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He had been warned about a lot of things in his life.
Don’t swim after eating or you’ll cramp and drown. Be careful with sharp objects or you’ll lose a finger. Don’t get involved with those people or they’ll drag you into trouble. Stop climbing things that weren't meant to be climbed. Don’t tease the cat or it’ll scratch you.
Warnings were supposed to keep you alive. That was the whole idea. Little pieces of borrowed wisdom, lessons passed from one person to another so you didn't have to learn everything the hard way. The problem was that Rico usually did.
Swimming after eating? Bullshit. He tried it, and guess what? He came out just fine.
Losing a finger? Technically, yeah, that one had come back to bite him. Fair enough. Point conceded.
The people he was told to avoid? Half the friends he'd ever made had started as people someone else had warned him about.
Climbing things? Please. If something was up there, and it looked like it could be climbed, then it was basically an invitation. Besides, who else was going to get the damn ball off the roof if everyone else was too busy yelling about safety?
Even the cat, the old yellow menace with eyes like she was judging your entire bloodline, had proven the rule unreliable. She scratched him, sure. Drew blood just to make her point. And then that same night she curled up like she owned him, purring so loud it rattled against his ribs.
The world, as he’d figured out, didn’t really respect neat little warnings. Danger wasn’t always dangerous in the way people meant it. Safety wasn’t always safe. Sometimes the things that hurt you were also the things that made life worth living.
He had learned, with time, how to pick his battles. How to weigh risk against reward. He knew how to take a hit and get back up. He knew what it meant to throw himself headfirst into danger, to let the adrenaline drown out hesitation, to silence the screaming instinct in his head that warned him to stop. He got used to the edge of things and living in the space between “this is stupid” and “this might actually work.”
But no one had ever warned him about this.
No one had told him that love could creep in like an infection - slow, suffocating, curling around his ribs like a vice until it was impossible to ignore. That it wouldn’t be some grand realization, some sudden lightning strike of clarity, but a slow, insidious thing slipping into the spaces between them, unnoticed until it was too late.
No one had told him that love could feel like a wound.
Not the kind you could point at, anyway. Not the kind that bled or bruised or healed crooked beneath a scar. Rico understood those wounds. He understood pain that had a source, pain you could trace back to a bad decision, a stupid stunt, a fistfight, a fall from somewhere too high. He could handle the bruises, scraped knees, twisted ankles, broken bones and all the other results of throwing himself into the world head first. Physical pain made sense. But this?
This felt like something had slipped between his ribs and decided to stay there, just out of reach, pressing every time he breathed.
At first he hadn't even realized what it was. It had started small enough to ignore - just a strange awareness whenever he entered a room, an instinctive urge to seek him out in a crowd, the way his attention kept drifting toward him no matter how hard he tried to focus on something else. But it kept growing. Conversations that should’ve been ordinary started sticking in his head longer than they were supposed to. Touches that should’ve been nothing - an elbow brushing his, a hand on his shoulder, fingers lingering a second too long passing something over. The sound of his laugh carrying across a room and somehow managing to pull a smile out of him before he even realized what was funny.
The worst part was that none of it felt dramatic. No revelation, no single moment where the world shifted beneath his feet. Just a thousand tiny things piling up until one day he looked at him and realized he was falling. And then it was already too late.
The feeling lived inside him now, woven through his thoughts so completely that he couldn't separate it from the rest of himself. Every glance became dangerous. Every smile lingered too long. Every moment alone together felt loaded with something he could never say out loud. It made him angry at the way his hands sometimes itched to reach out without his permission. Angry at the way his own thoughts had stopped feeling like his, constantly drifting back toward the same person no matter how hard he tried to drag them elsewhere. It made him angry because it left him helpless.
He had spent most of his life refusing to be controlled by anyone or anything. If something scared him, he ran toward it. If someone told him not to do something, he usually did it twice. But this time, it wasn't something he could fight. The harder he tried to ignore it, the worse it became because no amount of stubbornness could force his chest to stop tightening whenever he smiled at him and no amount of denial could stop the stupid rush of warmth that came whenever he heard his voice from across a room.
Why had no one ever warned him not to fall in love with his best friend?
Maybe it wouldn't have mattered if they had. Or maybe he could have buried it eventually. Locked it away somewhere dark and unreachable. Pretended long enough that the feeling starved to death on its own. He had always been good at surviving things. He could cockroach his way out of this too.
How did he even get to that point?
That evening wasn’t all that different from the others. Skipper had been on his ass for weeks now - pushing, criticizing, drilling him down to the bone until Rico felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was small corrections that stacked into something heavier over time. Criticism that started as “fix this” and slowly turned into “why aren’t you better at this.”
He’d finally had enough. It turned into shouting and slamming doors. Anger still simmered under his skin as he grabbed his stuff, ready to disappear for a few hours, maybe a few days, to clear his head before he said something he couldn’t take back. He didn’t even make it fully out before he saw him.
Kowalski appeared like he had been there the entire time, just waiting for the moment Rico became visible enough to intercept. Workshop dust still clinging to him, posture slightly off like he’d left something unfinished mid-thought. His expression was unreadable in that way he always had, carefully held together, but his eyes gave him away in a way his voice never did.
“I’m coming with you,” he’d said. Just like that, without explanation. And Rico, despite everything,despite the tension curling in his gut, despite how much he wanted to be alone, couldn’t say no to him.
Because he never could.
The first hints of autumn had started to creep into the air. It was a welcome relief from the relentless summer heat that had smothered them for the past two months. They were sitting in what used to be an old streetball court, squeezed tight between tall brick buildings that leaned inward like they were trying to close the space off completely or listen in on whatever still happened inside it.
From above, it might’ve still passed for something functional. A rectangle of cracked asphalt boxed in by sagging chain-link fencing, its edges frayed and bent in places where time or force had given up on keeping it straight. Faded court lines ghosted across the ground, barely visible under layers of dirt, leaves, and neglect.
But up close, it was clear no one had cared about it in a long time. The court had been slowly taken back by everything that didn’t care about ownership. Weeds pushed through fractures in the pavement, stubborn and uneven, breaking up the geometry of what used to be carefully maintained. Thin vines crept along the fence and curled through broken links like they were testing how far they could go. The hoop at one end still stood, stubborn in the way old things sometimes were. The backboard was sun-bleached and chipped, the rim slightly bent downward like it had given up on holding anything up a long time ago. There was no net, just empty metal hanging there, swaying faintly whenever the wind cut between the buildings.
But the walls around were alive.
Murals stretched across the brick like memories someone had refused to let die properly. Faces layered over faces. Names painted, crossed out, rewritten. Bright colors dulled by time but still fighting to be seen under the grime. Graffiti crawled through it all - tags stacked on tags, messages half-faded, some angry, some playful, some so worn down they’d turned into nothing but gibberish.
The wind funneled through the narrow space between buildings, slipping across cracked asphalt and broken brick like it had somewhere urgent to be. It brushed through the chain-link fence with a low, uneven rattle. Somewhere above them, something metal tapped against a fire escape in a slow, irregular rhythm. And still it was quiet here. But it was a different kind of quiet than in the rest of the colony - one that wasn’t laced with the ever-present hum of watchful eyes or the distant echoes of conflict. They didn’t talk much. They never really needed to.
Rico couldn’t sit still. He never could, but tonight, the energy running beneath his skin was even heavier. He needed movement, needed something to focus on that wasn’t the mess in his head. So he threw bottles.
Empty glass scavenged from somewhere he didn’t care to remember, catching faint, broken reflections of the sky and the buildings above. One after another, he lined them up without really looking at them, like his hands already knew what to do before his thoughts caught up. He gripped the bat in his hand so tightly it started to ache, knuckles whitening around worn tape and wood that had seen too many impacts to care anymore.
His arm came up smooth and practiced and the bottle left his hand spinning up into the air, just for a second suspended against the strip of sky between rooftops. The swing came down fast.
Crack.
Glass exploded outward in a sharp, satisfying burst, sound snapping through the court and bouncing off brick walls like it had nowhere else to go. For a brief moment, everything else disappeared into it and then silence rushed back in to fill the space it left behind.
One after another, he sent the empty glass bottles up into the narrow strip of sky between the buildings. His grip on the bat never loosened. It bit into his palms through worn tape and callused skin. His shoulders moved on instinct - coil, rotate, release. But then Kowalski spoke.
- I saw you and Julien kissing the other day…
The words landed like a sucker punch.
For a fraction of a second, the court didn’t exist right. The wind didn’t move right. Even the space between the buildings felt too tight, like everything had been waiting for that exact sentence to happen.
The bat slipped from Rico’s fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud. His heart slammed against his ribs, the force of it almost sickening. Every nerve in his body locked up, bracing for impact, but nothing could have prepared him for the way the world seemed to tilt beneath him. His eyes, wide with horror, snapped to Kowalski.
Behind him, the bottle plummeted to the ground. It shattered on impact, the sound cutting through the cool air like a gunshot. He flinched before he even registered why.
Kowalski shifted on the bench, his hands tightened around the edge. His posture was stiff in a way Rico had rarely seen before. It was controlled, but only barely like he wasn’t sure if he should have said anything at all. His face was tinged pink, but it wasn’t with anger or judgment. It was something else. Something hesitant.
Rico felt heat climb up his neck so fast it felt almost physical, like something underneath his skin had caught fire. It burned at the tips of his ears, spread across his face, made his throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with air and everything to do with panic trying to find a way out.
No. No, no, no.
He forced himself to breathe, to keep his hands still, to not run. But the panic pressed against his ribs.
Kowalski dropped his gaze to the ground, nudging a shard of glass with the toe of his boot. His voice was quieter this time, like he was testing the weight of his own words.
- So… are you together or something?
Rico couldn’t move. His body was still there, still technically functioning, but everything inside him had gone too tight to shift. His mouth felt dry in a way that had nothing to do with thirst. His hands were clenched without him telling them to be, fingers curled into fists that didn’t know what they were trying to hold onto anymore. The heat on his skin wasn’t from the weather, it came from somewhere much worse. Shame? Fear? Maybe a tangled knot of both?
He wanted to laugh, to scoff, to roll his eyes, to shove the whole thing back into something easy and dismissible. To make some stupid joke and move on like it didn’t matter. But his throat locked up, sealing the words inside, trapping him in a silence that screamed louder than anything he could say. Kowalski wasn’t looking at him anymore. Somehow, that made it worse.
- I was drunk… - Rico muttered, his voice barely more than a breath.
It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. And he hated that Kowalski would hear that difference even if he didn’t say it out loud. Kowalski let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no humor in it.
- You’re drunk all the time lately… - he said softly, like a fact he wasn’t sure he should be pointing out. - Day after day you come back in the morning, reeking like a bar at the closing hour… Pass out on bed for a few hours and repeat the cycle all over again - he said it trying to keep his tone neutral. Then, even quieter, he added - you know, that's kind of why I wanted to come with you in the first place… - Rico could hear the hesitation immediately and his stomach went up to his throat. Kowalski exhaled through his nose slowly like he was trying to keep his own voice steady before it betrayed him. - I’m worried about you - he admitted. - And if that's the reason… - he trailed off, like he wasn’t sure he should say the rest, like maybe he was afraid of pushing too far.
His hands were clenched in his lap now. Tight enough that the knuckles looked pale even in the dim light between buildings.
- I get it, you don’t feel comfortable talking to Skipper about that. - He paused, then added softer, - shit, I don’t think I could either, if I were in your place. - He let out a long, slow breath, like he was bracing himself. - But I thought we were different. That we could talk about everything. - His voice wasn’t accusing, but it carried the weight of a quiet hurt wrapped in understanding. - I thought you would talk to me about things like that…
He felt as if Kowalski was carefully avoiding certain words, circling around them like they were too dangerous to touch directly. Like naming them would change something that couldn’t be un-changed once spoken.
Rico felt it building in his chest before he even had words for it. Heat first and then pressure following. It became that familiar tightening under his ribs that meant something was about to come out wrong if it came out at all. Kowalski kept going anyway like he was backing off instinctively without realizing it.
- I mean… Look, I’m not trying to - he stopped, shook his head slightly. - I’m not trying to pry into your life or control what you do… - he said it like it was supposed to make sense. - I just… I’m here. That’s all.
Rico swallowed hard. His jaw tightened so hard it ached.
- You think… - his voice came out rough, too fast. He stopped, dragged in a breath. - You think I’m supposed to just tell you everything because you’re ‘here’? - His hands were shaking now. Subtle at first, then more noticeable, creeping up into his shoulders. He didn’t wait for an answer. His breath hitched, shoulders jerking with the effort to hold himself together. - This isn’t - he started, then cut himself off, frustration snapping through the restraint he was trying to maintain. A hand went through his hair, rough, like he could physically drag the feeling out of his skull if he tried hard enough. - This isn’t some group project, Kowalski.
Kowalski’s expression shifted. His eyes flickered in just a fraction of a second where confusion tightened into something more vulnerable. His shoulders, which had been held steady, dropped a little.
- I know that - he said carefully.
But Rico was already past listening. It wasn’t just the words that infuriated him so much. It was his tone and the patience and the way Kowalski kept looking at him like there was still a version of this conversation where it ended well if he just said the right thing gently enough.
- I don’t need you hovering over me like I’m… - he stopped, breath catching, voice rising before he could stop it. - Like I’m some damn problem you have to fix. - Something inside him snapped, too sudden to stay contained any longer. - Stop acting like you know me - he said, voice sharp now, cutting through the space between them. - You don’t. So you don’t get to sit there and pretend you understand everything I do just because you watch me long enough.
Kowalski’s hands, resting near his knees, curled into fists before he forced them open again. His mouth parted but nothing came out. Whatever he’d been about to say died before it reached the air. Rico saw it land anyway, he saw the way Kowalski swallowed it down like he was used to doing that.
And in a fraction of a second, the anger Rico had been holding up like armor turned around, collapsed inward, folding in on itself until it had nowhere else to go but back into him. It hit him with twice the force.
Why did I say that?
But it was too late. The sentence was already in the air. And neither of them could take it back.
Rico spun on his heel so fast the gravel under him skittered, sharp little sounds breaking the silence like they were trying to escape it too. He couldn’t look at Kowalski, not with the words he’d just thrown still ringing in the air. The silence behind him stretched, thin and painful.
- It’s getting dark - Kowalski finally said. His voice came out too steady. - We should head back.
- I’ll stay. - Rico’s voice came out rough, scraped raw and detached in a way that wasn’t fooling either of them. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t dare. If he saw Kowalski’s face, the hurt he knew he’d put there he’d crack open. - Don’t wait.
The silence that followed was heavy. It pressed against his back like a hand that wanted to reach for him but didn’t. Rico heard Kowalski shift his weight, the soft scrape of his boot on the ground. Heard the breath he pulled in, the hesitation caught in it. He was waiting for Rico to soften and take it back, for some reassurance or for some explanation.
But he had nothing left to give.
Kowalski exhaled and it was a small, defeated sound. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
- Okay… See you later then…
His voice was quiet, almost careful, like he didn’t quite believe the words himself. He stood there for another second longer than necessary. Then, after another second’s pause, he turned and walked away.
Rico didn’t move. Not even when the sound of Kowalski’s footsteps faded into the night. Not even when he was alone, truly alone. He stayed where he was, locked in place like something had pinned him there from the inside.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The thought came automatically, uselessly, like a command his body had already decided to ignore.
His chest heaved, his fingers curled uselessly at his sides. The tension inside him grew unbearable, clawing its way up his throat, making his teeth chatter. His hands were numb, drained of blood, shaking so hard he couldn’t feel his own skin. His fingers twitched at his sides, searching for something to do, something to hold onto, but there was nothing that could anchor him.
The anger burst all at once, violent and sudden, like a sickness tearing through his stomach. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed the bat from the ground, gripping it so tight his knuckles ached. With a raw, choked sound, he swung. The crack of wood against concrete split the night apart.
Again but harder.
The second strike hit wrong. The shock of it traveled back into his wrists, up his elbows, settling in his shoulders like a punishment he couldn’t shrug off. The third never landed. The bat splintered in his hands, breaking apart like brittle bone, shards of wood scattering around him.
He froze mid-motion.
His hands were still wrapped around what was left of it, but it wasn’t a bat anymore. Just broken, splintered edges digging into his skin.
The silence that followed was deafening. His breath came ragged, uneven. His knees buckled, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Tears blurred his sight but not a single one spilled over. His hands were pressing over his mouth, trying and failing to trap the scream clawing its way out of his throat.
But it still escaped, slipping between his fingers.