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The announcement came through two weeks before winter break across the whole campus via the PA system.
"Attention all students. Mark your calendars! A college-wide charity event is scheduled for the week before spring break, and all athletes are required to participate.
This event is being held to raise funds for our Arts program, so we're calling on the same energy and teamwork you bring to the field, court, and track. Whether you're helping run a booth, volunteering behind the scenes, or even want to show your hand at performing, you're part of it.
More details will be shared after winter break, but consider this your heads-up to plan ahead. Let's use our platform to give back and support the programs that bring colour and creativity to our school.
Thanks, and enjoy your Thanksgiving weekend!"
That's how it started. Ever since the announcement, Wymack's been fielding nonstop complaints and the occasional threat of bodily harm from his Foxes. Jack launched into a rant about how the arts are "for girls and fags." Allison wanted to know why they should bother when a cut of their ticket sales already goes to charity. Aaron said if he failed any exams because of "fucking papier-mâché and tone-deaf emos," then David's head was going on a spike.
And then there was Kevin, who kicked open Wymack's office door less than five minutes after the announcement, yelled "EXY," and stormed straight back to the court. He might not be the most eloquent, but his priorities are clear, and his loyalty lies with the court.
Eventually, the event slips to the back of everyone's minds, most assuming they can get away with just helping set up. It isn't until Renee announces that she'd actually like to perform, adding that she hopes they'll all come to support her, that the room shifts.
Neil doesn't miss the way her eyes linger on Andrew or the quiet way Andrew lifts his chin and tilts his head back in response, assessing.
Andrew has been on the roof of Fox Tower for hours. The sky has shifted through the slow bruising of twilight, and the air carries the weight of something unspoken. He doesn't know what he's waiting for until the door creaks open behind him, and Renee steps into the fading light.
She says it like she's simply stating a fact. "We should perform at the Event."
Andrew doesn't look at her. He exhales smoke instead, slow and deliberate. "No."
Renee folds her hands in front of her, gaze steady, tone unshaken. "It doesn't have to be a performance. It can be a truth."
For a moment, the only sound is the wind moving over the rooftop, tugging at the edges of his hoodie.
Then Andrew rises, flicks the cigarette off the ledge, and walks past her without a single word.
He didn't sleep the night after she asked.
The roof was silent, but his mind was a storm. Her words spun through his thoughts, soft and relentless: It can be a truth.
Truth wasn't something Andrew handed out lightly. Not to the Foxes. Not to the crowds. Not even to Renee. But raw, jagged truth, the kind that scorched and bled, was the only thing he knew how to speak.
He could still feel the weight of her voice, steady and unyielding, refusing to force him or make him softer. She did not demand anything. She simply named a possibility, a way to bleed without shame, to break without hiding.
He sat with that sharp discomfort, the ghost of fists and fire pressing heavy on his chest, and the quiet weight of a promise made long ago, something steady and unyielding just beyond reach, holding him back from slipping entirely into silence.
He told himself he did not care. He told himself it was meaningless.
But two days later, with a flick of his pen and no explanation given, he signed their names for the final slot. No song picked. No rehearsals planned. Nothing said.
When Renee met his eyes, there was something there, something like a promise. That was all either of them needed.
The week before Spring break rolled around quicker than Neil expected. He knew Andrew was planning something; he and Renee's 'sparring sessions' had become more frequent, but when asked, Andrew didn't say a word, so Neil didn't ask again.
Neil hadn't realised how big the event would be until it was already happening. Booths lined every walkway, flyers littered the grass, and the lecture halls were packed with workshops about everything from set design to poetry. Kevin had predictably thrown himself into a class on Renaissance history. Most of the Foxes had signed up for things they were already good at. Neil had been put on set-up.
The main theatre had been running acts all day. Some were good, most were not. Stand-up, student films, someone's attempt at slam poetry. The team had only bothered to show up now, crowding into the third row to see Renee. In typical Fox fashion, they had started betting before the lights even went down on the genre, her vocal range. Alto was the most popular guess.
Neil spotted the pastel hair first, soft in the stage lights. But it was Nicky's sharp breath beside him that made him really look.
Andrew.
~Your blades are sharpened with precision~
Andrew's fingers curl tighter around the mic stand. Not from nerves. From memory. Precision always meant control. Control meant safety. But this blade was never his. He remembers hands on his wrists. Hands that taught him how to turn a smile into a threat. How to be silent in all the wrong ways.
~Flashing your favourite point of view~
They always had an angle. What he was supposed to be. What they could twist out of him. A quiet boy. A burden. A project. A problem. Someone to be fixed or erased. It depended on the day.
~I know you're waiting in the distance~
They were never gone. Just further away. Somewhere behind his shoulder, in the echo of a slammed door or the smell of bleach. He learned early how to walk without flinching, but some shadows still stuck.
~Just like you always do, just like you always do~
It constantly circles back. The memory. The promise. The lie. It doesn't matter how far he's gotten from their house or how many locks he keeps on his own. The shape of their hands still knows how to find him in the dark.
~Already pulling me in, already under my skin~
He hates how much of it still lives in him. The reflex to shrink. The instinct to lie. The way he still braces for a voice that doesn't belong to him anymore. He is a fortress with broken doors. No matter how many times he bolts them shut, something still gets through.
~ and I know exactly how this ends; I let you cut me open just to watch me bleed ~
He remembers her voice, warm and full of promises. A room of his own. A future. A family. All he had to do was behave. Fit the mould. Pretend she didn't know what was happening behind closed doors. Pretend he could be remade.
~Gave up who I am for who you wanted me to be~
Open up just enough to make it believable. He knew what would come next. He let it happen anyway. Because that's what you do when you're trying to survive something you can't name.
~ Don't know why I'm hoping for what I won't receive~
Sometimes, he still catches himself waiting for it. A call. An apology. An answer that never comes. He knows better.
~ Falling for the promise of the emptiness machine ~
That's all it was. A machine dressed up like hope. A system that took broken kids and told them they were safe while chewing them up from the inside. He let himself believe it once. Let it build something soft inside his chest. Then it hollowed him out.
~The emptiness machine~
Renee is beside him. Not asking. Not offering comfort. Just there, a constant through-line in the noise. The weight of her presence keeps him tethered to the moment, to the song still breathing out around them.
The next line rises, and Renee's truth follows.
~Going around like a revolver~
Violence has a rhythm. She used to think it had a shape, too, something she could see and avoid. She remembers what it felt like to hold the weight of her own fury. Warm. Addictive. A certainty that made the world clearer. Simpler.
~ It's been decided how we lose~
She never wanted to be a weapon. But it was easier, back then, to let herself be sharpened than to admit she was scared. She lost the same way again and again, quietly, beautifully, beneath someone else's rules.
It still surprises her, sometimes, that people look at her now and see peace. They don't know what it took. What it cost.
~'Cause there's a fire under the altar~
Faith wasn't the easy fix. She burned down everything before she found it. Made an altar out of ash and stood there, waiting to be punished for everything she had done. But the fire didn't go out. She just chose to stand still in it and call it grace.
~I keep on lying to, I keep on lying to~
To herself, mostly. That she is fine. That forgiveness is the same thing as healing.
~Already pulling me in, already under my skin~
She knows what it feels like to be caught. To be owned by the worst version of herself. To reach for something better and find the old weight still anchored to her ribs.
~And I know exactly how this ends~
She used to think the only way out was destruction. Now she believes it's choice. Not peace. Not redemption.
~I let you cut me open just to watch me bleed~
There are people in her past who taught her how to bleed beautifully. People who called it love. Called it discipline. She doesn't flinch now, but she remembers. Some cuts don't scar clean.
~Gave up who I am for who you wanted me to be~
She did. For years. For safety. For approval. She shrank herself into something small and quiet, something that would not be hit. She's still figuring out how to fill her own shape again. But she's closer than she was.
~ Don't know why I'm hoping for what I won't receive~
She doesn't expect forgiveness. Not from others. Not even from herself.
But she still hopes. For Andrew. For the Foxes. For a life that doesn't need blood to make sense.
~ Falling for the promise of the emptiness machine ~
It promised safety. Structure. Purpose. But it only ever fed on what they gave up. She sings this part low and steady, voice cutting through the dark, and doesn't look at the crowd, not to the foxes. She's not about to break that final cog.
The performance is starting to draw to a close. Not a single Fox said a word, but Neil had the softest smile infused with a sense of pride he wasn't even aware he was capable of. Not pity, never pity.
When it ended, the applause was gradual before turning into a roar.
Just the low hum of the stage equipment and two Foxes stepping off the stage like they hadn't just gutted something essential in front of everyone.
They disappeared backstage without a word.
Neil didn't follow them right away. He waited through two more acts, sitting stiffly in his chair, mind echoing with lyrics that had already cemented themselves in his bones.
When he finally slipped out the back of the theatre, the night was quiet.
He found Andrew exactly where he expected to: sitting on the roof of Fox Tower, hands in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the horizon like he was waiting for it to disappear.
Neil didn't say anything. Just walked over and sat beside him.
The silence between them stretched long and unbothered. Comfortable, almost.
Eventually, Neil asked, voice soft, "Was it about Cass?"
Andrew didn't blink. "Not just."
Neil nodded and said nothing else.
He stayed. Not because he expected answers. But because Andrew had already given them. Not in the usual way, but they were there. A breeze tugged at the edge of Andrew's hoodie. His breath fogged in the air.
"You ever feel like you're still waiting for it to end," he said after a while, "even after it already has?"
Neil's chest tightened. "Yeah."
Andrew exhaled slowly. "It doesn't stop. You just learn to carry it quieter."
Neil's voice was barely a whisper. "I know."
They stayed like that. Sitting side by side, saying nothing. And it was enough.