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i.
the day after you fall, ruthless is waiting at your door with coffee and a six pack of beer. you raise a brow, and let him in.
(it's time, you think, to spread your goddamn wings. to finally take your next steps on shaky legs and fly.
there isn't a city in your head anymore, just a dead crab and the echoes of the ocean.)
you close the door behind xem. “so?”
“a lot of things have changed.”
“okay.” you look at vim. ”what are we starting with?”
you don't know if you're talking about the news or the drinks.
ii.
the thing is, you're doing better. you're really, truly doing better. you have grown so immensely, so heavily since you were last truly in the chaos of this game and everything that holds that you hardly recognize it–or you– anymore.
(it's easy to brush it aside, say that you're still that person deep down. but then you look at baby, too stuck in his own ways and all the more miserable for it, and edric– still mourning, always mourning a path he'll never walk and think– well, who's better off, right?
a phoenix rising from the ashes, one could say.)
iii.
parra takes you out for lunch the week after rivers and edric do your hair– curtain bangs and rose tips to frame your face. it’s raining in baltimore, and you hang your umbrella and cane off the back of your chair as you wait for them to show.
popping out of existence into the chair diagonal from you is parker, grin on her face and already flagging down the waiter.
“so,” they say once you’ve got your food. “how are you finding it?”
“too quiet. you?”
she laughs. “too fucking loud.”
“you’ll get used to it.”
“you will too.”
iv.
the air tastes saltier here. you’re used to brisk wind and lake effect snow, but the way the humidity hits makes your bones ache. it almost makes you scared for the winter.
everything is just so quiet.
you and edric talk about it, sometimes, on the nights where you can only hear echoes, whispers trying to fill the empty spaces. out of everyone, he gets it– two kids raised on the outskirts of the city with smoke in their lungs and static in their ears. you don’t know how he’s managed without it all these years.
(the answer: it takes time.)
v.
you sleep through the last fall– you're just coming out of a flare, barely able to get out of bed for the past two weeks. but when your doorbell rings, you take your rollator to the door only to find your niece on the landing.
the one k-rod built, that is. anastasia isarobot, in her parent’s jacket.
“i didn't know where else to go,” and even through her mechanical voice you can tell she's scared, “and i couldn't find gabe. can i–”
“of course. i haven't checked, where are you–”
“mexico city.”
“good.” a breath, slow. “that's good. come in, babe.”
vi.
the week before games come back, it’s justice at your doorstep this time. she doesn’t wait to be let in, just moves past you, graceful as ever. perching on your couch in novelty sunglasses, she turns to face you.
“are you ready, declan?”
she's one of your former teammates you hadn't seen since you fell. not from a lack of wanting– justice just hasn't been to the mainland much, you know from edric, and you… well, you've had your hands full, haven't you?
“ready as I'm gonna be.” and it's the truth. you are ready, for once in your life.
vii.
parker falls, and you have to drag gabe out of the room before he does something he’ll regret.
(“sorry,” you’ll say later. “he’s just– he was on the fridays, before.”
parker’s eyes are tired, impassive. “did i–” a shake of your head. “good.”)
instead, the two of you go shopping, gabe trying on a dozen different hats while you flacetime rivers to consult. it’s fine, as long as you don’t talk about what’s coming.
“oh,” you say with a grin, “i added a name.”
she raises a brow. “oh?”
“declan-roísín.”
“oh–” something catches in her throat, “i– thank you, dec.”
viii.
when you roll out onto the field for your first game, the crowd hushes for a second; it's the first time you've been in your chair in public, and well– baltimore has known you nearly as long as chicago has.
any fears or shame you had melt away the second the game ends. when you win a game and then another, you can't help but think that it feels right, in a way a bat hasn't in a long time.
(deep breath, eyes fixed front. wind your arm back like gabe showed you, exhale, throw. rinse, repeat. you'll be alright.)
ix.
you and gabe watch ana pitch from the stands, watch as she winds back with her head held tall.
quiet enough that only you can hear, gabe says: “if they open the book, she’ll–”
“i know.”
“if they redistribute the wealth, the wings will–”
“yeah.”
“and with relegation, the firefighters–”
“yeah.”
(it’s all rocks and hard places out here.)
she turns to look at you two; you both plaster on grins and wave. mechanical exhale, she squares her shoulders and turns back towards the plate. gabe’s feathers tickle your back as he places his wing there.
“we’re so fucked.”
“yeah.”
x.
the season passes in more of a blur than any of you are willing to admit. it’s tunnel vision at a point; you wink to nerd as you throw the firefighters a win– in this moment, it feels like the least you can do.
“it’s not going to make a difference,” parker says on the bus ride back. “it never does.”
you shrug. “it’s not supposed to. listen, i know you’ve seen your shit, but we’ve seen our own.”
he rolls his eyes, and for once looks his nineteen years. “whatever.”
(hopeless kindness is better than hopeless cruelty, you think.)
xi.
When you and gabe take ana for breakfast the morning before the semi-finals start, what she says is this:
“i’m going to throw the game.”
you and gabe lock eyes, staring each other down in some attempt at silent communication that doesn’t work. in the end, he breaks first.
hands up in the air: “look, if no one else will say it, i will. ana–”
“staj.”
“staj, i don’t think you could throw that game if you tried. the rest of your team–”
her shoulders deflate. “i know.”
your turn. “it’ll be okay.”
shakes head. “it won’t. thank you, though.”
xii.
the end is anti-climatic, in it’s own way. still, you can see the way staj’s shoulders fall in relief as the thieves take the ring, and your heart breaks in half.
(she is, you know, so scared; and you are so scared for her. it’s understandable, though. tomorrow, nothing could happen. the book may not open, she may be fine. but for now, her team is safe, if not her home or herself.)
some yards over, her teammates are raging. the two of you step past, and meet her tired eyes.
“want to get outta here?”
a hand, outstretched.
“please.”