Chapter Text
PART ONE
Coming back to himself from nowhere, he let out a shakily breath. His legs and arms were sore, his back and socked feet flat against a wall, he was laying on a bed – his bed? – His armbands fixed on his forearms, crossed around his chest, he felt his hands trembling under his armpits. He was cold, probably due to his wet hair; wet from sweat or a shower, he couldn't tell. He rummaged through his memory to remember the last thing he did.
Well, nothing, he thought.
Was he thinking? What a big word, thinking. Once upon a time, Andrew Joseph Spear used to think. But that was then. With his consciousness steadier (to some extent), his lips curled up into an uncontrollable smile, he snorted. He hummed, maybe he thought, a lot, too much. The thoughts flew and ricocheted in his brain like pebbles on the sea, without a constant focus or purpose, going to and fro simultaneously muddled and harmonized. Muting them was unthinkable. He was doomed with his volatile thoughts.
For a hovering moment, he upheld his eyes closed, pretending time had stopped. His mind almost drifted again when the door opened without a knock. He wasn't expecting anyone, especially in his (his?) room. He was sure he locked the door. Was he? His heartbeats hastened, but it was not enough to flick his eyes open. He was too exhausted.
Or was it because deep down, he already knew who was coming? Immediately, he recognized her footsteps on the carpet, he would recognize them among thousands and that was a stupid knowledge to have. The delicious smell of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies and milk tickled his nostrils. It was comfortable, soothing even. She came everyday nowadays, with the same cookies, the same glass of milk, so they could talk. The conversation was never nice, and he was growing tired of debating about refunding.
A few seconds after the clashing sounds of the plate and glass on the bedside table, the squeak of a bed superseded the footsteps. Finally, he fluttered his eyelids and adjusted his pupils to the light. The only light source was coming from the glow-lamp on his bedside table. The room was dark, black and red were the two sole colors lingering the place. Two beds, facing, were perfectly parallel, a desk glued at the feet of each one. She was sitting on the bare mattress of the unclaimed bed, wearing her favorite blue dress. Her dirty blonde hair was tied in a ponytail allowing a view on her moon-shaped earrings, the ones Andrew gifted her for her last birthday with his own pocket money. He didn't move, his head resting on his pillow.
"Andrew," she said.
"Cass," he called back, his voice awfully raspy. He sat, bringing a knee to his chest and stretching his other leg, his back protected by the wall behind him.
"I brought you favorite cookies and milk," she noted. Her legs were crossed and her brown eyes were particularly glowing. "Why don't you call me mom? You used to call me that, Andrew."
"Did I?" Yes, he did. But that was then. "Do you still want me to call you mom, Cass?" It was boring already. Laughable. Each day, the exact same conversation was held, each day, the same sentences were pronounced, though he twisted them a bit sometimes.
"You're my son, Andrew. Of course, I want you to call me mom, always. Like you used to."
He laughed, his lips reaching his ears, it hurt, slightly. "What about your other son, Cass?"
She frowned, because of course she did. She remembered. "Why did you do that?" If her voice was soft before, now, it was serious, angry and blaming.
He would not answer. He would not engage in an explanation. He knew why, but he also didn't know why. He had managed to deal with it, with him, for around two years and a half before he left for the Marine. And Andrew had endured all of them before. Eventually, he'd trusted he could've endured it again, if they met again. Because he had a mother, a father, a home. And he had started healing.
Apparently, the Marine didn't want a crippled with a broken knee in their ranks, so Drake had returned. So, surprisingly or unsurprisingly, - he wasn't sure – Andrew had snapped and lashed out when Drake had come in his room in the middle of the night. Drake hadn’t expected that the fourteen years old boy he'd left for the Marine, had now been sixteen – at the time – and would fight back with knives and fists. To be fair, Andrew hadn’t planned to fight back. Unfortunately, Drake did not die. Andrew didn't believe in regret, but he could indulge himself with one. He scoffed; his medication was fucking up all his life philosophy.
"He's still in a coma, Andrew. Your brother doesn't wake up." Tears made her eyes shine in the dim light. He didn't like to see her crying, but he wouldn't say sorry. "Why?" She asked. "Why?" She repeated. "Why?" Her voice was distorted with rage. "Why?" She didn't sound like herself anymore.
Her whys were more and more robotic, erratic, breathless. Her humanity was gone, the whys were barks, they were growls, they sounded dangerous, deadly. He watched her silhouette shifting in the darkness turning more frightful, inhumane with animalistic traits, it wasn’t a bear, neither it was a wolf. The shadows altered quickly between monstruous shapes, the whys subsisted in various sickening, horrendous roaring tones, sending chills down Andrew’s spine.
Next, blood was spilling out from the shadows vividly colored, along with nauseating squishing noises. Andrew clamped his hands together, while his breaths became uneven, loud and thickened with mucus. He lugged his lengthened leg to his chest and cradled his arms around his shins. The putrid iron smell concealed the cookie’s sweet scent, the blood splashed endlessly pooling on the floor. Abruptly, Andrew felt a thread of the hot liquid against the skin of his cheek, the feeling stirred his stomach enough to make his body involuntarily flinched. Andrew was aware it wasn’t real, it was just a hallucination, blood and monsters weren’t supposed to faze him. Not anymore. Especially not fake ones. Yet, his squeezed heart was racing, his body was shuddering, and sweat drops were trickling down his temples. He didn’t divert his eyes since his instincts deemed the action unsafe, so he scowled at his awful hallucination, he was unable to rationalize, his jaw clenched.
Suddenly, the shadows, undecided, backtracked into the woman shape. At that very point, the whys stopped, the blood and the iron smell vanished. Andrew swallowed down hard his saliva and mucus accrued in his mouth, he seized the occasion to even his breathing, pacing the ins and the outs that helped erasing the tremors in his limbs. The tension racked up in his shoulder he overlooked so far loosened progressively. Cass was looking at him softly, reliably sat and patiently waiting for Andrew to relax, like she always did when she witnessed one of his panic attacks. Sometimes, she’d help, but this Cass would only stay still. After he considered half an hour, and after his body was back under his control – as much as his court-mandate medication allowed him – he situated himself back to his initial position.
Then, Cass broke the silence. "I called for a refund," she stated calmly.
His favorite part (no) was starting, the debate of the century, theirs only. "Hm" he hummed. "You can't refund after four years, Cass. We've talked about this already."
"Did we?" She innocently asked, unaware they had this conversation yesterday, and the day before. It'd been a few days, or months. His brain couldn't follow the flow of the time anymore. But curiously, he remembered each one of them.
He snorted, "Yes, Cass. We did."
"Well, you're right, they told me no," the woman mumbled with a hint of disappointment. "The agent is looking for a viable solution to fix it."
"Some broken things can't be fixed," he laughed loudly at himself. His throat was dry enough to hurt when talking so the laugh provoked a tearing pain he chose to ignore. "It's been too long to be refunded, too long to be fixed. The knee of your son is beyond repair, like his consciousness." Hopefully.
Cass stood up from the mattress and raised her voice, "you cannot talk as if your brother was an object, Andrew Spear."
Unintentionally, a hysterical laugh scrammed its way out of his mouth. It was unfunny. "What about me, Cass?" He shouted breathlessly.
"You are being helped; you have your medication to regulate you."
In the end, he knew she wasn’t talking about Drake. In the end, Drake didn't need to be refunded. For her, Drake didn't need to be fixed. But Andrew was. He was to be refunded and repaired or tossed.
Andrew never told her a thing; he favored her ignorance over her rejection or disbelief. Often, he couldn’t help but wonder if her knowing would have changed anything, if there had been a way where he could’ve kept them close, her and Richard. He hadn’t told her at first for that very reason, but at the end of the day, he lost her, Richard and his home. Officially, they were his parents, and he was their son, unofficially, he was nothing anymore.
But it was futile regards, because they’d had this conversation with this Cass. She had told him he wasn't a real one. It was different, although she loved him just the same, she had said. At last, he decided her motherly love was trivial, that he didn’t need it. He didn’t need her. He had told her during one of their discussions, she hadn’t listened and persisted in visiting. No one ever listened, he had thought she might have been unique once. But that was back when he didn’t know better.
She opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by a doorknob's rattle. It was the dorm room entrance door. He glanced at the door leading to the living room and locked back his gaze on the bare mattress. Cass was gone. The smell of the fresh baked chocolate chip cookies disappeared as well. He didn't bother to move, Riko knew his way.
"Spear, we got you a present," Riko snarled when he burst the door open. From where he was Andrew could only see Riko and the approximative human shape Riko was dragging by the collar. "Congrats, you have a partner, now. And what a partner." Riko was by the bedroom's door frame, displaying his usual sadistic smile. Then, he threw the body on the sheetless mattress, "he's a bit broken, but not anything that can't be fixed. Don't worry. He's partially yours, Spear, enjoy."
The body- the boy(?) on the mattress groaned, his several sizes too big of a t-shirt was soaked in blood, mud and holed. When Andrew thought he wasn't able to analyze every detail in the dim light, Riko flashed the celling light on. The brightness blinded him for a second, reviving the headache he seemed to have for a while.
"Nathaniel, this is Andrew Spear. Andrew, this is Nathaniel Wesninski," Riko scorned. "I am sure you will love each other's company." Riko stepped around in the bed room, trying to prove his dominance. To whom, Andrew wondered. Riko wasn't fooling anyone here, or at least, he wasn't fooling Andrew.
Andrew snorted audibly, not caring for the haughty look Riko gave him and stated, "I thought I wasn't getting a partner until college."
"He's not in college yet. Nice that we found him right in time for you before you get bored, right?"
Andrew giggled, Riko assumed they were alike. It was fun to witness the faint distrust for Andrew in the eyes of the man with the number one tattooed on his cheek when the very same man was beating half of his team. But it wasn't Andrew's business.
Not yet. It'd been only a week, after all.
He unfocused when the blood stench reached his nose, the memories of his own bloody arms he cut himself with razors and knives overflew. The boy in front of him didn't inflict that to himself. The blood odor was mixed with something rotten, burned, and weirdly enough, with the sweet smells of a campfire and gasoline. Riko spoke, Andrew heard, but he didn't listen. Probably unimportant. Andrew tapped his fingertips on his thigh with the pace of the song haunting his mind for the past few days.
"-be a good boy and listen to Spear," Riko sweettalked the new half-dead recruit, and thankfully, left.
Andrew stared at Nathaniel, who was heavily and loudly breathing. From a first inspection, Nathaniel looked like any homeless boy Andrew had met in the streets. But Andrew also knew Wesninski wasn’t exactly a poor family, and what a coincidence it would be to come across the perfect homonym of Nathan Wesninski. Nathan Wesninski was one hell of business man in the country, he owned one of the largest hotel chains in the United-States, to the exasperation of the Moriyama who owned the largest one. The Moriyama, – the main branch – owned a few manufacturing businesses as well and dominated the market.
“Alive, homeless boy?” Andrew smiled, so manically that his cheeks hurt. He interrupted his fingertips tapping and shifted to the edge of the bed. He positioned his elbows on his thighs and narrowed his eyes towards Nathaniel waiting for a voiced answer.
A growl was the first answer he received, “unfortunately,” was the second, fragmented by gasps. A scoff as the third. The fourth was a question muttered in a faltering breath “what’s the date?”
“I don’t know,” Andrew laughed, amused. When it was impossible to spot the hallucination from the reality, the time and the date were unnecessary troubles. Still, he grabbed his phone sitting on the bedside table and checked, “January, 19th. Six pm.”
The boy smothered a desperate laugh, but Andrew heard the tightness in Nathaniel’s throat. It sounded like a cry for help as much as it was a cry of sorrow. Andrew could only distinguish a few features from the tortured form slumped on the bed; the dirty black hair and the sun-tanned skin, which was puzzling in the middle of January. Nathaniel carried his stained with darkened, dry blood palms on his eyes and pressed on them while he clutched his hair bangs between his fingers and bit his bottom lip fervently. Andrew felt like he was studying a wild animal, untamable but frightened and cornered, abandoned with no guiding light. And for once, – in a while – he had been able to focus more than one minute.
With his perpetual defiance, Andrew valued observations first, and then, came up with conclusions second; Nathaniel Wesninski, the homeless boy, was not an immediate threat. Maybe later, he’d have to revise his judgement, but for now, Nathaniel was just a moribund teenager. He’d take care of the whys he was on the verge of death at a later date. He wouldn’t get anything from a man down.
The spark of lucidity was quick to fade for the growing fog spreading through his mind. Ignoring the painful, noisy and hoarse breaths exhaled by Nathaniel, Andrew’s mouth craved for words.
His nails fiddling one of his armband’s hem, Andrew was about to run his mouth but his new roommate beat him to it, with a hollow, rocky voice “I hate this.”
“Hating Exy that much?” Andrew ironized with a wide smile.
The boy, finally, turned his head towards Andrew and looked up straight into his eyes. Nathaniel’s icy blue eyes pierced his own like a pleasant acid jarring his very soul. Distrust, anger, grief and a tinge of fear were the emotions Andrew gathered in them, they were as expressive as they were raw. Nathaniel seemed like he already lost everything he ever had and had nothing left to lose besides his own life. Nathaniel’s stare couldn’t be compared with the one of these suicidal kids, nor with one about to die after being mugged. It was deeper, more critical. Andrew snorted briefly. The man might not be so down, after all. Andrew tried to take a general look at his roommate’s face but the icy blue eyes caught all his attention to see past them.
“That’s the only thing I won’t ever hate.”
“Hm… Exy lover then,” Andrew mocked. He stood up from his bed and stretched his arms nonchalantly, in turns, above his head. “So, Wesninski,” he paused when he noticed Nathaniel wincing. “Hm, hate your surname?” Andrew pointed out; an eyebrow raised.
Nathaniel broke the staring contest, “No.”
It was an obvious and easy to detect lie. Andrew breathed out a laugh as he said, “Daddy issues much?”
Without the icy blue irises averting him from doing so, Andrew scanned Nathaniel’s face. He perceived the sporadic freckles on the boy’s straight nose, as well as the tiny mole under his chewed bottom lip. His physical’s condition was, at best, deplorable, besides his obviously slashed torso, a handful of ugly bruises painted his jaw and his collarbone’s outskirt in a mixed purplish, yellowish hues, and a nasty, relatively deep knife cut bordered his right temple to his forehead.
“Fuck off,” Nathaniel gritted his teeth. “Let’s not talk about my issues, though we can talk about yours.” The boy jeered, “I heard you have your lot of issues yourself, especially brotherly issues, haven’t you?” A grimacing grin drew on Nathaniel’s face. He supported his stomach with a hand and tempted straightening in a sitting position. After three hopeless tries, he made it. Carefully, his gaze rebounded back on Andrew, more calculating, as if, he was assessing the danger.
Interesting, wasn’t it?
Andrew was a bit stunned to be devoid of anger or rage after Nathaniel’s last comment, but he couldn’t hold any grudge towards an ignorant lamb. Instead, a rare shard of amusement bubbled up inside. He narrowed his eyes, “The homeless boy keeps up with the news, I see.” If Nathaniel were suspicious, there was nothing that could be done for now.
“Wouldn’t be an ‘Exy lover’ if not,” Nathaniel somewhat shrugged.
Andrew’s snort was almost genuine this time. Almost. “You might actually turn out to be interesting.” Then, he used a flat bored tone to continue, “but well, the amusement never last.”
“I’m not here for your entertainment. Entertain yourself.” Nathaniel coughed, he clenched his jaw tight as the pain must have punched his guts and inhaled some air through his teeth.
Andrew ignored it and replied, “Riko doesn’t seem to share your opinion, though.”
“Do I look like I listen to what that psycho has to say?”
“You got a smart mouth, don’t you?” Andrew’s smile grew wider. “Shouldn’t you be afraid? He did that to you.” He pointed the bloody shirt with his index finger.
“No, he didn’t. And even if he did, I wouldn’t be afraid of him.” Nathaniel huffed, like he wanted to show how low Riko was on his problem’s list.
Andrew didn’t doubt the honesty of the statement, but then, whos had to join the whys. More questions to be answered, more puzzle pieces to be assembled, more suspicions to be, eventually, cleared. Curiosity was an escape to boredom, and in the last thirty minutes or so, Nathaniel succeeded to pick his, while giving him sparks of focus and lucidity (barely but it was there). Andrew could blame it on the last six months of seclusion waiting in a temporary jail for his trial and appeal, but solitude had never been an issue for him. Kevin and Jean were quite easy to read (despite some undisclosed mysteries), but the gashed boy thrown in his room was not. Riko was uninteresting and the rest of the ravens weren’t worth to be looked at. Andrew didn’t wish to be involved with them in the first place. However, he could use a thing or two to have fun with, couldn’t he? Riko authorized him, not that it mattered, though… He hummed. At the realization that he might fall for any kind of plan Riko had set, he felt offended and promptly dismissed his track of thoughts.
Rather, he traced his way to the small living room, a granted ‘Perfect Court’ dormitory privilege, but a poor one in his opinion; black and red coated the walls, floor and furniture like it did in the bedroom. The furniture was thin, a ridiculously petite coffee table was disposed a few inches away from a couch big enough for two persons, and a bookshelf they were invited to nurture. ‘Perfect Court’ privilege oblige, they were blessed with a mini-fridge to stock their water bottles (and only that), a coffee maker and a kettle. The benefits stopped here, but they were more fortunate than the regular ravens who only had a bedroom and toilets. At least, ‘Perfect Court’ dormitory rooms also had a shower in their bathroom.
He was terribly thirsty. He opened the fridge to snag two water bottles before cutting back to the bedroom. Andrew flung a bottle to Nathaniel, “drink.” He unscrewed his own bottle’s lid and emptied it in seconds. He smashed the plastic and ditched it in the trash can by his desk on his way to his bed. “Are you going to do something about that?” he grunted.
“About what?” Nathaniel said quarrelsomely, sipping his water carefully, seemingly aware big swigs would hurt.
“You’re asking? You look like you’ve been visited by Freddy Krueger and shared a fire bath together. You stink burned and rotten, Nate.” Andrew emphasized on the nickname. Insolently, he grinned and snickered at his own brilliant cleverness.
Nathaniel’s lips subtly curled down in a weak recoil, he sighed, “unless you have a first-aid kit, alcohol or very strong painkillers, I can’t patch myself up, I need stitches.” Nathaniel sipped water again, his complexion was paler and paler as the time went, Andrew didn’t mention it since the boy was grasping his condition. And supposedly, he knew how to stitch his ouchies, another mystery added to the list. “Which obviously you don’t have.”
“I don’t,” Andrew confirmed. “But Jean or Kevin more likely do.”
An indecipherable gleam popped up in Nathaniel’s eyes, causing him to look more innocent and stupidly hopeful. Nathaniel shut his eyelids down, scarcely shook his head and exposed his dazzling irises back to Andrew sans the gleam from seconds ago. “Can you get them for me?” Nathaniel asked.
“And what do I get from helping you?” Andrew blinked a few times, faking confusion in order to hide his attempt at dispelling the blur in his vision. He’d gladly avoid a new hallucination episode or a blackout first night with Nathaniel, preserving some secrets and surprises would turn out to be useful, eventually. The ache was throbbing and seething inside his head ramping up, up and up, casting his focus aside.
“Scent comfort?” Nathaniel suggested.
Andrew laughed frantically, a little too high, stabbing his head, his throat and tearing his cheeks, his jaw metaphorically apart. He tried sustaining coherent thoughts to provide an intelligible reply but the song’s volume looping in his mind turned up, up and up. He growled, “don’t worry, Jean’s the ‘Perfect Court’ nanny…” he paused to keep his words straight, “he’ll come later.” He led two fingers to his temple and saluted Nathaniel, “need a nap.”
Andrew suppressed his urge to lie down on his bed as fast as possible and settled on tackling his back against the wall at a reasonable speed instead. He closed his eyes; unsure he’d ever be able to sleep in anyone company in his clear mind, he somehow counted on his current frail and feverish consciousness to grant him some rest. The song looped over and over, thumping at an inordinate intensity. The remains of his last hallucination resurfaced, no longer being held back by the thrill of someone new, the curiosity no longer enough to maintain focus. His spit tasted like ash in his mouth, the iron and rotten stenches from Nathaniel and (or) the last hallucination were spreading into his throat and sinuses anew. Focusing on something else to get some sleep seemed like a fight he couldn’t win, albeit he managed to think about soothing colors, and among them, was a shade of icy blue.
Andrew jolted awake at Day’s sharp-toned voice calling Nathaniel, and it was plenty for his murderous intent to rise up. His jaw and fists tight, Andrew grumbled while he found a comfortable sitting position. His mind was hardly rested but his excruciating headache had been diluted into a moderate buzz and dizziness. It was quieter, too. His compulsive smile widening on his lips was unavoidable nonetheless.
Day had his eyes comically wide landing on the new attraction of the day. The face grey pallid, Day was stood as far away from the homeless boy’s bed as conceivable. Moreau rolled his eyes and sighed soundly when he dropped a raven duffle bag on Nathaniel’s desk. He unzipped it and released some of the content; a first-aid kit, a sewing kit, and a vodka bottle first. Then, sweatpants, a sweatshirt and an underwear change second. All raven black and red branded, of course.
Andrew hoped he’d not grow sick of black; it was his color. Black wasn’t a color strictly speaking and that was why he liked it initially. Black was nothingness and impenetrable, black rejected light and all colors, black was untouchable and unreachable. Black was who he was (nothingness), and who he wished to be (untouchable). In a way, he viewed himself as unreachable because he was clearly a lost cause. He laughed at that. The men in his room peeped at him, but his track of thoughts stayed undisturbed. He cheerfully offered them an additional involuntary snort. In any rate, black was his, black was relaxing and warming. Andrew valued black for those qualities when no one else did. No one should take that from him.
“Kevin Day.” Andrew heard Nathaniel said contemptuously with a gravelly voice, his hands were shaking. Undoubtedly, his condition worsened during Andrew’s nap.
It’d be better for Nathaniel to see a nurse or a doctor but ravens didn’t do nurses or doctors for beatings or assaults. That was the first explanation Andrew received from Moreau on his first day in the Nest. After a week, Andrew had observed the team get beaten so badly that he wondered why they had come and stayed in the Nest in the first place. Were they being blackmailed? Or, like Andrew, did they have a reason to be lured here? Andrew’s unstoppable mouth had asked a lot of questions to Moreau through the week but most of them had been left unanswered.
In any case, Andrew noticed the power imbalance between the ‘Perfect Court’ members and the rest of the team by himself. Moriyama used his ‘number one’ authority to abuse physically and verbally the ravens for the smallest mistakes (Jean included), he was a foolish tyrant endorsed by his uncle Tetsuji, the coach. Kevin was also encouraged to use his second place in the hierarchy to abuse the team too. Andrew suspected that Kevin would suffer consequences if he didn’t. Andrew hadn’t yet determined whether Kevin used his authority out of cowardice or willingly, out of respect for his brother and Tetsuji. Perhaps it was a mixture of both. At least, Day would never hit anyone.
Jean’s circumstances were contrasting with Kevin’s in spite of the number three tattooed on his cheek. First of all, Jean didn’t bother to hide his hatred for the sport – Andrew could fathom this much although he didn’t care about Exy to hate it – but Jean’s presence among the ravens didn’t add up. Second, Moreau wasn’t part of the hierarchy, rather, he wasn’t considered at all.
As a member of the ‘Perfect Court’, Andrew would have to fit into the mix, and he already knew that if they intended to touch him, he’d reiterate without shame, one day or another. Surely, he’d be mostly left alone since he was regarded like an unstable violent psychotic teenager – which was maybe true. He chuckled quietly.
“You’re alive,” Kevin whispered, his vocal cords and his body shivering equally. Day tiptoed two steps onwards, closing the gap between the beds and himself. When Andrew scoffed at his absurd attitude, Kevin gave him a haughty look, similar to Riko’s earlier. Blood didn’t need to run deep to mimic an adopted brother. It didn’t excuse any obnoxious behavior; Andrew had never mimicked his and never would.
Nathaniel coughed but he held his ground like being hurt to that level was common occurrence. “I am.”
“Not for long if you don’t patch yourself quick, quick, quick,” Andrew giggled. Andrew was high on meds, yes, but he wasn’t stupid, he caught on the fact Nathaniel and Day knew each other. “Where did you meet?”
Nathaniel and Kevin respectively answered “Not your business” and “Here” at the same time in discord. This led to a glaring battle, and if a glare could kill Nathaniel would have killed Kevin on the spot hands down. Unsurprisingly, Kevin quickly looked away, his lack of spine – especially in such a moment – was truly disappointing. The underwhelming feeling aside, Andrew got his answer, they had met here, in a more or less distant past. It added questions but he’d not solve the puzzle if Nathaniel was dead.
“Come, Wesninski, you definitely need stitches. I’ll help.” Jean was the quiet kind, the kind Andrew learned through the years, as a response against abuses; quiet enough, you wouldn’t be noticed. Jean was standing by the desk, and succinctly explained, “I have a first-aid kit and a sewing kit. I don’t have anesthetics so I usually use alcohol to numb the body for the stitches,” he pointed to the vodka bottle.
“Thanks, but I don’t need help.” Nathaniel started wheezing, much like he would after a marathon, even so his demeanor was unflappably normal. “Just bring everything in the bathroom.” Nathaniel inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with air to their maximum capacity. He pushed himself up with his arms and straightaway almost stumbled. He steadied himself by balancing on his feet and his hand soon reaching his desk. Slowly, one foot after the other, staggering without falling, the homeless boy was near the bathroom. A misstep was all it took for Jean to grapple Nathaniel’s forearm reflexively to catch him up. Nathaniel swung his arm powerlessly to pull it away from Jean’s grip, “Don’t touch me. I said ‘I don’t need help,’” he groaned breaking down the words into syllables in an exaggerated manner.
Andrew raised an eyebrow and snickered. Nathaniel scowled at him and disappeared into the bathroom. “Don’t empty that vodka bottle, let me have some, will you?” Andrew grinned even more, he didn’t wait for a reply, he knew he’d have none. Jean brought the necessities to Nathaniel and the door closed shut after Moreau came back to the bedroom.
Andrew looked up at Kevin, the man’s complexion was sallow akin to a forgotten ghost he seemed to have met. Andrew presumed it was pretty true, since Day’s first words for Nathaniel had implied that he was convinced the homeless boy was long dead. However, Andrew didn’t miss the oddly frightened expression on his face. Undeniably, there was more. Andrew was about to ask when his phone’s alarm shrilled, bewildering Kevin out of his stupor.
It was eight pm, meds time.
Andrew cut the alarm short and pulled the meds’ bottle out of his bedside table’s drawer and swallowed a pill dry. Jean or Kevin came by every morning and evening to be sure he was taking his medication accordingly. It was useless because skipping (he tried once) two doses would make him so sick that he wished to die. Andrew assumed they were ordered to babysit him, and he hated it.
“We brought food along, it’s in the living room. You should eat,” Jean said flatly, his arms crossed.
“I decide on what I should do, Jean Valjean,” Andrew snorted. “You’re gonna explain me a thing or two about our new mate Nate, right?” He decided he was hungry so he migrated to the living room – two and three followed him – he sat on the couch and grabbed his heated food ration: green peas, a piece of beef meat, with a strawberry yogurt for the dessert. Boring but better than nothing. The smell was unclear, undefined, the same lasting scent found in any canteen. Plate on the coffee table, he devoured a mouthful of peas and chewed, his legs bouncing “First, why was I here so early?”
“You passed out during practice, don’t you remember?” Kevin inquired while he sat next to him. His visible and lingering anguish had yet to be allayed. “Jean and I carried you here. We know it’s related to your… condition so we thought the nurse would’ve been useless.”
Andrew guffawed until his breaths hit a jerky rhythm, fractious, greasy coughs even leaked from his throat. His two teammates looked worried but he couldn’t care less. Andrew didn’t believe in pity nor he wanted it. “’Your… condition’,” he imitated Kevin, “I take anti-psychotics, I’m not dying from cancer, Day.” Now, it checked out. He’d blacked out during the day and had no remembrance whatsoever. He must have woken up at one point to take a shower, change and fall asleep, he guessed as much. The blackouts had started when he’d begun his medication, they usually happened randomly without any trigger, and he didn’t have to – physically – pass out to experience the memory lapses. The time span of the blackouts also varied, the longest he went through lasted one day and a half. He hated – and it was an understatement – every single blackout. Forgetting parts of his life, even the most frivolous event, was worse than hallucinations or nightmares. Even though he didn’t have control over their apparitions, he confronted his hallucinations and nightmares upfront. On the other hand, blackouts were violent and unwavering, he was forced to surrender to them and live unwillingly around them. “What else?”
“Master wants you to make up for the three hours you missed. Starting tonight, you have an additional hour of practice.” Kevin adopted his usual bossy tone that caused Andrew to roll his eyes excessively. “This is effective for the next three days of practice. Master is nice enough not to impose you to practice for three more hours tonight. But since you did great this week, he lets you go.”
Andrew emitted an overblown gasp. “That’s so nice I might cry. My schedule is arranged in such manner that I don’t die from exhaustion, I should worship your Master, do you have an altair?” Andrew ironically told him. It was Day’s turn to be melodramatic with a sigh, still, he knew better than to argue.
Kevin was right on one thing, Andrew did miraculously great this week. He succeeded to complete half of the Raven’s drills high on meds, when most of the ravens completed that much in months. Not that he cared about Exy (or anything, really), but it allowed him to be left alone by Riko and the Coach so far. Unfortunately, he wasn’t fully freed; the regular raven’s comments got him nearly cringing, particularly when they called him ‘Exy Genius’. Except for the gym in the morning and the laps he ran to warm up, Andrew practiced the raven’s drills over and over. Thus, yes, he appraised the five to six hours training per day sufficient to learn half of the drills in a week. If he had to repeat this week for months, he’d lose his mind (conceding that it wasn’t already the case). He was grateful for his eidetic memory, which apparently helped him, for once.
He cut the piece of meat in his plate and took a bite. The same song rose up in his head, he ignored it. Instead, he mumbled, “that explains why you brought food.” He scraped his fork against his plate to annoy Kevin and Jean, the screeching noise made Day grit his teeth. Successful, Andrew was self-satisfied. Finally, Andrew recalled that he had questions, “Why are you afraid of Nate, Kevin?”
“I’m not afraid of Nathaniel,” Kevin lied, scratching his knees with his fingernails. “I was just… surprised.”
Andrew shook his head knowingly. He wouldn’t get responses from Day. Rather, Andrew peered at Jean, his eyebrows unmistakably raised. Jean was leaning on the wall in front of them, his hands in his pockets, Jean quietly observed them. “I never met Nathaniel before, don’t ask me,” Jean shrugged widely, like the French he was.
“But you know why Kevin’s like this,” Andrew stated. His smile reaching his eyes, he realized the view had to be disgusting and appalling with his mouth full of food. “Did he kill someone? Considering I’m standing right here, that’d be the only reason. Are you afraid of me, Day? Oh, right, I didn’t kill him, didn’t manage to do it in time, actually.” Andrew laughed as he watched the expression of his teammates becoming aghast. “Oh, you’re finally grasping the menace.”
Andrew was pleased to be the source behind the newly-installed awkward silence. He finished eating in peace and played the song twice in his mind. To Jean and Kevin, Andrew was just a (poor) boy on meds with bad side effects. They tended to forget why he was on them. He enjoyed reminding people, because it was better to be seen as a monster, as untouchable as the color black than as a helpless, weak teenage boy. He wasn’t the latter, and he couldn’t afford for people to think he was. In this regard, maybe, the homeless boy was a bit more like him than expected: a threat. Andrew wasn’t too worried about the danger just yet, it all depended on what kind of game Nathaniel would be playing. Andrew would be the one to set the rules and boundaries.
“I don’t know if Nathaniel can be trusted,” Kevin said eventually. Lost in his mind, Andrew hadn’t noticed Kevin getting up and striding to the door, ready to leave. Day’s gaze was serious, concerned and far less fearful. “Anywhere else, he wouldn’t be a threat, not to us. Here, I have no idea what they plan for him.” Kevin opened the door, “don’t forget, night practice starts in half an hour for you.” He left, trailed by Jean.
‘They’, was it meant for the Moriyamas? Andrew was unenlightened about the whole Moriyama business and none of his teammates would give him any answers. Nevertheless, Andrew wasn’t stupid, he recognized a shady business when he saw one. Nathaniel was certainly a lost soul in a cruel world, a world bigger than him. Andrew had no intention of underestimating the homeless boy. But ultimately, Nathaniel was a conundrum he was bound to solve, and once the puzzle pieces in order, Nathaniel would return to the boring masses of people.