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Not even the drugs can numb the pull of Andrew’s promise, running like red string from the finger by his mouth, along the cigarette and through his body, unravelling down the stairs until it reaches the dorm room where he left Kevin minutes ago.
The headlights of the few cars that pass beneath him are as jarring in the dark as the distant thunder, rumbling with the promise of rain, that no car could stop by the building undetected, and while it is a rare moment of solitude; it is tinted, as all things are, by the urgency to return to Kevin’s side.
When he does return, he expects Nicky and Aaron to still be fighting over whatever had gotten them upset right before he left, but instead the bean bags they occupied minutes ago are empty, and each of the bedroom doors are closed.
The only one left is Kevin, still hunched over his desk, with his face is buried in his hands and tousels of hair tangled between his fingers. Like a snake, the cord from his headphones drapes over his laptop and bounces with the vicious rising and falling of his shoulders at each of his jagged breaths.
Andrew he cuts the distance between them with just a few, determined steps and peers over Kevin’s shoulder at the game of Exy playing on the screen. Black jerseys are darting across the court like rats, already ahead by nine points before the end of first half, and just as Andrew reaches out, hand lingering atop the laptop’s lid, the video focuses on what should be a familiar face. Except, Kevin on the screen, scoring an impossible goal and immediately turning towards Riko in celebration, looks nothing like the Kevin in front of him.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Kevin mumbles against his palms, tattoo hidden behind the tip of his thumb but such a fundamental feature of his face that Andrew imagines it there it all the same.
“Get up,” Andrew says, and the black ink spills between Kevin’s fingers when he shakes his head. “Get Up, Day,” he persists, and when Kevin does not move Andrew grabs his chair and pulls.
Perhaps it is the element of surprise working in his favour, because while the chair might scream as it scrapes against the floor, Kevin actually does slide back. It makes his entire body jolt in surprise, and as he fumbles to hold onto the desk he leaves traces of wetness along its edge.
Andrew lets him go and leaves the door open as he walks along the hallway, but it is not until he hears the silent clasp of it closing behind him that he speeds up. Heavy steps trail after him down the stairs, all the way over to his car.
The passenger seat’s headrest is adjusted for Kevin, but he’s slouching so much his scalp barely touches it. With his chin resting in the palm of his hand, elbow pressing against the bottom of the window, Kevin absently runs the tip of his finger along his tattoo, and he does not ask Andrew where they are going.
If he had, Andrew would have answered to drive off a cliff without missing a beat, and he imagines it would have made Kevin protest loudly enough to forget about any other fear. But instead, they drive in silence, and it isn’t until they make the final turn towards the court that Kevin’s body perks up a little, back stretching as if to get a better view of it.
They’re in the changing room when Kevin breaks the silence, holding onto his bundled jersey while the fluorescent lights hug every perfect curve of his naked torso.
“I hate this color,” he says, and Andrew looks away, rinsing his eyes of the sight with the bright orange of the lockers along the opposite wall.
“Then go back, if you’re so eager to wear black,” he says with a shrug, and it isn’t until he hears the faint rustle of Kevin putting the jersey on that he turns back.
“You know I can’t,” Kevin says, and Andrew wants to believe him. He wants it with a fervor strong enough that he is already building every moment of his life around it, as if the knowledge that Kevin must stay could actually be an anchor of consistency, the only thing that is forever certain.
“But we’ll never be as good as they are. Not like this.” Kevin wears his frustration on each of his carved features and gestures at something with his free hand, be it the dressing room or Andrew or the entire university.
“You’re right. We’re beyond saving,” Andrew says and allows a smile to tug on his lips, making Kevin’s grip around the stick tighten, knuckle turning the same shade as his jersey.
“I’m being serious. You’ve seen them play,” he says, “even if I’m the best I could be, which I’m not, it won’t matter when the rest of you aren’t putting in any effort.”
“Are you done?” Andrew brings his hand to his mouth as he chokes back a yawn, and Kevin shakes his head.
“Practice with me,” he says, and Andrew resists rolling his eyes. Even as they walk, Kevin keeps going at his back. “I can teach you how they move,” he says, and “you’d be better if you did.” It isn’t until Andrew turns for the bleachers while Kevin continues onto the court that Kevin finally shuts up, grabbing a bucket of balls on his way towards the goal.
Andrew refuses to watch him. There is no need when he already knows exactly how Kevin’s body curves into each of his perfect shots. While the wooden bench cuts into his back, he finds comfort in the rhythmic buzzing from the goal. The red light flashing in the corner of his eye is as reliable as the passage of time, and as inevitable as Kevin going back to Edgar Allen.
*
The short walk across the parking lot is enough to soak the both of them, and drops trail along Andrew’s face and neck onto his seat, sticking strands of damp hair against his skin and soaking the collar of his shirt.
Kevin rubs his own arms to build warmth, bringing the sleeves of his shirt up and down and exposing the skin beneath, until he tires and reaches to adjust the heating instead. It seems surreal, that the same fingers that curve around the knob have probably touched every inch of Kevin’s body, and the sudden thought of them pressing against Andrew’s own skin is as revolting as it is thrilling.
Kevin leans his head against the window, and Andrew places his fingers right where Kevin’s were moments ago, readjusting the heating to nothing but a cool breeze.
“I can’t get sick,” Kevin says, a small patch of fog stretching from where his mouth almost presses against the glass.
“You won’t.”
“Did I tell you I found our new striker?” Kevin doesn’t look at Andrew when he speaks, eyes still fixed on the court’s silhouette as it grows smaller by the second.
“I don’t care,” Andrew says, but Kevin keeps going. He talks about this guy that he found, a total rookie who’s playing for some no-name high school but has somehow managed to catch his attention. He rattles off statistics, average scores and assists per game like the foxes lineup could be determined by some computer.
“None of that matters,” Andrew interrupts him, “you know coach doesn’t pick us based on our stats anyway.”
“That’s not why I picked him.” There is something almost smug about the way Kevin’s lip quirks, turning to look at Andrew while still leaning against the window in a way that makes strands of his hair stand against the glass. “I’ll show you when we get back,” he says, and the sight of him triggers an urge to swerve with the car so fast that it might roll over and crush the both of them. Andrew tightens his clutch on the wheel, and Kevin takes the silence as an invitation.
“We’re going to see him,” he says, “his team is playing their last game next week.”
“Are you dragging me across the state to watch high school Exy?”
“Across the country,” Kevin corrects him, and every trace of the panic that was so real just an hour ago has been replaced with playful confidence. “It’s in Arizona. And you don’t have to watch him play, you can just.” A shrug, and every possible way that sentence might have ended is left hanging between them.
*
The Exy videos on Kevin’s computer are usually catalogued by player, team and date, but the one named Josten, N only has one file in it. The video itself is grainy, like it might have been filmed on a phone, and it’s just barely possible to make out the players against the court they’re running across.
Andrew doesn’t know which one Kevin expects him to pay attention to, and he does not particularly care. Instead, he makes a point out of turning his face away from the screen and towards Kevin, who is too consumed by the video to notice.
“There! Did you see that? We need someone like that, who knows how to play with the backliners and who- why aren’t you watching?” Kevin taps the spacebar and rewinds, letting the cursor hover the play button as he watches Andrew with a frown. “Look at him.”
“You’re setting yourself up for disappointment. He’s not going to fix us.”
“I’ll take him to the court every night if I have to,” Kevin says, as adamant as ever to twist Andrew’s words until all that remains is Exy, Exy, Exy. “I can make him good enough.”
When Kevin gets like this, so wrapped up in himself that anything Andrew says slides off him like water, there is no point pushing.
“Let’s hope for your sake he has a car, then,” Andrew says, shutting the laptop on his way past as he heads into the bathroom.
It only takes Kevin a moment to follow. “If not, you’ll have to take us both,” he says, and when Andrew doesn’t answer his face twists into something sour. “You promised you would do this for me,” he says, and Andrew raises his hand.
“Do you honestly think I’ve forgotten, or are you just trying to insult me?” he says, with his hand hovering just before Kevin’s face, and when Kevin speaks, the warmth of his breath breaks against Andrew’s palm.
“I’m reminding you,” he says, “you owe me this.”
Andrew flexes his fingers, the image of Kevin’s head slamming back against the white tiles vivid in his mind, but then he lets his arm fall to his side.
They brush their teeth in silence, side by side with their shoulders mere inches from each other, and when they sleep Kevin lets his arm dangle off the edge of the bed. It’s close enough that if Andrew was someone else entirely, he could easily reach out and hold it, but far enough that he knows he will not.