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The first time, as Kevin can recall it, was December 2005. At the winter banquet.
Kevin had been a mangled, quietly sobbing mess, only partially covered by Abby's evening dress. He flexes his left hand now, the scars stretching over his skin as he closes it into a fist. It throbs like it still remembers the heat of Riko's racquet hovering over, poised to strike again, or the warmth of the blood streaking and pooling on the court floor, or the weight of Jean's shock as he had watched on.
Kevin wonders if either of them could see it, then, before he had seen it, resilient and unbroken in the face of Riko's wishful violence.
Then you won't belong to anyone else.
Kevin hadn't gotten the chance to ask Jean about it. If he could talk to him, it wouldn't be top of mind, anyway, not when Riko had been set on sinking his teeth into him and dragging him back.
What Kevin does remember is this: Wymack pushing him into the bench behind the driver's seat of the Foxes' coach bus. Kevin thinking strings of fuck fuck fuck fuck and I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead and How could he how could he how could he. And, among all of that, having the presence of mind to feel it—an awful pull in the opposite direction, an ache compounding with the pain of his broken bones, towards the other Foxes when they'd arrived. He could remember the red of his blood still running, the wine-dark strands drying along his skin, the bright red on Abby's dress as he twined his other hand into it.
Abby's dress didn’t have a lick of red on it. Kevin only thought about that later. It didn’t fully register then that Riko didn’t succeed in severing his connection—that it had walked up those stairs and to the back of the bus.
And well, maybe it wasn't the first time. It was more half-a-time. One half of a whole moment. A precursor to when Kevin realized.
Aaron threads his fingers in Kevin's hair and pulls his head back gently, so Aaron can look down into his eyes. "Did the question I asked make it to your brain?"
Kevin knows he can wrench himself away or push at Aaron for handling him like this, but Kevin doesn't need to. Aaron's grip is gentle and loose on purpose—Kevin can easily pull away and face Aaron if he wants to. Aaron isn't trapping him. Kevin thinks part of the answer to Aaron's question is here, in the deliberate yield of his wrist.
Kevin tilts his head back further to glare and says, "Yes." He turns over onto his stomach—the comforter Randy set out for them in her guest room is soft and wrinkled from use; it’s the same one she gave them last year, when they stayed with her and Matt for New Year’s, but this time they’d shared it—and Aaron lets his hand fall out of Kevin's hair.
"Then get on with it. I didn't ask for a full history."
"It's important context."
Aaron huffs an irritated breath and leans back against the headboard more aggressively than Kevin thinks is warranted. Kevin shoots him a nasty look for it. Aaron has the nerve to scowl at him. Kevin holds a hand up, meaning stop with your face, but Aaron ignores it and folds his arms across his chest.
Kevin has the urge to tug at his arm. They'd come undone easily, and he bets Aaron would let Kevin glide his hand down his arm to circle his wrist while they talk. It's always been easy to reach out to Aaron, and comfortable too, because the worst he does is shake him off. He wonders if Aaron also finds it easy to reach out to him.
Aaron uncrosses his arms to jostle Kevin. "Get on with it, then."
Kevin winds his hand around the cord hanging between them, red and vibrant and completely at fault for the conversation taking place right now, because Aaron finally noticed.
Kevin isn't really sure if he saw it for the first time on the bus. The next time he might have seen it, it was blurry, too.
He remembers coming to, some three weeks after the banquet, in a room with a still unfamiliar ceiling, despite having spent days in Abby's guest room, and seeing Aaron Minyard hovering over him.
Kevin's heart leapt into his throat at the unexpected visit. He tried to push himself to sitting with his bandaged left hand and cried out a garbled sound that was supposed to be Abby's name when he couldn't manage it. Aaron gently pushed him back by the shoulder with a look on his face that asked are you stupid?
"No," Kevin croaked out, in answer to the unasked question. It was a plea, too, for Aaron to go away. He wasn't supposed to be there. Wymack promised him they wouldn't let anyone besides Andrew get to him but—Kevin jerked his head toward the door and wondered if he'd locked it before he fell asleep. He couldn't remember.
Aaron had immediately taken his hand back, keeping it in view. If Aaron was startled by Kevin's reaction, he didn't show it. His mouth was in a straight line, and his eyes were scanning over Kevin slowly. Kevin didn't know what he was looking for, and he didn't care.
Aaron didn't seem to catch that in Kevin's demeanour, or if he did, he ignored it. "Don't get up. I was just checking on you. And bringing you these." He pointed to his other hand. He was carrying a plate. Kevin noticed it before, that one of Aaron's hands was preoccupied, but he didn't take note of what was in it. The plate was covered in fruits.
Kevin’s face twisted, displeased with the explanation, but Aaron must have taken it as his pain flaring up. He put the plate down on the end table and crouched down, his eyes on Kevin's hand. "How's the pain today?"
Kevin could not understand why the fuck Aaron was checking on him and not Abby, or even Wymack. "High," he answered anyway.
Aaron looked up at him, and Kevin was startled to realize how bright the gold of his irises was. "I can get Abby. She's in the kitchen."
"It's fine," Kevin said quickly, as Aaron got up. Aaron stood still for a moment and nodded. Kevin cleared his throat. "She won't let me take any more right now."
Aaron stared at Kevin for a long few seconds. Eventually, he nodded, accepting that, then stood. "Here."
He produced a fork from his jacket pocket. He showed it to Kevin and set it down next to the plate.
"Mangoes," Kevin said when the smell of them finally hit his nose.
"Yeah," Aaron confirmed. "And grapes and strawberries and watermelon. Need anything else? Water?"
"I'm allergic to mangoes," Kevin blurted—an automatic reaction he couldn't tamp down, even now.
Aaron picked up the plate without saying a word, then turned towards the door, probably to take it away. Kevin held out his good hand to Aaron's back and called out, "Wait."
Aaron turned back and tilted his head, waiting. Kevin closed his hand and brought it back to his lap. "They're my favourites. Leave the plate."
"I know," Aaron said. He returned the plate to the nightstand. "They didn't say that."
"Who?"
Aaron threw his glance to the other side of the room—a move Kevin now knows means he's feeling sheepish—and changed the subject. "You knew I wasn't Andrew."
Though it had only been a few days since Andrew started his regular visits, he was easy to identify: his nature is more brash, and he was less keen on explaining his presence. Aaron wore a bright blue denim jacket, which Kevin suspected Andrew was less inclined to wear.
Kevin said, "Andrew's never brought me fruit."
Aaron just stared, and eventually he hummed. "Huh," he said, a little curious, and then he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Aaron was still around some time later, long after Kevin had eaten the fruit, because Kevin could hear him talking to Abby.
"The internet lied—he's allergic to mangoes."
"Oh, no," Abby replied, concern clear in her voice. "I'll take them off my list."
"No, don't," Aaron cut in. "He likes them. Don't scratch them out." A pause. "If you can."
Kevin wasn't sure what Abby said to that. His attention was stolen by the sudden sting in his destroyed hand, as if someone had pinched the knuckles of his fourth finger. He hissed and craddled his hand to his chest, rocking himself back and forth to soothe the pain and hoping the surge of an emotion he couldn't name wouldn't boil over. He couldn't keep it at bay, and he could only be thankful he was alone again. He just hoped they wouldn't hear him and come bursting through to check on him.
Aaron slaps Kevin's hand in the present. The hit startles Kevin into releasing the string with an indignant, "Hey."
Aaron covers Kevin's hand with his and pulls it into his lap, their fingers interlaced. He must only now realize that he's doing it—he lets go of Kevin's hand, allowing it to drop on one of his crossed legs, and plants his own hands by his sides. Kevin raises an eyebrow, wondering if it's so unbelievable to hold his hand with the truth between them when they've never had to worry about it before.
"Fruits," Aaron deadpans.
"Well, no," Kevin responds, scowling. "Your kindness when I was at my worst."
Kevin would never forget it. When he found himself at Wymack's door the night of the banquet, he cautioned himself not to expect kindness from the Foxes any more than he expected it from the Ravens—from Riko. They were and still are as ill-tempered as he had imagined, so he was surprised to learn that Aaron's first instinct wasn’t belligerence. Unless he's provoked—after that, it’s fair game.
Maybe that's why Aaron delivered the fruits himself. Or why sometimes he plops himself down between Kevin and Nicky, looking disinterested, but fields every insipid comment and intrusive question Nicky throws his way when Kevin refuses to give him any kind of attention.
Aaron interrupts his train of thought with an earnest, "You're always at your worst."
Kevin rolls his eyes and flicks his fingers near Aaron's face.
Aaron can be kind, but he is by no means nice. Kevin underestimated him before, when they first met at Macon High. He hadn't been Kevin's interest, but he got on the court anyway when Kevin needed him to. Aaron had poor defensive IQ but admirable determination, even if it got him no favours against Kevin.
A year later, Aaron would tell him he felt sorry for Kevin and his hand, but that didn't mean he'd suffer his intolerable bullshit attitude for long. Kevin could only scoff—Aaron had to since he was a subpar player on the worst team, and Kevin's wisdom alone couldn't help get the Foxes where they needed to be. Aaron wasn't happy to hear it, but he wasn't like Seth—it mattered that Kevin was injured, so he didn't throw any punches, but he did occasionally remind Kevin that he couldn't stand him, even if he never left Kevin's side when he said it.
"You can't think I'm nice to you when I'm constantly telling you you're the most annoying person I know," Aaron insists.
Kevin tilts his head, acknowledging both statements. "Nice enough. Nicer than most."
"You're not nice enough for me to like you."
Kevin levels him with a challenging look. "You do."
Aaron puffs out a disbelieving breath. He should not be that surprised by Kevin's certainty.
Aaron waves his hand like he's shooing that away. "So when was it?" Aaron asks, which is a pathetic deflection and not a denial of Kevin's assertion. Aaron twirls his hand impatiently, demanding Kevin hurry up.
Kevin already answered Aaron's question—it was technically the second time they met when he first saw the string, he just didn't know how to identify it. Kevin suspects this interrogation continues because Aaron truly wants to know when it Sparked, a phenomenon displayed in media by fireworks going off in the protagonist's heart. But that's not quite how it happened for Kevin.
What Kevin senses is far quieter: a thrum along the line that he only notices when it's pulled taut by Aaron's intense emotions; a quiet call that has Kevin climbing the stairs up to the library, a vanilla iced coffee in hand for his companion, even in the middle of winter, dropping his bag by Aaron's feet when Kevin finds him pulling his hair out over his notes; a soft glow in his chest when Aaron grabs the coffee, always ready for it, like he knows Kevin will come to him when he needs it most; relief when the absence of a second body is filled by the person Kevin wants to see most.
Kevin wonders if Aaron could feel his agitation, too, every time Aaron turned around and asked Have you been to the court today?—driving Kevin there when Andrew couldn't, and following him in when Neil couldn't—but he just didn't know it.
Kevin has known for a while now, and he just feels it—their connection. All the time.
"What if it was the fruits?" Kevin grouses, irritated now by Aaron's disbelief.
"That's too early," Aaron dismisses instantly, waving his hand.
"That's not how love works."
Aaron takes a sharp breath, then mumbles, "You're not—" He makes a cutting gesture as if to swat the idea away. Kevin doesn't know what he's trying to do away with: the existence of soulmates against his opinion of them—a waste of time to hope for and a denial of his freedom to choose who is meant to be for him, or the fact that Kevin is his.
"Don't tell me what I feel."
"You can't be—did you decide you were after you saw it was connected to me?" Aaron jabs a finger into his own chest, right near where the string protrudes. It disappears under his shirt, past his rib cage and to his heart, where it keeps a tight hold. Aaron had described it, once, as a searing heat in his chest; a pull for him too; a balm before it becomes a bother, but even then.
"Why would that be a bad thing? I agree with fate. Or maybe fate agrees with me."
"You think this is your choice."
"Everything I do is my choice."
Aaron forcibly sighs and starts scooting himself over to the edge of the bed. He swings his legs off and leans forward, elbows on knees. Kevin pushes himself up, too, seated now on the other side of the bed, the comforter Randy lent them bunched up between them.
Aaron looks back at Kevin over his shoulder. "You don't get it."
"I get it just fine." Kevin points an accusatory finger at Aaron. "You don't want to believe that I'd choose you."
Kevin didn't know he was going to say that, but Aaron looks away, shaking his head, and Kevin thinks he's got part of it right. He watches Aaron wring his hands, left with right, then right with left, repeat. He does that for a long minute without saying anything.
Kevin crawls his left hand forward on the bed, towards Aaron, but he doesn't touch him. "Any more questions?" he mutters. He wants to be sure this interrogation is over, so they can move on to more productive things, like going to Randy's home gym together as Aaron promised.
"This soulmate shit is such bullshit," Aaron says to that. "I hate that you're so calm about this."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not."
Kevin doesn't know how to say get over it in a way that won't make Aaron leave the room, so he says instead, "I just never questioned that I could be in love with you, one day."
That doesn't seem to make Aaron feel better, but he does stop fidgeting with his hands, leaning back down to fall on his elbows instead and tilting his head so he can look at Kevin, before deciding to drop down completely on his back. He gives Kevin a thoughtful look-over like this. Kevin's fingers twitch where they rest above his head. Aaron loosely tugs at the string, once. Kevin lets the movement bring his hand up and over Aaron's head. Aaron grabs it when he can see it and brings it closer to examine. There's no knot in the eyelet where Aaron tests the strength of the string; it's one infinite loop that branches off to connect straight to Aaron's heart.
After another long moment, Aaron asks, "Why didn't you tell me? When you knew."
Kevin has thought about telling him, but it never seemed wise to bring it up when Riko was circling. Even when he wasn't anymore, Kevin had Riko on the mind—their forced and failed connection, its savage end, Kevin's desire to sever himself from it once and for all and forge his own bond outside of Riko, once he could, without Riko tainting it.
There was that, and he just never knew what the right time was, maybe.
Kevin shrugs. "It wasn't relevant." Aaron moves Kevin’s hand aside, enough to narrow his eyes at Kevin. "I was content having you as I did." Aaron looks away again to concentrate on pressing his thumbs into Kevin's scarred palm. "What was it for you?"
"What was what for me?"
Kevin tangles his fingers in one of Aaron's hands and presses down into the bed. He makes sure Aaron has a full view of Kevin's face, his eyebrow raised. "Oh, did you think I would sit through this interrogation and not question you back?"
Aaron says, "Ugh," and tries to untangle himself from Kevin's fingers. He jabs Kevin's stomach with his knuckle when Kevin doesn't let go—Kevin does, finally, hissing at the unexpected attack and cupping his stomach where it stung for a moment.
"When did it Spark for you?" Kevin presses, taking the same commanding tone Aaron approached him with.
Aaron throws a hand over his shoulder as he leaves the room. Kevin knew it would be much harder to get answers out of Aaron, but he has no doubt he'll wear him down.
The string connects them, after all. It follows Aaron out of the room, so Kevin does too.