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i.
the first time you meet him–after the fall, at least–is when you walk in on him locking lips with your new teammate.
it's a quiet evening; randy and fish are out back, the former trying to teach the latter to skate, and the music is low, thumping steadily as dunn has her head leaned back on the throw in the corner. zack and him startle, though, smoke escaping from between their lips. you spot a joint between his painted nails.
you quirk a brow at dunn. she shrugs. “they're always like this.”
he smiles, waves. “edric. want some?”
you're gone.
ii.
you keep thinking about going back to philly. there’s lots of reasons– a need to breathe familiar air, to feel the hum of a city you know beneath your feet. mostly, though, for you to grieve.
(some of mickey's ashes, you keep with you– a locket carved out of hadean driftwood to keep it by your heart; when you burned, it burned with you. bright's grave, you never got to see, and that you deserve as much as she does.)
you'll ask zack, maybe, or elvis soon enough. for now you just let the tides of want drift you too.
iii.
you lie on the roof, looking up at the stars, hands almost brushing but not quite. it’s easier to talk with him when you don’t have to look at each other’s eyes.
“why do you stay here so much?”
“joe and malik can be… a lot. chicago holds nothing but hard rocks these days, and i… there was a very real moment where zack and i lost each other. might as well weather the coming storm here, you know?”
there’s words left unsaid, but whatever you’re building seems to be made out of those; silent understandings to fill your lungs.
iv.
(the first time you actually meet is in the desperation of season fifteen. you had come to baltimore to watch harrell try her best in the postseason, and edric was there for bertie. you don’t know each other, but he still lets your nails dig into his forearm as you watch harrell get chomped into oblivion, unable to take your eyes off of the field. he doesn’t either, and you remember the firefighters’ used to say something about never looking away.
(there was a time, even before that, before eclipses took over. different him, different you; but all the same.))
v.
there’s laughter in the kitchen; you follow the echoes of it like breadcrumbs. the scene that’s before you is one that leaves your heart aching– randy and zack singing a song you don’t know in increasingly off-key harmonies as the onions start to burn. there isn’t much to do but shake your head and accept the glass dani hands you.
(just for a second, it’s you and mickey back in bright and forrest’s kitchen, the taste of cigarettes and rum sweet on your tongue. the context is different but the scene is the same: a tableau of potential, of comraderie.
vi.
elvis calls every week; you go along with it, allow his anxious fretting even though you're older by far. he needs somewhere to place it, and it can't hurt, this incessant caring.
you know zack receives the same– some days you wonder just how many people he's taken under his many wings, these days.
(you all miss someone, out here. it's hard not to, when it's twenty-four out of hundreds each week. but when you ask edric who he misses, his eyes go blank.
“no one i'm getting back.”
if there's one thing you can relate to, it's that.)
vii.
words stutter on your lips, some days, aching careless things built out of misunderstandings. you have whispered arguments with haruta in the depths of the memorial forest, fingers itching for a fight after talking with fish.
(guilt coats your tongue in bitterness at your own regrets; the callousness you held in ignoring nic when he joined the fridays, unable to keep your heart straight in all the chaos, for one. forgotten moments, aching mistakes, ruinous choices– you have lived enough to see thoughtless moments come to fruition in mutinous ways.
you will try to be better. it’s all you can do.)
viii.
six months in and it's the two of you in bed, his hand tangled in your hair and your head upon his chest, listening to the steady sleepy beats.
(when you look in the mirror on those cold nights, it is not yourself you see in the reflection. it is famous, bright, mickey, harrell; it is the face of everyone you've loved and lost.
famous said once that you're a glutton for punishment with how you bare your heart. still, all these years later, you think it's the right choice, opening up like this.
with no risk, there's no reward.)
ix.
things slowly start to even out.
you take long walks in the forest–sometimes with zack or randy, sometimes with edric, mostly by yourself– foraging for forgotten wood. you sit by the bats, aching joints turning it into memorials just as sharp as the knife used to make them. it's meditation, almost if not quite, calming repetition.
(there is no bringing back the past, you know that better than most. there's just mourning, and the act of moving forward; carrying your grief with you step by step by step.
the weight of the grief will lighten eventually. it almost always does.)
x.
lying on the roof, another night:
“why do you want to go back so bad?”
(his hand actually in yours, this time. warm, tangible.)
“to prove something to myself, i guess.”
“oh?”
“to get to mourn properly what i never did, then.”
(edric is burning hot, most days. you’re not exactly coldblooded, but you soak the heat up regardless.)
“that’s a pretty good reason, if you ask me.”
“it’s time, you know?”
“i do.”
“...come with me?
(in the distance you can hear the hum of streetlights, the buzz of traffic. it’s all too familiar, out here.)
“yeah, of course.”
xi.
the four of you have dinner once a week, smushed into the miniscule kitchen the clubhouse provides. you all take turns–though you naturally fall into teams; zack and randy, you and dani–but once a week, it’s just the four of you, no guests.
it’s dani who broaches it. “so, when are we going to philly, then?”
next to you, zack sputters. randy pats her on the back.
you put down your fork. “we?”
“you’re not going alone, spears.”
zack, now. “xe’s right.”
“yeah, okay. i–” for just a second, you wonder how you got to here. “how’s next week looking?”
xii.
an empty stadium, almost. zack on one side, hank on the other. somewhere in the background, randy is trying to teach pudge to kickflip.
you can hear elvis laughing with ren and dani behind you, but your eyes haven’t left the pie case.
(bright zimmerman: apple cinnamon rose. disgustingly appropriate.)
“so, this is it, huh?”
edric slides in between you and hank, one hand in yours, the other on the small of your back.
“yep.”
“ready to go?”
(your eyes drift. mickey woods: apple fried pie with ashed glaze. you’ve always hated it.)
“you know what? I think i am.”