Chapter Text
The first thing Kevin Day registered when he walked into his own kitchen was that Neil Josten was sitting on his counter.
Not on a stool. Not leaning against the counter. On the counter. Feet dangling. Shoes off. Eating dry cereal from the box like a feral raccoon that had learned how to break into apartments.
Kevin stopped in the doorway. He counted to five. He opened his eyes.
Neil was still there.
Fuck.
"Why are you here?" Kevin asked, his voice flat. He was already exhausted, and he had been awake for approximately eight minutes.
Neil crunched. Swallowed. Pointed the cereal box at Kevin like a weapon. "Andrew isn't answering my texts."
"So you came to my apartment."
"You're my second favourite red-adjacent person."
Kevin felt a vein throb in his temple. "I'm not red-adjacent. I have brown hair."
"It has red undertones in the right light." Neil crunched again. "Don't argue with me. I'm emotionally fragile."
Kevin stared at him. Neil stared back. Neither blinked.
Kevin lost. He always lost. It was Neil's superpower—making normal people feel like they were the unreasonable ones.
"What did you text him?" Kevin asked because he was weak and curious, and also, if he didn't ask, Neil would tell him anyway.
Neil's expression shifted. He looked almost... sheepish? No. That wasn't right. Neil Josten didn't do sheepish. He did calculated and unhinged, and I've-made-peace-with-dying. Sheepish wasn't in his repertoire.
But something flickered across his face.
"I said 'hi,'" Neil admitted.
"That's it?"
"And then a picture of a raccoon I saw digging through your trash."
Kevin closed his eyes. "Why." It wasn't a question.
Neil answered anyway. "It looked like him."
"Did the raccoon have knives?"
"Not visibly." Neil tilted his head, considering. "But it had energy."
Kevin put his head in his hands. He could feel a headache forming behind his eyes. This was what happened when Neil Josten was in his apartment before 9am. This was what happened when Neil Josten was in his apartment ever.
Neil had a key. Kevin had given it to him after the second kidnapping, back when Neil was still jumpy and flinching at shadows, and Andrew had looked at Kevin across a hospital room and said "give him somewhere to go" in a voice that wasn't a request.
Kevin had given Neil a key.
He regretted it approximately once every forty-eight minutes.
"He hasn't texted back," Neil said. His voice was casual. Too casual.
Kevin opened his eyes. "It's been—" he checked his watch, "—twenty minutes."
"Exactly." Neil set down the cereal box. "He usually texts back in seven."
Kevin blinked. "You've timed it?"
"I have a system."
"A system."
"For Andrew's text response times," Neil said this as if it were completely normal. Like everyone had spreadsheets in their heads tracking the reply habits of their almost-boyfriend who refused to define the relationship.
Kevin decided, very firmly, not to ask.
He turned away from Neil and started his morning routine. He had been doing this routine for years. It was sacred. It was structured. It was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
He stretched. He checked his Exy drills for that afternoon. He poured a glass of water.
He did not look at Neil.
Neil watched him, though.
Neil always watched.
It was like being observed by a very small, very scarred predator. One that had decided Kevin was interesting enough to keep alive for now.
"You're being weird," Neil said.
"I'm not being weird. You're being weird."
"I'm always weird. You're never weird." Neil slid off the counter.
He landed silently, Kevin hated that, and padded across the kitchen on bare feet, each step deliberate in a way that suggested he was either stalking Kevin or simply didn’t believe in unnecessary noise.
“You’re the most predictable person I know,” Neil continued. “You wake up at dawn. You do Exy drills. You drink a protein shake that smells like feet. You go to practice. You come home. You text Aaron badly. You sleep. That’s your whole day. Every day.”
Kevin's eye twitched. "I don't text Aaron badly."
Neil didn’t argue.
Which was worse.
Instead, he lifted Kevin’s phone into view, holding it between two fingers like evidence in a trial.
Kevin froze.
Because he hadn’t seen Neil move.
He hadn't felt the shift in weight. Hadn't noticed the slight brush of fingers against fabric. Neil's hands were fast, Kevin knew that, but this was something else. Something practised. Something theatrical.
One second, his phone had been in his pocket, the next it was in Neil’s hand like it had always belonged there.
Slowly, carefully, Kevin patted his pockets, just to be sure.
Left. Empty.
Right. Empty.
Back. Empty.
Nothing.
The phone was gone.
His brain tried to catch up. He had picked it up when he left his room. He remembered it—glancing at the time, mentally calculating his schedule, slipping it into his pocket like muscle memory.
There had been no gap. No opportunity.
And yet there it sat in Neil's hand.
He looked up.
Neil was watching him, expression calm, almost expectant and entirely unrepentant.
Like this was normal.
Like Kevin was the one overreacting.
Sneaky, pocket-picking bastard.
“How did you—” Kevin started, then stopped, because he didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. How did you steal from me without moving? How did I not notice? What else have you stolen?
“That’s not important,” Neil said easily, already unlocking the phone with the passcode he should not know.
Kevin refused to think about that. He absolutely refused.
“It is important,” Kevin snapped, taking a step forward.
Neil leaned back against the counter, just out of reach, still scrolling. “What’s important,” he corrected, “is that you said ‘hey’ to Aaron nine hours ago.”
Kevin’s stomach dropped.
“Oh no,” Neil went on, tone bright with interest. “Wait, it gets worse.”
Kevin lunged for the phone.
Neil pivoted smoothly away, barefoot and silent against the tile, like a ghost with boundary issues.
“Aaron didn’t reply,” Neil continued, holding the phone just out of Kevin’s reach. “So you followed it up with ‘sup.’ Bold. Innovative. Truly groundbreaking conversational skills.”
Kevin tried—and failed—to grab the phone again.
Neil kept going. “Aaron then sent you a GIF of an otter waving both its paws. That was an hour and a half ago, and” Neil finished, lowering the phone just enough to meet Kevin’s eyes, “you left him on read.”
There was a pause.
A long, heavy, deeply judgmental pause.
“That’s—that’s strategy,” Kevin stuttered.
Neil tilted his head.
“Kevin,” he said, with the patience of someone explaining something very simple to someone very stupid, “that’s emotional constipation.”
Kevin opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
His brain, usually so reliable, so sharp, had apparently decided to take the morning off.
“…is it?”
Neil spread his hands. "I'm not your therapist. But also yes. It's very bad. You should say words. More than one word. Sentences, even. Whole sentences. With verbs."
Kevin stared at him. "You sent Andrew a picture of a raccoon."
Neil didn’t even hesitate. “The raccoon was expressive.”
There was a pause.
They looked at each other.
Kevin tried, briefly, to find the words to explain why that was not a valid justification for anything. For texting. For communication. For life choices in general.
He found none.
So they just…stared.
Mutual, unwavering, deeply judgmental eye contact.
Kevin hated him.
Kevin hated him sooo much.
“Give me my phone,” Kevin said, voice tight.
Neil tilted his head, considering him. Then, without warning, he tossed it.
Kevin caught it on instinct, years of Exy reflexes saving him from smashing his own property against the wall, and immediately checked it like Neil might have somehow broken it in the thirty seconds it had been out of his possession.
It was fine.
Fortunately.
Kevin exhaled sharply, shoved the phone back into his pocket—deeper this time, like that would help—and crossed the kitchen to grab his keys from the hook by the door.
"I have to go out," he said. "You can't stay here."
Neil's eyes narrowed. His posture shifted. He went from "annoying gremlin" to "annoying gremlin who smells a secret" in about half a second.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
"Out where?"
Kevin didn’t turn around. "Why do you need to know?"
Behind him, there was the soft sound of bare feet on tile.
Closer.
“Because,” Neil said, very reasonably, “you’re being weird.”
Kevin turned, repeating his previous argument. “I’m not being weird. You’re being weird.”
“We’ve established that,” Neil said, waving a hand. “I’m always weird. This is baseline weird. You are being new weird. Suspicious weird. Secret weird.”
He took a step closer.
Kevin, without thinking, took a step back.
Which was ridiculous.
Objectively ridiculous.
He was six feet of muscle, training, and controlled aggression. Neil was…Neil. Five-foot-something, underweight, held together by scar tissue, stubbornness, and a concerning amount of audacity.
And yet—
Kevin was afraid.
He was very afraid.
“You’re hiding something,” Neil said.
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Then where are you going?”
Kevin’s jaw tightened.
He should lie.
He knew he should lie. This was a situation that required lying. A simple, harmless, normal lie. Grocery store. Bank. Errands. Something boring. Something Neil would lose interest in within seconds.
But Kevin Day had never been good at lying.
He could perform. He could deflect. He could stand in front of a camera and say exactly what people expected him to say.
But lying, directly, under pressure?
Hopeless.
The Moriyamas had known it.
Riko had exploited it.
Neil—
Neil could probably smell it.
So Kevin did the worst possible thing.
He told the truth.
"I'm picking up protein powder."
There was a beat.
Neil stopped moving.
“From where?” he asked.
"From my guy."
Silence.
Kevin watched Neil's face do something incredible. It went from suspicious to confusion to realisation and then—
Delight.
Pure, unfiltered, deeply concerning delight.
"Your guy," Neil repeated slowly.
"Yes."
"You have a guy."
Kevin exhaled through his nose. “Lots of people have guys.”
“No, they don’t, Kev.” Neil was grinning now. Actually grinning. Like this was the best thing that had happened to him all month. “No one has a guy unless it’s for drugs or murder.”
"It's protein powder."
"That's what someone buying drugs would say!"
“It’s literally protein powder,” Kevin snapped. “From a supplement supplier. Who I call ‘my guy’ because he is a guy I buy things from.”
Neil's grin widened.
“That,” he said, delighted, “is the most suspicious thing I’ve ever heard.”
"You've been investigated for two separate murders."
“And I was never charged,” Neil shot back immediately. “But this—” he gestured broadly at Kevin, at the keys, at the entire situation, “—this is fascinating. I’m coming with you.”
"No, you're not."
Neil was already putting on his shoes. Kevin hadn't even seen him grab them. They'd materialised, like Neil had summoned them from the same dimension where he kept his knives and his emotional capability.
One second, they weren’t there; the next, they were on his feet. Laced. Tied. Done and ready to go.
“I’m coming with you,” Neil continued, grabbing a jacket from somewhere—Kevin didn’t question it, he valued his sanity—“to meet your ‘guy’ who sells you ‘protein powder’ in what I assume is a dark alley behind a dumpster.”
“It’s a store,” Kevin said flatly. “With a front door. And a cash register.”
"That's what they want you to think."
Kevin closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, Neil was already by the door.
Shoes on. Jacket on. Kevin’s keys—Kevin’s keys—in his hand.
He was practically vibrating.
Not metaphorically. Physically.
Bouncing up and down on his toes with the energy of a three year old maxed out on sugar.
His hair was a mess. His eyes were bright, too bright, and fixed on Kevin with a kind of sharp, restless focus that usually meant something was about to go very, very wrong.
He looked like a man who had just been given a purpose.
Kevin had a choice.
He could say no.
He could be firm. He could set a boundary and, for once in his life, actually enforce it. He could tell Neil to sit down, take off the jacket, maybe drink some water, maybe—miraculously—behave like a person who existed within the bounds of society and not slightly to the left of it.
He could do that.
He should do that.
Kevin Day was, after all, an adult. A professional athlete. A man who had rebuilt his life from nothing through discipline, structure, and sheer, relentless willpower.
He knew how to say no.
He just…rarely did.
Because Kevin Day was also two things:
A complete and utter sucker—
—and the closest thing Neil Josten had to a leash.
And if Kevin didn’t go with him, Neil would go alone.
Which meant there was a very real possibility that:
- something would be broken
- someone would be bleeding
- And Kevin would still, somehow, end up responsible for it
Kevin exhaled slowly.
“Fine,” he said.
Neil brightened immediately.
“But you are not going to say anything.”
"I would never."
"Neil."
"I'll be so normal, Kevin. You won't even know I'm there."
Kevin knew this was a lie. Kevin knew this was the worst decision he'd made all week, and it was only Tuesday.
Still, he grabbed the empty protein container from the counter, the last scoop gone this morning, and headed for the door.
Because this was happening.
Because, apparently, this was his life.
He stepped out into the hallway.
Neil followed, already humming with anticipation.
Kevin drove.
Or, more accurately, Kevin attempted to drive while maintaining what little remained of his sanity and patience.
Neil sat in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard, shoes abandoned somewhere near the floor. His seatbelt had been buckled. Kevin had watched him buckle it.
It was no longer buckled.
Kevin did not ask.
Kevin did not want to know.
“So,” Neil said, turning slightly in his seat, already too comfortable, “what’s his name?”
"Who?"
"Your guy."
Kevin's grip tightened on the steering wheel; the leather creaked under his hands. "Dave."
There was a pause.
"Dave," Neil repeated.
"Yes."
Another pause, longer this time.
Kevin could feel it—the weight of Neil’s attention shifting, sharpening, locking in like a target had just been acquired.
He stared straight ahead.
Neil stared at him.
“Your drug dealer’s name is Dave,” Neil said slowly, testing the shape of the sentence, seeing how it felt in his mouth.
“He’s not a drug dealer,” Kevin said, each word precise. Controlled. “He’s a supplement specialist.”
There was a beat.
Then—
“Oh, my god.”
Kevin closed his eyes briefly. Just for a second.
When he opened them, Neil had pressed a hand dramatically to his chest.
“Supplement specialist,” Neil repeated, horrified. “That’s even worse. That’s exactly what my mom called the guy who sold her fake passports.”
Kevin's eye twitched. "Your mom bought fake passports from a supplement specialist?"
“No,” Neil said easily. “She bought them from a guy named Steve who also sold ‘vitamins.’” He made exaggerated air quotes. “The vitamins were ecstasy.”
Kevin did not respond.
He did, however, pull the car over.
He shifted into park. Turned in his seat. Looked Neil dead in the eye.
His face was calm.
Too calm.
“Neil,” Kevin said. “I need you to listen to me.”
Neil tilted his head, all curiosity and zero concern. “I’m listening.”
“I am going to pick up protein powder,” Kevin said. Slowly. Clearly. Like he was explaining something very simple to someone very stupid. “Vanilla flavour. It costs forty dollars. I have been buying it from Dave for two years.”
Neil nodded, serious. Attentive.
“He has a website,” Kevin continued. “He has a business card. He has a storefront.”
“Mm-hm.”
“He has a loyalty program.”
Neil’s eyebrows shot up.
“Oh,” he said, clicking his tongue and wagging his finger. “That’s how they get you.”
“It’s a punch card!” Kevin argued. “Buy ten, get one free.”
Neil nodded gravely. “That’s what the ecstasy guy said, too.”
Kevin dropped his head forward. Let it hit the steering wheel with a dull thunk.
And then—
He made a noise.
A long, low, deeply suffering noise. The kind of sound that suggested a man who had endured too much. The kind of sound that came from the depths of the soul and echoed with regret.
Neil, completely unfazed, reached over and patted his shoulder.
“It’s okay, Kev,” he said kindly. “I won’t judge you. We all have vices.”
Kevin lifted his head slowly.
"My vice is PROTEIN!"
"Sure it is."
Kevin turned his head.
Looked at Neil.
Neil looked back.
Completely earnest.
Completely sincere.
Completely, utterly insufferable.
There was not a single hint of doubt in his expression. Not a flicker of irony. Not a trace of 'I am joking.'
He meant it.
He genuinely thought Kevin was buying drugs.
“I’m going to drive now,” Kevin said.
“Good idea,” Neil said, immediately. He pointed helpfully at the windshield. “The road is that way.”
"I know where the road is."
"Just checking."
Kevin did not respond.
He shifted the car back into drive. Pulled back onto the road. Fixed his eyes firmly ahead.
He was not going to engage.
He was not going to argue.
He was not going to acknowledge anything Neil said for the remainder of this drive.
Silence settled over the car.
It lasted approximately four seconds.
“So,” Neil said, leaning back in his seat like he was settling in for a long, enjoyable conversation, “hypothetically—”
Kevin tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
—and immediately regretted not leaving him to rot in Baltimore.