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Like the sky on a moonlit-night, the darkness of The Nest only seemed infinite to those whose eyes were not adjusted. And after spending the majority of his life within its influence, Kevin’s eyes had long since gotten used to the dark.
In the days directly following his mother’s death, after his godfather–now Master–had picked him up from the airport, Exy had been Kevin’s primary source of light. Whenever he gripped his racquet and swang, he could feel his mother's arms around him, correcting his grip, and guiding him through the motion of his swings.
Although that reason for living never faded in its importance to him, he knew it was not going to be a strong enough light to illuminate the years’ worth of shadows awaiting him. It turned out that his second source of light was already at his new home, in the shape of a brother.
Kevin and Riko were practically conjoined when they were growing up. They would sneak into each others’ beds and whisper and stifle their laughs until they fell asleep sharing the same pillow, and Kevin would wake up wrapped in their blanket while Riko curled up as closely as possible to him to try to stay warm. They would spend their days doing their schoolwork and practicing drills and going for runs around the court. Then, during the day, they spent whatever free time they managed to find filling their heads with stories of their own grandeur, fantasizing of the day that it would be them on the national team. Riko as number one, Kevin as number two. Only the best players would stand alongside them, and they would reign over the court in a regime that would become legendary. Perfect, even.
On the day they were finally brave enough to ask The Master for a permanent claim to the numbers, he leveled them with his simple and demanding answer: “you must first earn them .”
What had been a passion before turned into an obsession. Kevin had always been more invested in Exy than anything else, but Exy soon became his lifeline; the reason he was able to tolerate the brutal expectations and the disappointment and punishment that he endured when he was incapable of meeting such standards. Each day he broke his body through training, only to pull himself back together each night and hope that sleep would restore the rest in time for the next day. Eventually Kevin and Riko spent less and less time talking at night and more time patching each other up. They pushed themselves further than any normal coach would allow, and spent entire nights mastering drill after drill after drill.
Although Kevin and Riko broke side by side, they healed as one. The bond between the two of them was like nothing Kevin had ever felt before; it was as if the two of them were fused into a single body, two parts of a whole. Riko was his brother in soul, in life, and in blood. Eventually, Riko suggested that they be bold and take permanent markers to their faces to prove their determination. And so Riko marked Kevin, and Kevin marked Riko. In the same spot on their left cheekbones, they claimed their numbers. They knew that one day, those numbers would be retired under their names, and that the world would never forget the Sons of Exy. Seeing the number on their faces in their reflections solidified that fate in their minds and only deepened their resolve.
It wasn't until they started getting older that Kevin realized that Exy was more than a passion for Riko. In his early days of naïvety, he didn’t even realize that Riko clung to the sport like it was the only thing that could save his life. Perhaps it was because he didn’t fully understand the stakes at hand until Nathaniel auditioned for a place at their side. The same evening they watched a man get killed by none other than Nathaniel’s father; the man Kengo Moriyama himself turned to when he needed to trim his ties and cut off any loose threads.
Of course, the looming threat of what would happen to him if he failed to produce results in Exy had never been subtle. The sound of bones splitting like toothpicks and the sight of pooling blood forced Kevin further into understanding the true severity of the situation, however. It was no longer a vague, highly graphic threat—it was reality. And perhaps more terrifying was the fact that Riko, his brother, could face the same drawn out, torturous fate as the poor butchered soul that lost his life that night. Chances were also high that if Riko was killed, Kevin’s own neck would be next.
But then Nathaniel didn’t join their ranks and ran away instead. Secretly, Kevin was relieved that the boy hadn't been killed, but he had seen Nathaniel play. While watching this boy only a few years younger than him approach drills that would exhaust adults with an unending and relentless stamina, Kevin had pressed his hands up on the glass that separated them from the court despite the chastisements and scoldings for smudging the glass. He wanted to play alongside Nathaniel like a fish wants to swim, or a bird wants to fly. It only seemed natural that he would be the third member of their Perfect Court; Nathaniel possessed an innate skill and ability, as well as a clear passion for the sport. Kevin had recognized the excited glint in Nathaniel's eyes when he’d auditioned; Kevin’s eyes carried the same light on the field. So had Riko’s, once.
But reality was a sledgehammer that drove home one fact until it lived in their heads as a chilling, constant undercurrent: if Riko didn't reach and exceed expectations, he would be killed. End of story.
Perhaps it was that growing realization that generated a hairline crack in the fragile, frozen composition of Riko’s mind. It was only natural for things to change between them after that moment, but it was a shift that made Riko start to spiral.
Kevin and Riko clung to each other with taloned grips, incapable of imagining a world where they weren’t at each other’s side. But as time went on, Riko’s grip on Kevin became sharper and sharper. It left bruises on his skin that fabric could hide, and cuts that ached when he laid down every night. Oftentimes he would return the favor and they would curl up together at night in a silent apology, but those nights were further and further apart as they grew older.
Eventually, something snapped in Kevin’s heart. He no longer wanted Riko to be part of his life, but rather knew that Riko was an inevitable part of his life that he’d never be able to be separated from.
But then Jean arrived, and everything changed.
Jean, with his steel eyes and heavy brows and dark, dark hair. Jean, with his lanky limbs that he was still growing into, and a heavy scowl on his dark lips. Jean, with his broken and accented English that Kevin couldn’t help but want to find any reason to hear more of. Jean, with his anger and violence and fierce rebellion.
Jean Moreau, the person that became Kevin’s true reason to keep going.
Jean Moreau, the person Kevin trusted to show his bruises and cuts and broken, sharp edges.
Jean Moreau, his lifeline.
The Master’s instructions for Riko had always been clear: “Force Moreau into submission. He is yours. Make him obey, and teach him the price of disrespect.”
Of course, The Master had always been better at teaching through example than through words. As a result, all of the cruelty that The Master dealt to Riko was mirrored in his cruelty to Jean. It was separate from the cruelty that Riko dealt to Kevin, which was concentrated and far more risky. At the very least, Kevin was grateful that Riko wasn't in possession of a cane like his uncle, and that he wasn't allowed to take the racquets off the court to use as a substitute. Although the rule was mostly put in place due to The Master’s reluctance to spend money on replacing expensive equipment more frequently than necessary, there were enough broken arms and fingers that resulted from misdirected swings and crushing checks that it was a necessary precaution.
If Kevin had been a fool he would have been shocked by The Master’s priorities, but he had lived under The Master’s roof for too long to be surprised. Regardless, he was grateful for such a rule, because his blood turned to ice any time he imagined Riko’s shadowy silhouette approaching his bed, racquet in hand.
By the time Jean crossed the threshold of The Nest, Kevin had long since learned to make his expression undecipherable, even as Jean’s punishment unfolded in front of him. Zoning out or dissociating wasn't an option if he knew that this was his only chance to know exactly what damage he would need to repair later on. He watched each blow land, tolerated the sounds of punches and agony, and braced himself for the sleepless night ahead of him.
Once, such sessions had sickened him. He liked to think that he’d gotten numb to the violence; that, or desensitized. But every bruise, every cut, and every crack was worth it. It had to be. And if it wasn't, Kevin would make all the pain worth it. He was willing to do anything if it meant he could live to see another day. They were going to make it. No matter what, they were going to come out on the other side and never look back. He could save the self loathing for a stormy day during his retirement, when he could nurse a shot of whiskey instead.
As much as Kevin wished he could absorb all of the pain Jean was experiencing, stepping in to take the blows for Jean or stop them entirely had only ever left both of them in tatters for days and in serious need of first aid that neither of them could administer.
When Riko finally pulled away from Jean, panting from exertion and in need of bandaging his own knuckles, Kevin stood and approached Jean in complete silence. It would have been preferable for Kevin to move Jean to a cleaner, more sterile location, but just because it was preferable didn't mean it was possible.
Long ago, Kevin had bothered with mimicking nurses and asking Jean where he was hurt, the severity of the pain, so on and so forth.
That day he grabbed Jean by the shoulders and yanked him into an upright position instead. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go and put you together again .”
Jean didn't respond. At first Kevin wasn't sure if Jean was just ignoring him or if he’d slipped into unconsciousness, but the unimpressed and exhausted look Jean sent him was more than enough to confirm that Jean was still awake, at the very least.
Kevin half-dragged, half-walked Jean back to his room, which his partner had graciously left unoccupied. Jean’s roommate had also extracted their first aid kit from its usual drawer and set it out for them.
Kevin helped Jean get settled on the floor before opening the first aid kit and shuffling through all the supplies. “You can't keep doing this,” he hissed as he searched for a disinfecting wipe.
“I will not be his doormat.” Jean ran the back of his hand under his nose, which left a bloody streak along his wrist. It was a phrase Kevin was all too familiar with—he'd heard it from former players who had doubted Riko’s authority on the court, he’d heard it from Jean, and he'd had the same thought countless times. But Kevin had lived alongside Riko for far more years than Jean, and he’d learned not to let such thoughts consume him. He had at least a decade of learning when and how to bite his own tongue. He only wished that Jean would pay attention to any of his lessons on the topic.
Such comments from Jean truly tested his own ability to bite his tongue, however. What would that make me, in your eyes then? Am I covered in the mud Riko scraped from his shoes? Is that all you see me as?
Instead Kevin took a deep breath to ensure control over his voice before speaking. “The bad news is that doormats don't have teeth that can be knocked out. People do,” he said for what felt like the fortieth time that week.
“It’s just a split lip,” Jean argued despite having several other notable injuries as well. It was a familiar routine for the two of them at that point. At the very least, Riko had avoided damaging the skin near Jean’s tattoo; the only place on any of the Perfect Court’s bodies that was completely safe. That Riko had a limit to what he was able to do without having a worse punishment in store for him was one of the only reasons Kevin was able to sleep most nights. “Besides, you and I both know that The Master would cover up such an incident so quickly that the media wouldn't notice.”
Speaking with a broken lip, missing tooth or not, only made Jean’s accent more noticeable to Kevin. It didn't make what he said any easier to acknowledge, especially due to the truth at the heart of his words. A mishap during training. An injury from the latest game. An unauthorized extracurricular endeavor. It was all a song and dance Kevin had both witnessed and performed. Yet even after so many years of playing his part perfectly, the only true skill he’d gained in relation to any of it was a deep knowledge of and utilization of a first aid kit.
“I've been at his side for so long that I can barely recall my life from before,” Kevin began. The Ravens’ strict and unusual schedule had turned weeks into months and months into years, to the point that he occasionally even forgot how old he was. His childhood in Ireland with his mother was a lifetime away. “I have no doubt that the press would be handled swiftly and smoothly. But the press can fuck itself as far as I'm concerned. This is about survival, Jean. Plain and simple. You need to learn to bend if you don't want to get broken.”
“Why bother?” Jean whispered, his grey eyes losing focus as his thoughts began to wander.
Kevin cupped Jean’s jaw in one hand and wiped at a scrape on Jean’s cheek with an alcohol pad. “ Because if we give up, he wins, ” Kevin whispered in hurried and poorly pronounced French.
Through his warm, oversized hand, Kevin felt Jean’s pulse speed up and heard his breath hitch on his bruised lungs and saw his gaze dart to the door. Riko had already satisfied his usual disciplinary quota for the day, and had tossed Jean to Kevin as if he were a dog and Jean was table scraps. Kevin’s job was as always: to leave no trace of the cruelties of their lives. But that task gave Kevin a rare respite from Riko’s side, and allowed him to have an inkling of ever-so-rare privacy with Jean.
Kevin very slowly reached out, slipped his fingers under Jean’s bangs, and brushed them aside. Jean’s hair was a bit too short to stay pushed back, so Kevin went back and tucked the hair aside over and over and over. “I'm looking for bruises,” he said, an answer, however believable, to the question in Jean’s eyes.. It was also what he was telling himself over and over despite the fact that his heart fluttered upon each brush of skin.
Kevin had never thought of himself as an impulsive person, but the sudden temptation to curl his fingers under Jean’s chin, tilt his face up, and plant a kiss on his broken and bruised lips only increased with each stroke he made in Jean’s hair. He fought to control his breathing, or steady his heart, or think about anything, anything else.
Meanwhile, Jean sat statue-still and stared at Kevin like he was the sun breaking through the clouds on an overcast day. It didn't help Kevin in his efforts to resist kissing Jean there and then. He remained successful, mostly because he feared that if he stole one kiss from Jean, it’d be even more difficult to keep himself from stealing more in the future.
Instead, Kevin pressed his forehead to Jean’s. “ What do you miss most from your life before The Nest? ” Kevin asked in whispered, choppy French.
Jean flinched but didn't look away. There was pain in his eyes—hints of a response he dared not voice. “ The sun, ” he whispered instead.
Kevin shut his eyes and conjured his own memories from before the Nest. After so many years that had stretched thin and blurred together, it was more difficult than he liked. He tried to picture his mother in the late afternoon light on a summer day, when they had practiced various tossing strategies together on their front lawn with a small Exy set made out of plastic. She had ruffled his hair and lifted him into the air with a grin and had declared that he was going to be a global champion one day.
He’d always imagined that she would still be alive to see him win, though.
“ And what are you most excited to do after we graduate?” Kevin asked.
“ Nothing. ”
“ There must be something, ” Kevin said.
“There is nothing for me beyond these walls, Day.”
“ I’ll be there,” Kevin said, his fingers slipping further into Jean’s hair and combing out the places where blood and sweat had clumped Jean’s dark hair. “ I've been with you this entire time. Of course I'll be there with you, beyond the finish line.”
“There isn't a finish line, you moron,” Jean said, turning his head out of Kevin’s reach. “None of us will ever be free. Not in this life, at least.”
The truth in Jean’s words was as white hot on Kevin’s skin as a branding iron. “You're right. But we could be free of him, at the very least. ”
“ Perhaps you could ,” Jean mused, “ but I never will. He will not let go of me until the day he dies. Only then will I be rid of him.”
“Then so be it. But I will be at your side for all of it. We either cross that line together or not at all.”
“Do not make promises you can't keep, Day.”
“I swear. I swear on my life that I will always be there to bandage you up. I will be here at the end of every day until our days run out. I swear to you, I will never leave you behind.”
Jean nodded, more to himself than anything, and seemed to accept Kevin’s oath. “I’ll hold you to it, Day.”