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The gym was almost silent at that hour, the kind of quiet that pressed on Kevin’s ribs and made every bounce of the ball sound too sharp, too alive. Sweat slipped down his temple as he drove another shot into the net, the echo ricocheting through the empty space like applause he didn’t deserve.
He didn’t notice the figure on the sideline right away. It was only when he paused to catch his breath that he caught movement—a flicker of someone standing in the shadows by the bleachers. His pulse steadied.
“Neil?” he called, not expecting an answer. It wouldn’t have been the first time Neil had wandered in to watch him push himself too far.
The figure stepped forward, half-lit by the overheads. Neil’s face—his face—but there was something off. The posture was wrong. The eyes were steady in a way Neil’s never were.
Kevin exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” he muttered, reaching for the ball again.
Then “Neil” spoke.
“Still chasing ghosts on an empty court?”
The words were too sharp, too knowing. Kevin’s breath stumbled. It wasn’t the phrase itself—it was the cadence. The precise cruelty of it.
That wasn’t Neil.
He turned slowly, the ball slipping from his hand and rolling across the floor. His chest tightened, the way it used to in another life—another country, another name.
“Nathaniel,” he said, his voice breaking on the first syllable. The name felt foreign on his tongue—rusted, almost forbidden—but it fit. The reaction was instant. Nathaniel’s mouth curved, not a smile, not really, just an acknowledgment.
“Took you long enough.”
Kevin froze where he stood. Recognition, nostalgia, and something warmer—dangerous, almost tender—warred in his chest. The years fell away like dust shaken loose.
For the first time in a long while, Kevin didn’t know whether to step forward or run.
“I was wondering if you’d remember.”
Kevin swallowed hard. He wanted to say you’re dead, but that word felt wrong, too. Neil was supposed to be dead. Nathaniel never really was—he had been buried, locked away, rewritten.
“What are you doing here?” Kevin asked. “Why now?”
“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d still flinch when you heard my name.” Nathaniel shrugged, moving closer, his movements eerily measured.
“I don’t–”
“Yes, you do.” He was right in front of Kevin now, looking up at him, eyes dark and unyielding. “You always did.”
“You’re supposed to be gone.” Kevin’s throat burned.
“And yet,” Nathaniel said softly, “you keep seeing me.”
The silence stretched between them, charged and familiar. Kevin didn’t know if it was guilt or relief that made his hands shake.
“Neil,” he tried again, quieter this time.
Nathaniel’s expression flickered—pain, defiance, something like pity.
“Neil’s sleeping,” he said. “You get me tonight.”
Kevin almost laughed, but it caught in his throat.
“Why?”
“Because you never said goodbye,” Nathaniel murmured, and for the first time, Kevin couldn’t tell which of them looked more haunted. Kevin looked away, ashamed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Kevin said finally. He looked away, ashamed. The hardwood blurred beneath his feet. He hated the way his pulse reacted—fast, uneven, traitorous. “He—Neil—he didn’t ask for this.”
“You think I wait for permission?” Nathaniel’s expression didn’t change, but something sharp flickered behind his eyes.
“You used to,” Kevin said, swallowing.
“I used to do a lot of things.” Nathaniel took a few steps closer, the echo of his shoes deliberate, steady. “I kept quiet. I stayed buried. I let him pretend I wasn’t real because it made things easier. Easier for you, too.”
“That’s not fair,” Kevin said, his throat tight.
“It’s true,” Nathaniel said simply. “You liked Neil because he didn’t make you look at what you helped build.”
“Don’t put that on me,” Kevin flinched like he’d been struck.
“I’m not,” Nathaniel said. “I’m putting it where it belongs.”
“You can’t just take over whenever you want,” Kevin said, his voice breaking around the edges. “You can’t– he’s trying to live.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Nathaniel’s eyes softened just enough to make it worse. He shook his head. “You don’t get it, Kevin. I don’t want to stay. But when he starts to drown, someone has to swim.”
“Is he–” Kevin started, but Nathaniel cut him off.
“He’s fine,” Nathaniel said. “For now.” He glanced at the empty court, then back at Kevin. “He still comes here for you, you know. Every time. Even when it hurts.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Kevin’s breath hitched.
“Because you keep pretending you don’t see the cracks,” Nathaniel said, stepping forward until there was barely a foot of space between them. “And one day, pretending won’t be enough.”
The silence stretched between them.
“He still trusts you,” Nathaniel said after a long moment, quieter now. Kevin didn’t move. Couldn’t. The smell of sweat and varnish and memory pressed in around him.
“Nathaniel–” Kevin’s chest ached.
“Kevin?” Neil blinked up at him, confused and tired, like he’d just woken up. His posture changed in an instant—the sharp edges gone, the tension bleeding out of his frame.
“Yeah,” Kevin said softly. He bent to grab the ball, but his hands weren’t steady. “It’s me.”
“What– What happened?” Neil asked.
“Nothing,” Kevin said quickly. “You just showed up.”
“Showed up?” Neil frowned, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“No,” Kevin said quietly. “You haven’t.”
“Did I say something?” Neil asked, uneasy now.
“You wouldn’t remember,” Kevin said, looking at him for a long moment, weighing the truth against the fear curling in his chest.
“Then tell me,” Neil said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kevin said, his tone flat, practiced, “You should go.”
“I came to make sure you were okay,” Neil said softly, uncertain. “You’ve been here for hours.”
“I’m fine,” Kevin said, sharper than he meant to. The ball bounced once, too loud in the empty gym. “Go home, Neil.”
“Kevin,” Neil said, quieter now. “Was it—him?”
“What?” Kevin froze.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” Neil said, watching him carefully. “Did Nathaniel come out?”
“You remember him?” Kevin asked, swallowing hard.
“Sometimes,” Neil admitted. “Not everything. Just echoes. Was he angry?”
“He was protecting you,” Kevin said, letting out a breath that sounded too much like a laugh.
“He always does,” Neil said, his shoulders slumping, relief flickering across his face.
“You should rest,” Kevin said finally. “You look like hell.”
“You don’t look much better,” Neil said, a faint smile breaking through the haze.
“Go,” Kevin said, turning away before his voice could betray him.
“Kevin,” Neil said, stopping him at the door. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” Kevin said quietly. “Just– keep breathing.”
“See you tomorrow?” Neil asked, lingering a moment longer.
“Yeah,” Kevin said, but the word sounded like a promise he didn’t know how to keep.
Kevin sank onto the edge of his bed, the dim light from the street outside slanting across the room. The ball from practice rested against the corner, untouched. He stared at it, trying to convince himself that what had happened in the gym was just a trick of his mind.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered under his breath. “Just a survival mechanism. Trauma-born. Not real.”
But even as he said it, the memory of Nathaniel’s voice echoed too clearly in his head. The cadence, the sharpness, the way it had cut through the quiet of the empty gym—it wasn’t Neil. Not quite. Not ever.
Kevin pressed his face into his hands, frustrated. He knew the logic: Nathaniel had been built to protect, to step forward when Neil couldn’t. A fragment born from fear and pain. That was all. Nothing more.
And yet… he remembered the way Nathaniel had stood. So deliberate. So self-assured. No hesitation, no slouch, no false calm like Neil sometimes carried. Kevin could still see the way his eyes had locked onto him, reading him, unflinching, fearless.
“Just a projection,” he whispered again, this time into the darkness of his room. “A coping mechanism.”
He couldn’t stop remembering the smile, either. Not Neil’s hesitant, careful smile—the one that tried to soothe and appease—but Nathaniel’s smile, faint but sharp, teasing and daring all at once. It had lingered, impossible to ignore.
Kevin groaned and shoved a pillow against his chest. He tried to shove the thoughts away, tried to force himself to see it clearly: Nathaniel was a tool, a fragment of Neil’s mind, nothing more. But every rationalization felt fragile, like paper against wind.
And there it was—he couldn’t deny it any longer. Nathaniel was sharper now, freer with his words, and Kevin… he couldn’t stop noticing. The way he carried himself. The directness in his eyes. The difference in the way he smiled compared to Neil.
Kevin pressed his forehead to the pillow, heart racing. He should have been able to dismiss it. He should have been able to sleep.
But instead, he was awake, thinking about Nathaniel, and he didn’t know if that scared him—or if it thrilled him.
Kevin rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He had always buried everything that didn’t serve Exy—every desire, every longing, every fragment of himself that wasn’t about goals, control, or discipline. Even his own body had felt like territory he didn’t own.
But Nathaniel… Nathaniel forced it out.
He could still feel the brush of those words, the steady weight of those eyes, the way Nathaniel hadn’t flinched when he said what others might have swallowed. Kevin’s chest tightened as he realized the truth. He had wanted it. He had needed it. And part of him had always been ashamed of that need.
He remembered the flash of memory, sharp and vivid—Nathaniel shielding him, stepping between him and Riko without hesitation, arguing, taking hits that weren’t his to take. That wasn’t survival alone. That was care. That was… wanting him to be safe.
Kevin’s fingers twitched against the sheets. He had spent so long believing that vulnerability was weakness, that needing someone was failure. But he could remember now the strange, unspoken relief he had felt under Nathaniel’s protection—the way it had felt almost like… permission to exist as himself, even if only in secret.
His mind faltered, tracing that care back to something more intimate, something raw and dangerous. He could see it now—how much he had wanted the closeness, the attention, the acknowledgment—not the hollow, measured kind Neil sometimes gave, but the piercing, unflinching recognition Nathaniel offered.
Kevin swallowed hard, heart hammering. He had never allowed himself to admit that part of him craved it, craved Nathaniel. That maybe, in ways he didn’t want to face, he had wanted more than protection—he had wanted Nathaniel.
The room felt smaller, the shadows heavier. Kevin closed his eyes and let the thought settle, unbidden, undeniable—he had wanted it. He had needed it. And maybe… he still did.