Chapter Text
Nicky Hemmick does not have bad days anymore. So he tells himself even as he starts awake in the dark, unable to place himself for several long moments. An old but familiar dread comes creeping in, until Aaron turns over in the bunk across from him, the bed frame creaking and transporting Nicky back to the dorm. He blinks away the memories of a different, lonelier room, and tries to focus on the sounds of Aaron’s and Matt’s breathing as he lays back down and closes his eyes again. For a moment, that is enough.
Sleep will not pull him under again, though, and eventually Nicky lets his eyes fall open and reaches for the phone under his pillow. The light of the screen stings and blinds him for a second before he’s able to tell the time. 4:47 AM. Nicky automatically adds six hours mentally before opening his messages to Erik and sending a simple good morning text.
When Erik replies, Nicky has already creeped out of bed and into the living and kitchen area. The TV is on and playing on a volume that hopefully won’t disturb his still-sleeping roommates. The sounds of reruns and ads accompany him into the kitchen where he pulls out his phone to reply.
guten morgen <3
Good morning Liebling <3
You are up early today?
early practice :p still have time to call tho, do u??
Nicky starts cracking eggs into a bowl and whisks them to keep from fiddling as he waits for a reply. The room is still dark, but Nicky knows that the lilt of Erik’s voice would chase some of the shadows away. A chime, and his phone lights up.
I have a meeting soon. Would rather talk to you
:-(
Normally the silly little emoticon would get a chuckle out of Nicky, and he carefully does not think about what it means that the frowny face just adds another lump in his throat. Words are suddenly too hard, so he only replies with another series of emoticons that he hopes convey the message of It’s okay, it’s my fault we have to deal with this distance anyway. I’m good and don’t you worry but could you call me later to make everything okay again, like you always do?
He’s pouring the batter into the hot pan when he lowers his arm with a sharp twitching motion, making his knuckles touch the red-hot metal for a split second before his hand recoils. For another moment, he watches the skin redden until he remembers he should put it in the skin. Maybe apply some burn cream, if they have any. Somehow, he ends up doing neither.
The pancakes have been cooling on the stove for a long time when Aaron comes shuffling in, pyjama trousers dragging around his feet. Nicky uncurls from the corner of the couch into what he hopes looks like an easy sprawl, and watches Aaron pass him.
“Good morning. There are pancakes on the stove for you, if you want some.”
Aaron exits the kitchen with an energy bar in hand and walks into the bathroom without so much as a glance at Nicky.
Nicky drums his fingers, still sore and pink, against the couch cushion and shouts, “We should probably get going, though. Never mind the pancakes,” over the sounds of the running sink.
Matt walks out of the bedroom, already changed, and offers a nod in acknowledgement on his way straight to the front door. They’re running late, Nicky notices as he looks at the clock, and hurries into the bedroom to change. He casts a quick look in the mirror before leaving, and adjusts his smile.
He’s still the last one out to the car, which of course means he walks out to sullen looks and impatient scuffling. Andrew stubs out his cigarette as Nicky approaches and enters the car without a word, with the others following suit. Nicky catches the closing door and slides in next to Kevin, who is clearly struggling to keep his eyes open despite his scowl.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Nicky says, and only gets an unintelligible snarl in response. Filling the rest of the ten minute drive with chatter has never been difficult, and Nicky lets his mouth run this morning, too, not even paying attention to what he’s saying. It’s easy, when what he says is inconsequential.
They pull up to the court’s parking lot and Nicky is immediately greeted by the sight of Matt and Dan kissing softly. The sight summons something like a tender ache in his chest, as though he’s been body checked and bruised. Even if Erik had been there, Nicky knows they would not have the ease of sharing a kiss in an empty parking lot, easily visible from a major road, at dawn. If they dared, Nicky would have to keep his eyes open. The ache is replaced with a chilly sense of isolation—from Erik, and from the world and its opportunities.
His thoughts are unable to return from where they’ve strayed to Erik. Changing topics is easy when he’s the only one carrying the conversation, so he lets himself talk about him. Not about how he’d saved his life, or the dreams of never leaving him again—never that—but easier things. How the scent of his cologne has finally left the fabric of the hoodie Nicky sleeps in, but not that Nicky wakes up each morning unsure and unsettled. How he misses how Erik would rise early and make breakfast, but not how he had stood alone in the kitchenette this morning and wrapped his arms around himself.
Kevin interrupts him—mindlessly, like Nicky had not been talking at all—to complain about the freshmen’s absence. The parking lot is indeed empty, aside from the Maserati and Matt’s truck, but it’s just practice. The freshmen being a couple of minutes late for a practice isn’t going to affect the team’s results in any way. Nicky considers telling Kevin so, but does not want to experience the lack of a thrill and face his own numbness. Another day, then. Instead, he lets himself fall quiet and Kevin’s whining to fill the silence.
The locker room is cold, or perhaps it’s just Nicky. He looks at his gooseflesh with a sense of distance, as though it was someone else’s arm he was looking at, and when caught by Andrew’s considering gaze, he contorts his face into a smile again. “It’s a bit cold in here, don’t ya think?”
Andrew doesn’t roll his eyes, just turns away and ignores him. Nicky has never been good at knowing when to shut up, though.
“Wish I had someone to warm me up. Erik would be nice, but Kevin would do. Or the team’s firecracker— ow!”
Nicky’s head slams against the lockers, leaving his ears ringing. The point of Andrew’s knife is a familiar sharpness against his gut. Even through the fabric of his shirt, he can tell that the force isn’t even enough to leave a mark this time. He consciously presses his back harder against the wall behind him and dispels the split-second thought of doing just the opposite with a nervous laugh. “It was just a joke, Andrew. I won’t make it again,” Nicky says, eyes flicking from Andrew to his teammates around them. They look vaguely concerned, but they, too, are used to it. Aaron looks Nicky in the eyes for a split second before his chest heaves in a short sigh and he returns to strapping on his chin guards.
Andrew’s gaze is steady and does as much as the knife to pin Nicky to the wall. “Don’t make promises you won’t keep, Nicky.”
Nicky feels his pulse beating in his ears as he looks between Andrew and his teammates rapidly. This really is very public; the freshmen have started filing in, looking more alarmed than the other Foxes. There’s nothing like the threat of a knife to sharpen one’s thoughts , Nicky thinks, still trying to silence the voice in his head telling him to lean forward, just a little bit . He laughs again, Andrew’s knife still grazing his skin. He can feel his abdomen rising and falling quickly beneath it with every shallow breath that he takes, can feel the conflicting worry and relief like a cooling ice in his stomach.
Apparently not all of the freshmen had been watching the two of them; Nicky hears the door of the locker room open and his eyes flick to Lewis just in time to see him look up at them, his face morphing to a mask of horror. For a heartbeat, Lewis is still, his eyes traveling from Andrew to the knife to Nicky and back to the knife again in rapid succession before he’s sprinting past them. He knocks into Andrew’s back, hard, when he takes the fastest route around them into the stadium, and Andrew catches himself with a hand on the wall next to Nicky just as Nicky hears the freshman call for Wymack, the door slamming shut behind him. What a mess.
The coldness in his chest intensifies as Nicky looks from the door back at Andrew. For just a moment, he thinks that Aaron has taken Andrew’s place, but that would be absurd. Aaron’s still on the bench, watching the still-swinging door and rolling his eyes. That means it’s Andrew still standing before him, but Nicky has never seen this look on Andrew’s face before. It’s so unfamiliar he’s not even sure what to call it, but on anyone else he would have said it was shock. Nicky’s not sure what could possibly shock Andrew enough to make his face contort in such a strange way though, so he follows Andrew’s gaze to— Jesus Christ.
As Nicky’s eyes set on the blood streaming from where Andrew’s knife is no longer just grazing his skin, the ice in his stomach turns to a burning fire. He looks back up quickly, hearing a too-loud “Oh,” fall from his lips. Andrew’s face remains the same, his eyes still set on Nicky’s stomach. Suddenly, as he looks down again, he can’t remember how big the knife had been, and can’t tell how much of it has sunk into his skin. The blood—his blood—is streaming in full now, turning the orange of his practice shirt red. His blood is on Andrew’s hands. Nicky’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, but the sound of what must be ragged breathing is inaudible over the ringing in his ears.
There is blood on Andrew’s hands, and suddenly, Nicky’s no longer in the locker room of the Foxhole Court, but in a dark back alley, Erik’s voice echoing from his phone on the ground where it had landed when one of the guys threw his first punch. Nicky’s legs are folding beneath him as the pain pulses through his body and Andrew’s standing in front of him, blood dripping from clenched fists. The ringing in his ears sounds just like sirens. Nicky’s hands are scrambling for purchase against the lockers as he tries to stop himself from dropping too quickly to the ground, expecting concrete. Before he’s gone down, he’s caught by a set of hands, muscles straining under black armbands as Andrew helps break his fall. The knife is still clattering on the ground— the floor, where he’s seemingly dropped it.
As soon as Nicky’s on the floor (though he doesn’t feel any steadier for it), Aaron’s face appears next to Andrew’s. The ringing in Nicky’s ears is not loud enough to conceal how he chokes out Nicky’s name as he falls down to his knees where he’s standing. Something like grief appears on his face before it’s replaced by the crazed look of desperation, as he starts to throw his head around and shout orders that Nicky can’t make sense of. The other Foxes have become little more than orange spots in his blurring vision, and the effort of trying to focus on them is too great.
Someone hands Aaron a folded towel and Aaron is pulling up the edge of Nicky’s shirt even as he’s grasping at it. Nicky looks down to see only red, all the way from where his shirt has been pulled up to where it has been running down his left leg to his knee. The world falls out of view as Aaron presses the towel to his stomach and holds it there, and nothing remains from the white-hot pain and the deafening sounds of his own breathing. Until—
“Call an ambulance,” and Nicky opens his eyes to see Abby leaning over him where he’s slumped. Her voice is clear and steady—she’s probably seen worse—but her fingers are covered in blood and shaking as she quickly pushes her hair out of her face before pressing down over his stomach once more. “Nicky, are you with us?”
He wants to nod, but can’t find the force to do anything but let his gaze track over to Aaron and Andrew, where they have both had to retreat to let Abby through. He seems to be seeing double, which probably isn’t a good sign. Either that or they are both wearing the same indecipherable look on their face and the same blood on their hands. It’s nauseating, and Nicky looks away.
On the other side of Abby’s head is Wymack, who is speaking quickly into a phone. Nicky can’t make sense of the sounds coming out of his mouth, but they sound frantic. Still, his own voice is clear to him as he catches Wymack’s gaze.
“It wasn’t his fault. Don’t let them take him away again. I did it. I did it.”
His last words are little more than harsh wheezes even to his own ears, but he can’t muster up anything more. His eyes fall shut again and the last sounds to penetrate the wall of his own breathing are the faint sounds of sirens. Then, once more, they are gone.