “Almost done,” he said. “One more round, non-dominant hands. Go!”

Kevin felt a rush of satisfaction. He loved non-dominant hand drills; he had, quite literally, trained for this. While the accuracy of most of his teammates’ shots began to deteriorate, his stayed perfectly on target.

True to his word, Jeremy watched him closely, and he didn’t bother hiding it. Jean was much more subtle, but every time Kevin checked, his eyes were trained on him, too. It was well-intentioned, but it was exhausting. And they weren’t the only ones looking; thanks to his earlier performance, his other teammates were watching, too, waiting for him to falter.

He refused to give them the satisfaction.

“Damn, Day,” said Preston, the second-string striker lined up to his right. “Showing up the rest of us, as usual!”

Kevin missed his next shot entirely. Preston’s tone was light and friendly—and it had been friendly of him to call Kevin out, to warn him before Riko noticed that Kevin was performing better than Number One. Or, worse, before the Master noticed. Riko would punish Kevin, but the Master would punish them both.

He gave his head a shake. Riko and the Master weren’t here. He didn’t have to hold back. Preston wasn’t warning him; he was just giving him a compliment.

“Thanks,” Kevin said, forcing a smile. “Lots of practice.”

To any observer, the rest of practice went well. Kevin was focused; he nailed the drills—but not too perfectly; he stayed alert and relaxed, and he didn’t give anyone a single reason to be concerned.

Anyone except Jeremy and Jean, that was. he couldn’t hide his underlying tension from them. Jeremy kept shooting him concerned glances, his mouth pressing together in a thinner and thinner line. Jean was much more subtle about it, but Kevin could still feel his eyes on him more often than they should be. By the end of practice, he was exhausted—and not the good kind of physical exhaustion he expected after a long day on the court. His muscles pinched in ways that had nothing to do with athletic activity, and his brain was a terrible combination of wired and fried. The drive home helped a bit—at least there weren’t other people around. Jean and Jeremy’s concerned tension was difficult but manageable. All he wanted to do was go home and shut the door and try again tomorrow.

But, of course, tonight was a night where they had plans.

“We don’t have to go,” said Jeremy, frowning. “It’s been a rough day. Everyone would understand if we cancel.”

Kevin shook his head. “Allison is a lot of things, but ‘understanding’ isn’t typically one of them,” he said. “And you’ve been looking forward to Alvarez’s gallery opening for months. You’re being honored. Skipping all of that to babysit me won’t make me feel better.”

“It’s not babysitting,” said Jeremy. “If you need us, you need us.”

“I don’t,” said Kevin, projecting confidence. It seemed to be working; Jeremy’s expression was starting to smooth. “Besides,” added Kevin, “I’ve got a fashion exhibition to participate in.”

Jean snorted. “Reynolds will live if you are not there to show off her designs. She has actual models lined up for this event, no?”

“She does,” Kevin confirmed, “but she says it will really help her get investors if she’s got some celebrities wearing the pieces, too.”

“You’re not the only one she’s got, are you?” asked Jeremy.

Kevin had no idea. “Of course not,” he said.

“There are others,” Jean confirmed. “I have spoken with Renee about it. There will be a few actors, singers, some socialites. Even another athlete or two.”

“Another athlete?” asked Kevin, perking up.

Jean shrugged dismissively. “Some baseball player. One with a silly nickname—A-Stick or A-Bat?”

“Oh,” said Kevin losing interest.

“Wait, A-Rod?” asked Jeremy. “Alex Rodriguez is going to be there?” Jean and Kevin stared at him blankly, and he shook his head. “Never mind. Point it, Kev, if you need to cancel, it’s not like she’ll be in a huge lurch. She’s got other people to show off her new fashion line.”

Jeremy was right, of course, and there were few things Kevin wanted to do less than go out and put himself on display for a room full of strangers. But it wasn’t about him. Alvarez was opening a new gallery, and the featured exhibit was a collection of pieces she’d done centered on her junior year with the Trojans—Jeremy’s last year, and the year Jean got there. Former teammates had flown in from across the country for the event, and Kevin wouldn’t forgive himself if Jean and Jeremy missed it because he had a rough day. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ve already done all the fittings. It will be a waste if I don’t get to actually wear the outfit.”

“All right, then,” said Jeremy, “we’re going with you. Or—at least one of us is.”

“No, you’re not,” said Kevin. “You’re going to the gallery opening. I’ll be fine.” Jeremy looked supremely unconvinced, and Jean was still studying him far too closely. “Besides,” he added, “Allison and Renee will be there. I will not be alone.”

“You will let them watch you,” said Jean. It was somewhere between a question and an order. “And you will call us the second you need to.”

“The second you even think you might need us,” Jeremy corrected.

Kevin knew he wouldn’t call, but he also knew better than to say that. “I’ll call,” he lied. “I won’t hesitate.”

“I still don’t like it,” said Jeremy.

“You don’t have to like it,” said Kevin. “You just have to trust me. You do trust me, right?”

It was manipulative, but effective. “Of course,” said Jeremy without hesitation. “Of course we trust you.”

“Great,” said Kevin. “Jean?”

Jean looked steadily back at him for a moment, then he nodded. “You know I do,” he said quietly.

Kevin swallowed down any shame he felt at using such easy trust to his advantage. “It’s settled, then,” he said. “You’re going to the gallery opening, I’m going to the fashion show.”

“And you’ll call us if you need anything—anything at all,” Jeremy reminded him.

“That’s the deal,” said Kevin.

“All right,” said Jeremy. He checked the time and sighed. “We should get ready to go; we need to leave soon.”

Jean nodded and moved to stand, but he didn’t make it all the way up. Drawing in a sharp breath, he dropped back into his chair, paused, then slowly rose to his feet, face pinched.

“Are you okay?” asked Jeremy. “Did something happen at practice?”

Jean grimaced. “I’m fine. Just old injuries acting up.”

Old injuries that Kevin could have prevented.

Jeremy took a step towards him, face drawn. “What do you need?”

“Nothing,” said Jean. “It will pass. It always does.” He took a breath, then tried to stand again; this time, he was successful. “See? It passes.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?” asked Jeremy. “We can stay home.”

Jean shook his head. “No. I am perfectly all right.”

Jeremy sighed. “I don’t know which one of you I should be more worried about.”

“Neither of us,” said Kevin quickly. “We’re fine. Really.”

“And?” pressed Jeremy.

“And, if that changes, I’ll call,” said Kevin.

Jeremy looked unhappily between the two of them. “For the record, I don’t like this.”

Kevin relaxed; that meant Jeremy wasn’t going to push it any further. Which was good, because Kevin wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold up. “I know,” he said sympathetically, taking a step towards Jeremy and putting a hand gently on his arm, just below his shoulder. “Thank you for caring—I love how much you care. But don’t worry about me. Enjoy the gallery opening. Catch up with your old teammates. I can’t wait to hear about it when we get home.”

By the time Kevin got to the venue for Allison’s exhibition an hour later, he just couldn’t wait to get home. Putting on a show for Jeremy and Jean had taken up energy he didn’t have, and letting his guard down for a bit during the car ride over didn’t give him nearly enough time to recharge. Now, he was standing in a too-crowded room trying to find Allison and get his marching orders before he ran out of social energy altogether. It would be better, he thought, once he had something to do—once he was in the clothes and following instructions. It was this unmoored period, where all he had to be was himself, that was the struggle.

He finally spotted Allison at the same time she spotted him. “Kevin!” she called out, making her way over to him. She greeted him with a light hug. “Thank you so much for doing this,” she said earnestly, hands on his shoulders. She pulled back a bit and frowned. “You good? Renee got a very disturbing message from Jean earlier that made it sound as though my favorite celebrity guest model might drop out on me last minute.”

Kevin smiled blandly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Allison’s frown deepened. “That wasn’t comforting. Was that supposed to be comforting?” She gave her head a quick shake. “You know what, don’t answer that. Tonight is too important for me to be worrying about whatever mental breakdown you might be having. Just try to keep it to yourself until you’re out of sight and out of my clothes, all right? I need you at your most charming.”

Finally, an actionable instruction. Kevin turned on his press smile. “At your service, Ms. Reynolds.”

“God, it’s creepy how quickly you can turn that on,” said Allison. “Anyway, good work, and much appreciated.” She turned towards the room of bustling assistants. “Alexi!” A narrow, dark-haired man carrying a pile of fabric stopped and turned towards them. “Take our VIP here to get dressed,” she said, nodding towards Kevin.

“Will do, boss,” said Alexi, giving him a once-over. “Right this way, Mr. Day.”

“Kevin’s fine,” he said. “No need for the formality.”

Alexi looked pleased. “All right, then. Kevin it is.”

Kevin followed him through the crowd and to a back room filled with racks of clothes and curtained-off changing areas. Alexi went straight over to one of the racks, flipped through the hangers for a moment, and then grabbed one of the garment bags and ushered Kevin into a nearby changing area. For a temporary room, it was surprisingly well-stocked with a full-length mirror, an empty clothing rack with a variety of hangers, and a bench.

Alexi hung the garment bag up on the rack, unzipped it, and carefully extracted the clothes from the bag, revealing a royal purple suit. “Mmm, I just love this piece,” he said. “I’m going to go put the bag away. I’ll be back for a final check of the clothing; do you want me to help you dress as well, or would you like some privacy until the clothes are on?”

“Privacy, please,” said Kevin, feeling a little relieved; he hadn’t been certain he’d be given the option. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” said Alexi. “I’ll be right back. I’ll wait right outside the curtain, and you can just open it and get me once you’re ready.”

Logically, Kevin knew he could take his time. He’d arrived early, like he intended, and he had no reason to think Alexi would barge in before he was summoned. But his skin itched, and he was already feeling overexposed, so he rushed through the process, keeping himself as covered as possible. He took a minute to study his reflection in the mirror. The suit was a very good purple, and the detailing was crisp and clean with just the right amount of ornate gold embroidery highlighting its lines. The sleeves flared out slightly, and the shape was unique yet familiar and flattering. Allison had truly outdone herself.

Finally, deciding he’d stalled long enough, he pulled back the curtain and let Alexi back in. He turned on a smile that was just the right mix of dashing and humble. “How do I look?”

“Wonderful,” Alexi gushed. “Oh, those lines—I can’t decide if I’m more jealous of you or that suit!”

“Allison did a wonderful job with it,” Kevin agreed, lightly dodging the second half of Alexi’s statement. “Any last-minute touch-ups?”

All business, Alexi gave him a careful inspection, checking seams and alignment with a well-trained and critical eye. “Not a single thing,” he said finally, taking a step back. “You’re good to go!”

“Great,” said Kevin, tampering the rush of relief that he wouldn’t have to have a stranger’s hands on him. “So, should I go out there?”

Alexi checked the time and frowned. “Not quite,” he said. “We’ve got a few minutes until your scheduled entrance.”

Kevin raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t realized the timing of my arrival was quite so choreographed.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I just assumed Allison had gone over it with you,” said Alexi. “It’s not much—really just the entrance. She’s got this incredible vision of all the models—celebrity models like yourself included—descending in on the room all at once, a few minutes after the guests arrive. The idea is for it to be a rainbow of color flowing into the room.”

“Won’t the guests in the room already be wearing color?” Kevin asked, focusing on the only part he’d processed so far.

“Some of them, sure, but you know how critics and investors are,” said Alexi. “It’s like they’re allergic to anything brighter than an earth tone.”

That was a joke, Kevin thought, so he laughed a little. “So—what exactly do I need to do?”

“Almost nothing,” Alexi assured him. “In a few minutes, I’ll take you to the door you’re supposed to go through, and then you and the rest of the models will just kind of sweep into the room. A nice, dramatic entrance!”

Kevin swallowed heavily, thinking of the way the Ravens of old would enter a banquet, sharp lines and crisp cohesion. He focused on the bright color of his clothing. “Anything once I’m in the room? Do I need to go to a specific place?”

“Nope,” said Alexi. “I mean, try not to just hover right by the door or something, but nothing fancy.”

Kevin nodded. “Anything in particular for my exit?”

Alexi laughed. “Surely you’re not already planning your escape!”

Kevin’s smile was a little tighter than he wanted it to be; he forced himself to relax. “Just want to make sure I’m prepared.”

“Fair enough,” said Alexi. “No real rules there; you can just leave whenever. Allison’s going to do a big toast about an hour in, so you should stay through that, but then you can just slip away and come back here to change whenever you’re ready to leave.”

“Okay,” said Kevin, nodding. “And is there anything in particular I should be doing during the event?”

“Just be your charming self,” said Alexi. “You can talk and mingle, hype up the clothes if you can, but really just eat, drink, and be merry! There’s an open bar, and the staff will be passing out flutes of champagne just before the toast.”

“I don’t drink,” said Kevin quickly, automatically, pushing down a flare of panic. Of course there would be alcohol; there was probably an open bar, too. He’d attended plenty of events like this—he’d been sober at plenty of events like this—but today, it felt like one more obstacle taunting him and pointing out his flaws and weaknesses.

“I’ll make sure the waitstaff knows, so they can bring you a non-alcoholic option for the toast. We’ve got sparkling grape juice just for the occasion,” said Alexi smoothly. “I don’t mean to pry but—is that a dietary thing?”

If he said no, it would be the same as a tacit admission he was an alcoholic. “Something like that,” he said.

“That makes sense,” said Alexi, nodding. “Athletes have crazy strict diets, right? I read this post online a couple of weeks ago about the Ravens’ diet—from the before times, obviously, when they were still all—well, you know. Which is why I’ve been dying to ask.”

Alexi was talking too fast; Kevin couldn’t keep up when he was shutting down like this. “To ask what, exactly?”

“The diet that was posted was, like, super strict,” said Alexi, a hungry sort of curiosity in his eyes. “Which, don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen plenty of restrictive diets—I mean, I work with models—but I thought athletes needed to eat. And that’s what a bunch of comments were saying, that there was no way a team full of semi-professional athletes could possibly be eating such a limited diet, but there were a few saying they were insiders and it was true, so—was it? I’m dying to know.”

Kevin wasn’t sure how he was supposed to comment on the accuracy of something he hadn’t even seen. But it sounded accurate enough. He felt a wave of unwarranted guilt over the amount he’d eaten that day, and the quality of the food. He was in the middle of training, and his body was going to be on full display tonight; he should have been more careful. More in control. The Master would never have stood for the amount of carbs he had consumed, not to mention the amount of sugar in the fruit he’d put on his yogurt that morning. He should be tracking—

No. He hadn’t tracked diet that closely in years. He had outsourced that to a combination of the team dietician and Jeremy, who worked to make sure he was both eating the things he enjoyed and staying within a healthy range for his body type and level of physical activity. He couldn’t see how that was any of Alexi’s business.

But Alexi wasn’t asking about Kevin’s diet—not exactly. Not anymore. He took a breath. “You can’t believe everything you see online.”

“Oh,” said Alexi, sounding a little disappointed. “I’ll have to spread the word that it’s not legit. A few of my friends were planning to try it.”

They shouldn’t want anything to do with it; it had been a miserable way to live. But Kevin couldn’t say that without confirming the post Alexi had seen was likely real, and that, apparently, would be all but an endorsement. “How much longer before I go in?”

“Not long,” said Alexi. “Actually, let’s get you in position. We can walk and talk.”

Kevin hesitated. “Can we just walk?”

Alexi’s face dropped. “Of course, Mr. Day.”

Kevin grimaced. “It’s not—it’s nothing personal. It’s just been a long day, and I’m trying to save up for the main event.” He summoned a smile. “And, please, I told you to call me Kevin.”

“I totally get that,” said Alexi, softening, and Kevin breathed a sigh of relief. “Come on, I’ll get you in position, and you won’t have to say a single thing until you’re in the room.”

True to his word, Alexi ushered Kevin through the other models and assistants to his entry point in efficient silence. It didn’t help him recharge—not exactly, at least; he was a sort of drained that would take more than a few minutes of quiet to bounce back from. Still, by the time the doors opened and he and the other colorfully-dressed people in Allison’s clothing flowed into the reception hall, he was ready to play the part. He listened just well enough to discern his lines, and he took every opportunity he had to hype up Allison and her fashion line. That was why he was there, after all; besides, it was easier to keep the conversation focused on someone else. And it was easy to turn down the heavy hors d'oeuvres if he was constantly talking, constantly moving. Easy to turn down someone’s offer to get him a drink with their next one if he was already moving onto the next conversation. If he didn't give himself time to think, he wouldn't have time to think himself into a hole. None of the details of the evening stuck with him; he was just getting through the night on autopilot as well as he could.

At some point, Renee came over—surely tasked by Jean with keeping a watch on him. “Hello, Kevin,” she said, looking at him closely. “How are you doing?”

Kevin put on his best game face; this was a test and he was going to pass. “It's great to see you!” he said. “Allison really outdid herself. It's a lovely event.”

Renee gave him an amused look. “That wasn't the question,” she said.

Kevin's smile tightened them released. “You can tell Jean I'm fine.”

“You know, I do consider myself to be your friend, too,” she said. “It sounds as though you've had a rather difficult day—understandably, given the anniversary.” Kevin’s jaw was tight, but he didn’t say anything, so Renee continued. “I am here for you, if you need me.”

“You should be focused on Allison,” Kevin deflected. “It’s her night.”

“I am well aware of that,” said Renee.

Oh. So she was worried he would have some sort of public breakdown that would derail Allison’s perfectly-orchestrated evening. “I won’t be a distraction,” he promised. “I know how much I can handle.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Renee. It didn’t sound like a compliment. She glanced down at his hands, clasped in front of him. “The bartenders can make you a mocktail, you know. It can help to have something in your hands.”

“I’m fine.”

Renee raised an eyebrow. “All right, Neil.”

Kevin flushed but kept his smile in place. “I should get back to mingling with potential investors,” he said. “I’m here to do a job, and I can’t do it if I’m trying to convince you I’m okay. And if I’m not doing that job, why am I even here?”

Renee gave him one more long, hard, look, then nodded. “You’re right. I will let you go. But you will find me if you need me, okay?”

Kevin wanted to snap back—that he wouldn’t need to, that he didn’t need her permission, that he could take care of himself. He just nodded instead. And that was enough for Renee, apparently; she left him alone.

It was easier to talk to potential investors than it had been to talk to Renee. Most of them were not exy fans, which meant the conversation was dull but manageable. He knew the talking points to hit, and he fed off of the energy of every successful interaction, giving him just enough energy to keep going.

Kevin tried to keep his glances at the clock subtle as he counted down the minutes until Allison’s toast would release him from his duties. Finally, the staff began to circulate with trays full of champagne flutes. He was getting increasingly anxious as the trays circulated closer and closer; he could always just take one and pretend to take a sip, but would make his exit trickier if he had to abandon a completely full glass of champagne. People might notice, might talk, might question, and that might be the one more thing than he could handle.

A waiter with a tray approached him and handed him a glass. “For you, Mr. Day,” she said, and Kevin relaxed a little; Alexi must have gotten the message to the staff, after all.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling at her and turning back to the man he’d been speaking with—a stocky man in a well-tailored but bland suit; Kevin wasn’t quite sure why he was in the room, but it was presumably because he had a lot of money. He was also a casual exy fan, which kept Kevin slightly more engaged in the conversation than he would otherwise have been. Still, there was something about the man’s hungry gaze that made him uneasy. He wasn’t disappointed when their chat was interrupted by Allison stepping up on to a small stage at the front of the room with a microphone.

Allison’s speech was good; Kevin was sure of it. But he didn’t absorb a word. He was too busy plotting his exit. He had initially planned to leave right away, but the more he thought about it, the more he worried it might look bad. People might interpret it as a subtle signal he hadn’t liked the speech, or even that he didn’t like the clothing at all and didn’t want to be there. It was true that he didn’t want to be there, of course, but not for reasons people would suspect. If he left too quickly, he could easily do more damage than if he’d just stayed home instead, which would defeat the whole point. He wasn’t about to blow it now, when he’d already put in the time and energy.

“I don’t want to keep you any longer than absolutely necessary,” said Allison, and for a moment, Kevin thought she was speaking directly to him, but then he realized she was just reaching the end of her speech. “Thank you so much for spending your evening with me, getting a sneak peek at my new line. I hope you’ll join me in a toast to the future of fashion!”

Kevin raised his glass and took a sip.

It wasn’t sparkling grape juice.

Champagne wasn’t exactly an alcohol-forward drink, particularly compared to the straight vodka that had been his drink of choice for so long. But, after so many years without any alcohol at all, its bite was unmistakable. And after the week he’d had, he just wanted more. It would be easy—understandable, even—to down the rest of the glass.

He didn’t, though. Kevin Day didn’t get to do things that were easy.

Besides, it wouldn’t help—not really, at least. Not enough. Chugging the glass would draw attention, and it would draw scrutiny, and it probably wouldn’t even give him a buzz—especially if he sipped it slowly enough to avoid drawing prying eyes.

He curled his tongue in on itself, rolling the ghost of the champagne around in his mouth. It was already mostly faded; champagne wasn't strong enough to linger. 

Not the way vodka did.

It wasn't even that he wanted the vodka—not exactly. He just wanted to stop. He wanted the sort of numbness he'd only found at the bottom of a bottle. The hall was starting to feel loud and suffocating, and he needed an out. He was still looking for a place to put his nearly-full glass when the man he'd been talking to came back over.

“You know, I wasn’t sure whether I should say anything,” he said, “but I was such a fan of yours while you were with the Ravens.”

Kevin felt nauseous. “Only when I was with the Ravens?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

The man laughed. “Is it bad if I say yes?” Kevin froze; the man didn’t seem to notice. “Their discipline was just unparalleled. I’m much more into fashion than athletics, and most sports are just so messy. But the Ravens—now, I’m aware of the controversies, but that’s just the price of greatness, isn’t it?”

“The price of greatness,” Kevin echoed hollowly. He heard the Master’s voice when he said it.

“Now, there’s no question, the way things went down at the end of your time in college was just awful,” the man went on, “but tell me—don’t you wonder how your life might’ve gone if you’d stayed with the Ravens?”

He’d be dead if he’d stayed. His status as the Son of Exy could only protect him so long—Riko had proven that when he broke his hand.

But staying would have helped Jean. If he hadn’t left, Jean wouldn’t have been punished for letting him go. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he could have shielded Jean from Riko’s rage in the aftermath of Kengo’s death, but maybe he could have lessened it. The logical part of his brain knew that, if he hadn’t left, Jean wouldn’t have had Renee to get him out. And once Kevin was dead, he wouldn’t have been able to help Jean at all. Over the years, he’d played it all out in his head hundreds of times, and, even on his most unforgiving days, he reached the same conclusion: leaving was his only option. Not just for him, but for Jean, too, in the long run.

None of that answered this man’s question, though. He gave a tight smile. “All the time.” The champagne glass was heavy in his hand. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Kevin was an expert in navigating crowds; he had long ago mastered the art of looking open enough to avoid coming across as rude but closed enough to eliminate the possibility of conversation. It was second nature, and it allowed him to make it across the room without being stopped. He paused near a vacant cocktail table in the corner. He spotted Renee and Allison in the midst of an animated conversation on the other side of the room; they wouldn't notice if he slipped out.

They wouldn't notice if he drank the champagne before he left, either.

No. Not here; not like this.

Kevin put the glass down on the table and slipped out the door. It was a different door than the one he’d come in, and he quickly realized he didn’t remember the way back to the dressing area. He swallowed down a mix of panic and humiliation. All his options were bad. He could wander around the building, lost; he could go back into the main hall and try to find someone who could help him; he could just flee the scene in Allison’s suit and hope she wasn’t too mad at him for absconding with it.

He was just starting to eye the exit to the outside when he remembered. His keys, phone, and wallet were all back with his clothes in the dressing room. It had been stupid of him to leave them behind; he wasn’t thinking. Another thing he’d screwed up.

The door he’d just walked through opened again, and he braced himself for—something.

“Kevin!” said Alexi. “There you are. I thought I saw you slip out. Getting some air, or do you want me to help you find the dressing room? This place can be a maze.”

Kevin was ashamed of how relieved he was. “That would be great,” he said. “The event has been fantastic,” he added quickly, “but I’ve had a long day. Just—ready to be home.”

“I totally get that,” said Alexi, nodding. “Come on, this way’s the quickest.”

“Thank you,” said Kevin, following him down the hallway. “I’m going to make sure to tell Allison how helpful you’ve been.”

Alexi laughed. “Oh, she knows. Why do you think she assigned me to you?”

Because I’m high maintenance. Because she knew I’d need special handling. “Well, either way, it can’t hurt to give your boss some positive feedback,” said Kevin with a smile.

Alexi looked pleased. “I certainly won’t stop you.”

Good; that was at least one social interaction Kevin had handled successfully. And he was almost done for the evening. Alexi left him alone to change; by the time Kevin was back in his own clothes, Alexi had arranged a car for him, and then he was on his way back home, to safety, without anyone there to watch him or judge him.

Without anyone there at all.

It was still early; Jean and Jeremy would probably still be out for a few more hours. In his rush to get home, Kevin had forgotten, for a moment, that no one would be there waiting for him. Which was fine, of course. He could spend time alone, now, without panicking. Most days, now, he even enjoyed some alone time.

Today, though, was not most days.

The uneasiness and tension he’d been feeling all evening hadn’t gone away; they hadn’t even lessened. The prickling feeling under his skin was getting worse again. Maybe, he thought, massaging his left hand, he should have stayed at Allison’s event. He could have held it together a little longer. Especially if he’d finished that champagne. If he’d played his cards right, he probably could have gotten a bartender to slip him something stronger. A vodka tonic looked an awful lot like a club soda with lemon; as long as he was careful, no one would have even known.

Of course, no one would know if he just went and bought himself a fifth of vodka and drank it in the peace of his own home. Other than the clerk at the liquor store, but there was no reason to think it would draw any particular attention or suspicion. If he drank it quickly enough, and if he could still handle his vodka the way he used to, he might even get away with it without Jean and Jeremy finding out. He didn’t want to be drunk; he just wanted to be a little bit numb. There was nothing wrong with trying to temper his emotions. And if vodka would help him do it, well, there was nothing wrong with a little self-medication. Other people did it all the time.

There was a liquor store near his apartment. They were just about to pass it. He could be in, out, and home in almost no time at all. No one was around to stop him.

“Let me out here,” he said quickly to the driver, before he could stop himself. “I need some air. I'll walk the rest of the way.”

The driver looked surprised in the rearview mirror, but only for a second. “Yes, sir,” he said, pulling over to the side of the road.

“Thank you,” said Kevin, shooting the man a winning smile on his way out the door. He watched carefully as the car drove away, keeping his posture until it rounded the next corner and was completely out of sight. It hadn’t been his usual driver; there was no telling who he might be reporting back to. Probably no one. But better to be safe.

Or paranoid, suggested a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Andrew. He resolutely ignored it as he ducked into the liquor store, avoiding eye contact with the cashier. Keeping his head down, he made his way through the aisles. He had never spent much time in liquor stores—most of his alcohol had been consumed in bars or handed to him by Abby or his father. But it certainly wasn’t his first time, and he knew there should be a section of vodka somewhere.

There was a certain smell to liquor stores; it was both comforting and nauseating. Kevin needed to leave immediately. He wanted to stay forever. He just had to find the vodka.

“There it is,” he muttered to himself. There were three solid shelves of vodka bottles. Many of them were in brightly colored bottles sporting flavors like strawberry and cotton candy and s’mores. He passed quickly over those to focus in on the more traditional options. He’d had enough vodka to recognize the difference between a cheap drink and a top-shelf beverage; he’d also had enough to know that, by the time he made it halfway through the bottle, it all tasted the same. He grabbed a mid-ranged bottle and took it to the register.

The cashier blinked at him, seemingly noticing him for the first time. “Hey, dude, are you Kevin Day?”

“No,” Kevin lied.

“Oh, okay,” said the cashier. He looked younger than Kevin, and he was either stoned or doing a good impression of it. “You want anything else?”

“Just the vodka,” said Kevin shortly.

“All right,” said the cashier, nodding. “ID?”

Kevin balked. “Why?”

“Nothing personal, man. It’s policy,” he said, pointing vaguely to a sign on the wall behind him.

All customers under 40 must present a valid ID to purchase alcohol.

“Oh,” said Kevin, voice clipped. For a moment, he thought about turning around and leaving right there.

But the vodka was still sitting on the counter, and he wanted it.

He pulled out his wallet and handed over his ID.

“Sweet,” said the cashier, taking a look at it. He laughed. “Hey, you look like Kevin Day, and you’ve got the same name as him, too!”

“And I’m well over 21,” said Kevin, thankful that there were no other customers in the store.

“Yeah, totally, that too,” said the cashier. “Cash or card?”

Kevin hesitated for only a moment. “Cash,” he said, handing over a large bill. He didn’t really think anyone would come looking for a paper trail, but he would breathe easier if there wasn’t one to fine.

“Righteous,” said the cashier. “Don’t be beholden to the plastic.”

Kevin made a noncommittal sound and smiled tightly. “Can I get a bag?”

“Yeah, my man,” he said, putting the bottle in a plain paper bag. It was a big enough cliché to give Kevin a moment’s pause, but he grabbed the bag anyway.

“Thanks,” he said, and he turned to go.

“Hey, hold up,” said the cashier. Kevin froze. “You forgot your change.”

“Keep it,” said Kevin shortly. He needed to get out of there; he needed the interaction to end.

“Are you sure? It’s kind of a lot.”

“I’m sure!” Kevin called over his shoulder, and he walked out the door and didn’t look back.

It was a short walk home, and, while the streets were well-populated, no one gave Kevin a second glance. That was one of the things he loved most about New York: for the most part, he could pass through crowded streets unbothered. Other than a nod to the doorman, he made it home without interacting with a single human being.

And then he was alone in his apartment with a bottle of vodka.

Kevin held the bottle in his hand. Its weight was familiar; he had been sober for one thousand seven hundred and twenty-nine days, but he still remembered what it felt like to hold a fifth of vodka. He remembered the cool glass, with its firm corners. He remembered the way his fingers fit around it. He remembered the satisfying noise the bottle cap would make if he unscrewed it.

He remembered how the vodka would feel going down his throat, too.

He remembered the sweet relief that would come if he allowed the alcohol to help him silence the screaming in his brain.

Kevin’s hands, he noticed, were shaking. The alcohol would help that, too. All he had to do was open the bottle and take a swig. What was the harm in one drink, really? People drank all the time. People had been drinking at the gala—nearly everyone had been drinking, in fact. Kevin should be able to drink, too. It was hardly fair that other people could indulge in excess and Kevin couldn’t even permit himself a sip. Just a sip; that was all it would take to calm his nerves.

Unprompted, he was plagued with images of Jean and Jeremy’s disapproving faces. Jean would be angry. And Jeremy would be so disappointed, which was worse.

They weren’t home yet, though.

They didn’t have to know.

Kevin unscrewed the bottle.

The smell of the vodka was immediate and overpowering. He inhaled deeply, grasping the neck of the bottle and pulling it close to his nose. All he would have to do, now, was lower the bottle just a bit, touch it to his lips, tilt it back. It would be so easy, it felt almost inevitable. He had been fighting so much for so long—and for what?

But he had promised to call.

To be fair, he had never really intended to uphold his end of that particular bargain. He hadn’t been fine all day. If he’d called Jeremy and Jean the second he wasn’t all right, he would have had to call them hours ago. He would have had to call them before any of them even left the house. And he had been so determined to handle it himself—to keep from being a burden. If he called, he would be admitting defeat as surely as if he drank that bottle of vodka. Worse, he’d be messing up Jean and Jeremy’s night. If he called, they’d come home early. They’d have to make excuses to all their friends, or—worse—they’d tell them how weak Kevin was. How he couldn’t even take care of himself for one night.

He could take care of himself just fine, though, if he just gave in and had the drink. If he was careful, he could keep it under control. He could keep it from getting bad again. He could just drink enough to feel better, not so much that it circled back around and made him feel worse. With enough care and discretion, Jean and Jeremy wouldn’t even have to know.

They’d find out, though. Maybe not right away, but eventually. Kevin had never been able to hide from them—not in any way that mattered. It would be the height of hubris to think he could start now.

That didn’t make it feel any better to put down the bottle and pick up his phone.

Jeremy answered on the first ring, and Kevin felt a rush of guilt. An answer that quick meant Jeremy had been watching his phone. “Kevin, hey,” said Jeremy. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

The background noise was loud and joyful; it was a sharp contrast to the concern in Jeremy’s voice. Kevin immediately regretted calling. “Yeah, I’m good,” he said. “I just—wanted to check in.”

“Okay,” said Jeremy slowly. “How’s Allison’s event? Are you home already?”

“Yeah, it was good,” said Kevin. “I’m just—tired.” He tried to think of something more specific to say about the evening. “There were even some exy fans there.”

“Well, yeah, it’s a pretty popular sport,” said Jeremy with a laugh. “So—you had a good time?”

“Sure,” said Kevin. “Just—you know—a little tiring. I think I’m going to turn in early.”

“Oh,” said Jeremy. “So—you don’t need us to come home?”

Kevin stared at the vodka bottle sitting on the floor next to him. “No,” he said. “No, you should stay and keep having fun. I’ll probably be asleep soon.”

Jean’s voice came through in the background. “Is that Kevin?”

“Yeah, he says he’s okay, though,” said Jeremy. “He just wanted to tell us he’s home and planning to go to bed early.”

“He called to tell you that?” asked Jean. Kevin could hear the frown in his voice. “Let me talk to him.”

“No,” said Kevin quickly. He nearly had Jeremy convinced, but Jean would see right through him. He always did. “No need to put Jean on. He should be enjoying the party. You both should be.”

“Too late,” said Jean, much closer to the microphone. “Why did you wish to avoid speaking to me?”

“We were just about to hang up,” Kevin said. “And I didn’t want to interrupt your evening.”

“If you did not wish to interrupt, why did you call?” asked Jean.

Kevin couldn’t remember, so he tried to change the subject. “Are you having a good time? How’s the exhibit?”

“It is lovely, and I will tell you about it when I get home. Which will be soon,” said Jean. “Jeremy, we are leaving.”

“You don’t need to do that,” said Kevin. “I can—I can hear about the exhibit in the morning.”

“This is not a discussion,” said Jean. “We are coming home.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Kevin protested. He shouldn’t have called; they’d been having a perfectly lovely evening before he ruined it.

“I’ve already called a car,” said Jeremy. “It’ll take us about twenty minutes to get there. Do you need us to stay on the phone with you?”

“I don’t need you to come home at all,” said Kevin. “I was just checking in. I didn’t—” He paused, frustrated. “I didn’t want this.”

“It’s been a long day for all of us,” said Jeremy lightly. “We were probably going to head home soon, anyway.”

It sounded like a lie, but Kevin was running out of energy to fight it. “You don’t need to stay on the phone,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay,” said Jeremy. “Hang in there, Kev. We love you, we’ll be there soon.”

“Love you too,” Kevin whispered, and he hung up the phone. He squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed by how relieved he was. Twenty minutes. He could last twenty minutes.

He just needed something to focus on. Something other than the bottle of vodka sitting next to him on the floor.

Fuck. The bottle of vodka. The proof of his failure, of his weakness. It would be the first thing Jeremy and Jean saw when they walked in the door. There was still time to pour it out, throw it down the trash chute, hide the evidence. But to do that, he would have to let it go, and he still really, really wanted to drink it.

Kevin stared down at the phone in his hand. He couldn’t call Jeremy and Jean back—not when he’d just told them he didn’t need them to stay on the line. Not when they were already ending their night early to come take care of him.

But there was someone else he could call.

Andrew picked up on the first ring. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

Kevin took a breath, then let it all out in a rush. “I bought a bottle of vodka.”

“And what did you do with it?” Andrew asked. His tone was comfortingly nonchalant.

“I opened it,” Kevin admitted, “and I smelled it. But I didn’t drink any of it. Not yet.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes,” Kevin whispered. “Or—no. But—I’m scared I might.

Andrew hummed. “You may have forgotten this, but I am not exactly in the neighborhood. What, exactly, am I supposed to do about your indecisive attempt at a relapse? Wouldn’t your better thirds be more equipped to help you handle this little episode?”

“Alvarez’s exhibit opening was tonight,” said Kevin. “They’re on their way home now, though.”

“How long?”

Kevin checked the time. “About fifteen minutes.”

“If you couldn’t last fifteen minutes on your own, why did Cinderella run away from the ball?” asked Andrew. “You had friends at Allison’s event. But you left well before it was over.”

“You talked to Renee?” asked Kevin, sinking lower against the wall. The phone was suddenly exhaustingly heavy; he put it on speaker and dropped his arm down to his lap.

“I am the one asking the questions here,” said Andrew.

“I stayed as long as I needed to, through Allison’s speech,” said Kevin. Andrew stayed silent, waiting for Kevin to continue; it worked. “There was a champagne toast. They were supposed to bring me sparkling juice, but—they didn’t.”

Andrew was silent for a moment. “Ah.”

“I know that shouldn’t have been—I should be able to accidentally have a sip of champagne without—but—”

“But it was a particularly hard day.”

Kevin closed his eyes. “So you’ve been talking to Jean, too? Or was it Jeremy?”

“Didn’t have to,” said Andrew. “I can read a calendar. And my memory is rather good. I know what day it is.”

“How’s Neil?”

Andrew snorted. “Great. This day only has good memories for him. Not that he’s noticed.”

“That must be nice,” said Kevin. There was more bitterness than he intended.

“Neil has his own difficult days,” said Andrew warningly.

“I know,” said Kevin quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“I do not want your apology,” said Andrew. “I would just like you to remember that you are not the only one who struggles sometimes.”

The wave of guilt was nearly big enough to swallow him whole. Of course he wasn’t the only one who suffered. Comparatively speaking, he hadn’t even had it that bad.

“Stop that,” said Andrew. “Pain is not a competition.”

Kevin grimaced. “Did I say that out loud?”

“No,” said Andrew. “You were just thinking very loudly.”

“Right.” Kevin sighed. “I’m—I’m trying.”

“I know,” said Andrew, sounding amused. “You try harder than anyone else I know. It’s very annoying.”

“I’m s—”

“Do not say you’re sorry,” Andrew interrupted. “You have always been annoying. That has never gotten in the way of our friendship before. I am not about to let it start now.”

Kevin let out a huff of laughter. “Thanks, I think.” His eyes refocused on the bottle of vodka, still sitting next to him. He still wanted it to disappear. He still wanted it. Jean and Jeremy would be home soon, and he was still sitting frozen on the kitchen floor. “What are they going to think of me?”

“Who, Jean and Jeremy?” asked Andrew. “The same thing they have always thought of you. Nothing you have done today will change any of that.”

“It should,” said Kevin. “I relapsed.”

“Do you think your worth is dependent on your sobriety? Because I do not, and I do not think Jean and Jeremy think that, either.” He didn’t pause for an answer before continuing. “When you had the sip of champagne, did you know it was champagne?”

“No,” said Kevin. “I thought it was sparkling grape juice. It was supposed to be sparkling grape juice.”

“You didn’t drink any more once you knew what it was?”

“No,” said Kevin, “but I wanted to. And then I went and bought the vodka.”

“But you haven’t had any of it.”

“No,” said Kevin with a small shudder, “but I want to.”

“You always want to,” said Andrew. “You are an addict. That does not change. But you have not relapsed.”

Kevin shook his head. “You weren’t listening. I had a sip of champagne.”

“You did not mean to,” said Andrew. “You did not know what it was, and once you did, you stopped drinking it. That hardly sounds like a relapse to me.”

“That sounds like a loophole.”

“It sounds like a guideline intended to capture the true purpose of sobriety,” said Andrew. “It is not about what you consume. It is about the choices you make. It cannot be taken from you without your consent.”

Kevin blinked heavily, and his vision blurred with moisture. He could still see the open bottle of vodka, though. Maybe he hadn’t meant to drink the champagne, but he had certainly intended to buy the vodka. If he just drank it—just a little; he didn’t even need the whole bottle—he would feel better. He would stop feeling so goddamn much.

“Kevin,” said Andrew. There was concern in his voice, and it was Kevin’s fault.

“I still want the vodka.”

Andrew let out a noise of frustration. “Which do you want more: the vodka, or your sobriety? You cannot have both.”

Kevin knew the right answer, but in the moment, he wasn’t sure it was true. “I don’t know.”

“What am I supposed to do about that?” asked Andrew. “I am not there. I cannot make the choice for you.”

“I know that,” Kevin snapped. “I just—I need—”

“You need what? Tell me.”

“I need you to tell me what to do!”

“I cannot do that,” said Andrew. “You are responsible for your own choices.”

“Yeah, and I chose to call you.”

Andrew was silent for a beat longer than he should have been, and then he let out a breath. “Jean and Jeremy are almost home. They are getting out of the car now.” He sounded relieved.

It was good, probably, that people cared enough about Kevin to coordinate with each other on his behalf. A less miserable version of Kevin might have even thanked Andrew. Instead, he lashed out. “Great. You’ll be off the hook, then. You can hand me off to my next watchers.”

“That was not what I meant,” said Andrew quietly.

“Isn’t it?” asked Kevin bitterly.

“I am not going to let you pick a fight with me,” said Andrew.

“Why not?” Kevin snapped.

“You will say things you regret,” said Andrew, “and I do not want to deal with your apologies tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, that does sound terrible,” said Kevin sarcastically. “Having to deal with five seconds of actual human emotion would be difficult for you.”

“You can poke all you want,” said Andrew. “I will not bite.”

“Why not?” asked Kevin. “I deserve it.”

“But I do not.”

Before Kevin could fully process that, the door opened, and Jeremy rushed in, closely followed by Jean. “Kevin, thank god,” he said. “We got here as fast as we could.”

Kevin couldn’t look him in the eye. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, we did,” said Jean, picking up the open bottle of vodka and bringing it towards the sink. Kevin let out a small, pathetic noise of protest that he immediately regretted. Jean’s mouth pressed together into an even thinner line as he poured the alcohol down the drain and threw the bottle in the recycling bin.

“Is that Andrew?” asked Jeremy, gesturing towards the phone.

“Yes,” said Andrew.

“May I?” asked Jeremy, holding out his hand.

Kevin nodded and held the phone up to him.

Jeremy took it and put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Andrew, you’re off speaker.” He listened for a minute, then nodded. “Thank you,” he said quietly into the phone. “We’ve got it from here.”

“I’m right here, you know,” said Kevin. “You could talk to me instead of about me.”

“You’re right,” said Jeremy. “That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”

Kevin’s skin prickled like it was on fire. Jeremy was making it impossible to pick the fight he was craving, so he turned his attention to Jean—traditionally, an easier target. “You didn’t have to pour the bottle out. It’s wasteful.”

Jean crossed his arms and leaned back against the sink. “Non. It would be wasteful for you to throw your life away for a bottle of vodka. Getting rid of the temptation was necessary.”

“I hadn’t drunk any of it,” said Kevin defensively.

Jean nodded. “We know. Minyard told us you did not drink it. But you wanted to.” It wasn’t a question, the way Jean said it.

Kevin answered anyway. “I always want to. Today isn’t special.”

“Well,” said Jeremy, sliding down to sit next to him, face drawn, “I think today’s at least a little special. You don’t usually want to enough to buy yourself a bottle.”

Kevin hated seeing that expression on Jeremy’s face. He hated the fact that he’d caused it even more. It was easier to focus on Jean’s quiet anger. “There wouldn’t be much point in it, would there? Jean would just dump it down the drain.”

“I will not let you pretend that this is a bad thing,” said Jean icily.

“Am I supposed to thank you?” asked Kevin.

“He isn’t doing it for a thank you,” said Jeremy.

Kevin glared. “Just to be insufferably meddlesome, then?”

Jean glared right back. “You’re one to talk about being insufferable. Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

Jeremy looked nervously between the two of them. “Is this really helping?”

“Yes,” said Jean. He looked at Kevin. “It is, isn’t it? You are feeling too many things, and you cannot numb them with alcohol, so you are channeling it into anger instead, and you are taking it out on me. Am I right?”

Kevin felt unbelievably raw and exposed. “Let’s say I am. Are you just going to let me?”

“Yes,” said Jean. He stepped forward and crouched in front of Kevin, looking him in the eye. “I will stop you from destroying yourself as many times as it takes, no matter what it costs me.”

Kevin held his gaze for as long as he could before he looked away. “You’re making it extremely difficult to stay angry.”

Jean shrugged. “It is not my concern if your stamina has diminished.”

Jeremy snorted, and Kevin gaped at him. “Sorry,” said Jeremy. “I thought it was funny.”

“It was,” said Jean smugly. He sat down on Kevin’s other side. “I am very comical.”

“You really are,” said Jeremy fondly. “People don’t expect it from you.”

“Yes, he’s hilarious,” said Kevin. He leaned forward. “Am I still necessary for this conversation, or can I leave?”

“And go where, exactly?” asked Jean, raising an eyebrow.

Kevin shrugged. “I don’t know. To bed, maybe.” At least then, when he woke up, the day would be over.

Jeremy looked uncertain. “I guess we can go to bed, if you think it will help.”

“No,” said Jean. “Going to sleep will not fix this; you will still feel terrible in the morning If this were something you could just sleep off, you would not have called us.”

“I told you,” said Kevin, “you didn’t need to come home.”

“Yes, you did try to lie to us,” said Jean. It wasn’t a judgment or an accusation; it was just a fact. “It did not work then, and it will not work now.”

“It almost worked on Jeremy,” Kevin muttered, slumping back against the cabinet.

Jean shrugged. “It is not his fault. He tends to trust what we say at face value.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” said Jeremy.

Jean tilted his head thoughtfully. “It is not. It is just different.

“It’s—” Kevin frowned. “It feels wrong. Or—unsafe.”

“It shouldn’t,” said Jeremy softly. “Not anymore.”

Kevin wave him off. “It doesn’t,” he said. “At least, not all the time. Some days are just harder.”

Jeremy nodded. “And today’s been a really hard day.”

“It shouldn’t be,” said Kevin, frustrated. “It’s been five years. And he wasn’t—it’s not—I don’t miss him. Not really. I’m not having flashbacks to the good times. But . . .” He shrugged helplessly.

“I get it,” said Jean. “I mourned him far less than you, but it is still . . . . Sometimes it does not seem like he is really gone.”

“He is,” said Jeremy forcefully. “I know the two of you have complicated feelings about him, but I don’t. I’m glad he’s dead, and I hate the way he still haunts you.”

“We all have ghosts,” said Jean. “Ours just tend to be louder than yours.”

Kevin closed his eyes. “This was supposed to be a good day. We were looking forward to it—Allison’s show, Cat’s exhibition. It was supposed to be good. Why did it have to be today?”

“I think it is a good thing,” said Jean, “that most people do not think about it. This is just another day. The rest of the world can forget, even if we cannot.”

“I did, though,” said Kevin quietly. “Until that reporter . . . do you think I would have remembered if she hadn’t asked that question?”

Jean shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. We will find out next year.”

“Oh, god,” said Kevin. “It’s—it’s every year, isn’t it?”

Jean raised an eyebrow. “That is how anniversaries tend to work, yes.”

“This was a big one, though,” said Jeremy softly. “Five years. And—I think it’s also the first time you were caught unprepared. The first time you weren’t thinking about it in advance.”

Kevin’s shoulders dropped. “So you think it was worse this year because I wasn’t dwelling on it for days?”

“Not dwelling on it, necessarily,” said Jeremy, “but aware of it, yeah. It’s like—okay, let’s say you’re about to take a bite of food, and it’s really hot. If you’re thinking about it, if you know it’s hot, you can blow on it, or take smaller bites, maybe even give it a little extra time to cool. But if you don’t know it’s hot, you’ll just eat the whole thing at once and burn your mouth.”

“That’s—” Kevin frowned. “That makes sense.” He sighed. “I just don’t want it to be like this forever.”

“It won’t be,” said Jeremy. “It ebbs and flows.”

Kevin shook his head. “I know every day isn’t like this. But will days like this keep happening?”

Jeremy paused. “I don’t know,” he said at last, “but probably, yeah. They’ll keep getting less frequent, and they might not last as long, but I think they’ll keep happening.”

“It’s not fair,” said Kevin. He sounded whiny and petulant to his own ears. “It’s not fair that he can still hurt us.”

Jean moved closer to him, their shoulders touching. “Nothing he has ever done to us has been fair. But we have come out the other side, and he didn’t. We won. On the days when it is hard—when it is almost too hard—I think about that, and it helps.”

“Is it enough?” asked Kevin.

“By itself? No,” said Jean. “But with everything else—with the life we have built, and the friendships we have, it is plenty.”

Friendships. “I made you leave your friends early,” said Kevin, frowning. “It was helping you today, wasn’t it? Seeing them, and Cat’s exhibit?”

Jean looked first at Jeremy, then back at Kevin, and then carefully at the floor in front of them. “It was very wonderful to see everyone,” he said slowly, “and it was also very nice to come back home.”

“Wait,” said Jeremy, leaning forward, “did you want to leave sooner? You could have said something if you were ready to go.”

Jean shrugged. “It was not that, exactly. The exhibit was beautiful, and I enjoyed spending time with the group. It was just also very tiring. And I kept . . . .” He shook his head. “I kept thinking about how different it was. How clear it is, in hindsight, that the Nest did not have to be like that. That Riko did not have to be like that.”

Jeremy frowned. “Oh. I can see why that would be hard.”

“It was good, mostly, being there,” said Jean. “Just . . . a bit tiring. Especially today.”

A tiny part of Kevin felt better, hearing that Jean had also been overwhelmed by the day, but a bigger part of him felt awful. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You should have been able to enjoy an evening with your friends.”

“I did, mostly,” said Jean. “And I will enjoy other evenings more. They are very understanding people, these Trojans. They did not mind that we had to leave a little early.”

“What did you tell them?” asked Kevin miserably. “That you had to come home and babysit your relapsing alcoholic boyfriend?”

Jeremy looked stricken. “Of course not,” he said. “We told them it was a really hard day, and we wanted to be home with you.”

“Oh,” said Kevin, taking a moment to process. “That’s—that was kind of you.”

“It was the truth,” said Jean. “We were not being kind; we were being honest.”

“It can be both,” said Kevin. “Either way, thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank us,” said Jeremy. “We’re in this together. You’d do the same for us.”

Kevin let out a huff of laughter. “I doubt you’ll ever need me to return the favor.”

“Sure I will,” said Jeremy. “You already have, countless times. And I know you will again.”

“You don’t need to humor me,” said Kevin. “I can handle the truth.”

“And I’m giving it to you,” said Jeremy insistently. “Remember a few months back, when I had that fight with my brother, and you went out of your way to make sure we had my favorite dessert in the house even though it was the middle of the season and I was being a complete ass about the whole thing?”

Kevin pressed his lips together. “That was different. You just—”

“Had a bad day?” asked Jeremy, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, we all have them.”

“I guess,” said Kevin dubiously. He sighed. “It doesn’t feel the same.”

“Of course it does not feel the same,” said Jean. “You are the only one inside your own head. It is only logical that your own bad days will feel worse to you than someone else’s.”

Kevin stared towards the recycling bin, where he knew the empty vodka bottle was resting. “I’ve been sober for 1,729 days,” he whispered.

“And tomorrow, it will be 1,730,” said Jean.

He shook his head. “I had a sip of champagne. At the event.”

Jean and Jeremy both went still, and the silence dragged for a long moment. “Tell us what happened,” said Jeremy, his voice neutral and steady.

“Andrew didn’t tell you that part?” Kevin asked bitterly.

Jeremy shook his head. “I think he probably thought we should hear about it from you,” he said.

That sounded like something Andrew would do. “There was a toast,” said Kevin quietly. “They were supposed to give me sparkling grape juice, but—they didn’t. So I had a sip, before I realized.”

“Did you drink any more of it once you knew what it was?” asked Jeremy.

Kevin made a noise of frustration. “Andrew asked the same question. But—what does it matter? Whether or not I meant to, I drank tonight. And then I went and bought a fifth of vodka.”

“You bought it, but you did not drink it. And you did not mean to drink the champagne,” said Jean. “I think that matters a great deal.”

“I guess,” said Kevin. “I just keep feeling like I failed.”

Jeremy reached out and put a hand on Kevin’s leg, firm and steady. “There is no universe in which you have failed,” he said. The words were comforting, even if he didn’t fully believe them yet. “And don’t you dare try to say I’m biased or I’m being kind. It’s the truth. You impress me every day, Kevin, and I’m going to keep telling you that over and over again until you believe me.”

“As will I,” said Jean. “Kevin Day does not fail.”

“But what if I do?” asked Kevin, his voice small.

“You won’t,” said Jean. “There may be setbacks—maybe even setbacks that are worse than today—but you will not fail. Failure is permanent. You are going to win, because you are going to keep going.”

Kevin locked eyes with Jean. “Keep going,” he echoed, and a sort of peace settled in the center of his chest. “I think I can do that.”

“You can,” Jeremy agreed with an easy confidence, “and you will.”

“Thank you,” said Kevin. “Both of you. For—for everything.”

“Of course,” said Jeremy, leaning into him. “We’ve got you. Always.”

Kevin leaned back. “I know you do. I’m sorry I forgot.”

“Apology accepted,” said Jean. Jeremy shot him a look. “What? He is right. He should not have forgotten.”

“Asshole,” said Kevin without any heat, gently checking his shoulder against Jean’s. He looked over at him. “I’ll remember next time.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Jean with a shrug. “But you will try, and that is enough.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough,” said Kevin.

“It doesn’t have to,” said Jeremy. “We’ll remind you of that, too, and make you believe it even when you can’t feel it for yourself.”

A million little what-ifs continued to dance through Kevin’s mind, but they were quiet enough to ignore. No, that wasn’t quite it; the anxious hum was as loud as it always was. But the steady love radiating off of Jean and Jeremy was enough to drown it out.

The exhaustion, however, was catching back up with him in earnest.

“Am I allowed to go to bed now?” he asked. “I really am tired. And—I’m doing better, now. Really, this time.”

“Yeah,” said Jeremy. He stood, then offered a hand to Kevin to pull him to his feet. “Let’s get some sleep.”

And when sleep came for Kevin a few minutes later, tucked between the men he loved—the men who loved him—it was peaceful and dreamless.