Chapter Text
The late afternoon breeze drifted through the open windows of the sewing and design room, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass from the campus and the distant sound of the bell that had rung over an hour ago. There were only two students at the back of the room, their frustrated grumbles and smacking sounds filling the air.
"No, no, Coustas! If you pull the thread so hard, the fabric will pucker up all over," she warned, laughing and leaning over his desk, her blondish-green hair almost brushing against his shoulder. "It has to be a light touch. Like you're... I don't know? drawing a line in the water."
"A line in the water? Nobody draws anything in the water," he muttered irritably. Most of the students had already left. leaving the two to deal with the project that art teacher Qifrey had assigned them. They had been chosen to create the main costume for the school's winter festival play: a long, midnight-blue velvet cape that needed intricate silver thread embroidery along the edges. It was a job for only two people, but the silver threads kept getting tangled in Coustas's impatient fingers, making the work a little more difficult. He tried a few more times before letting go of the threads with an irritated snort. "You talk about keeping a steady hand, Coco, but forget that I'm in the track and field club, not the arts club. My fingers are for gripping a running baton, not for holding millimeter-sized needles."
She rolled her eyes at his grumbling, and although he seemed quite against the idea of helping her (since he lacked the necessary patience), she was happy that he was trying. It was a sign that, despite the difficulty, he found it interesting enough to keep trying. With a patient smile, she rose from her chair and walked over to his side, "Let me show you."
She enveloped his right hand with hers, which was smaller but surprisingly steady from years of practice. With her left hand, she delicately held the reverse side of the stiff velvet, stretching the fabric over the wooden frame. Then she guided the boy's fingers, forcing him to loosen his grip on the fine needle. Together, their hands moved up and down the fabric, She pressed his index finger lightly against the metal, guiding the needle in a smooth arc that pierced the velvet effortlessly, pulling the silver thread until it lay perfectly over the pattern. "see? No rush, The fabric needs to accept the line. It's about having sensitivity. Look how the texture changes when you don't try to force the fabric." She whispered close to his ear.
Coustas glanced sideways at her. At first, when the professor paired them up for the big project, he thought it would be a disaster. She was pure energy, outlandish ideas, and an optimism he usually found tiresome. But after two weeks locked in that room until 5 pm, he discovered that her enthusiasm was contagious. For the first time in months, he wasn't thinking about his frustrations or how his father argued about playing soccer; he was just...having fun. "Okay, you win. But I still think my fingers are too rough for all this silver."
"Nonsense! You just need practice," she gave him an enthusiastic pat on the shoulder and pulled up a chair to sit right next to him, their shoulders touching as she picked up her own piece of fabric. "If we keep going at this pace, we'll finish the collar today. How about we split a portion of fries afterwards?"
"If you pay for the soda, I'll accept," he nudged her with his elbow.
Later, while cleaning up the scraps that had fallen on the floor, Coco lost his balance while trying to pick up a measuring tape that had rolled away. He reacted purely by reflex, gripping it firmly by the forearm to avoid falling, The tug brought their faces very close, Coco whispered a low 'Thanks', and as soon as she regained her balance she noticed something. She reached out towards the top of the boy's head, and with an intimacy that had grown without either of them realizing it, He removed a piece of yellow thread that had gotten caught in his brown hair. "There. Now you're presentable!"
"I was perfectly presentable before. You're the one who's been obsessed with symmetry ever since we started this project." He rolled his eyes, huffing in feigned irritation, but the slight smile on his lips showed that he really wasn't bothered by anything, The two stared at each other for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. The atmosphere was lighthearted; it was just two friends having fun together on a school project. What was wrong with that?
Outside, however, the silent hallway seemed to have frozen in time, as if it were a crime to witness the scene of those young peoples so close to each other.
Standing in the doorway, holding a leather briefcase full of impeccably written notes, was Agott. Her purple eyes, usually cold and disinterested The gestures shifted from Coustas's hand, which still hovered near Coco, to an exaggerated closeness between the two. She had gone there with the sole purpose of giving Coco the history class notes the girl had forgotten, but the scene before her eyes made her stomach clench painfully. That closeness, the spontaneous touch, the laughter she loved to hear... none of that belonged to her at that moment. It belonged to Coustas.
"She never laughs at my jokes like that," she thought, feeling a bitter feeling invade her chest. That unfamiliar laughter was like a silent hoe, digging the earth around its trunk and exposing its deepest roots to the surface, Roots that she thought were safely buried, but which now writhed under the threat of being neglected, drying up from the lack of attention that used to nourish them. "....Actually, I don't even make jokes. But that doesn't give her the right to trade me for... a boy who only knows how to yell six seven down the hallways."
Footsteps echoed beside her, and when her eyes turned to the left, she realized it was Tartah. He was holding a stack of math books against his chest, his knuckles white from the force of his grip, He also seemed bothered by the scene...? Or perhaps he was just distressed and seeking comfort from his friend. In any case, she noticed how the boy's eyes beside him narrowed and his lip turned into a thin line of anguish. assim que ele ouviu Coustas laughed after Coco clowned around with a paintbrush smeared with paint. Tartah let out a heavy sigh, which seemed to carry the weight of an entire breakdown.
"Coustas bought grape juice yesterday. He hates grapes. He bought it because he knows it's her favorite..." He murmured, drawing Agott's attention to himself. She noticed how his voice sounded more drawn out than usual, as if his throat had a crease that made it difficult to speak firmly. "And...is it just me, or are they very close?"
Agott pressed the leather briefcase against his chest so tightly that the edges of the paper crumpled slightly on the inside, Tartah's comment was like throwing alcohol on the fire already burning in her heart; she brought her hand to her left shoulder, squeezing lightly while muttering. "Tsk, Grape juice? How pathetic! Coco accepts anything with sugar; he has no criteria whatsoever, anyone can do that."
"But he went to the trouble of going to Block B's machine just because the one in our block was broken..." He countered, receiving a nasty look from the girl he barely paid attention to; her eyes were drooping and lifeless behind her glasses, fixed on Coustas. who was now helping Coco roll up the measuring tape with irritatingly perfect synchronicity. "He never walks to Block B for me. Not even when I need books from the central library...that's unfair."
She stared at him for a brief moment, noticing how slumped his shoulders were and how much he looked like some abandoned pet on the street, She dared to theorize that Coustas had already forgotten him somewhere, tired of facing the depressed person beside her, and those two in front of her in their own little world. She decided to interfere.
She let out an audible sigh of pure irritation. The sound cut through the laughter that echoed in the room like a pair of scissors cutting a loose thread. Without waiting another second to digest that irritating scene, She marched into the room, the heels of her shoes clicking firmly against the wooden floor, interrupting the "couple's" moment. "If I had known the sewing room had turned into a comedy club, I wouldn't have bothered making those damn notes."
Coco and Coustas startled, recoiling in a quick reflex, startled by the sudden entrance. She blinked, her eyes wide, at the stern expression on her friend's face, and then right behind her, A grumpy-looking Tartah holding his books as if they were a shield, A small bead of sweat threatened to trickle down her cheek before raised the hand and waved to her friends. "Tartah! Agott! Are you guys still in school? Look what we've already managed to do on the collar of the cape!" She lifted the fabric for the cape, already preparing to show off the hard work she and her partner had done.
Agott nem sequer olhou para o veludo azul-noturno. Em vez disso, deu mais um passo à frente e estendeu a pasta de couro com uma rigidez militar, praticamente empurrando-a contra o peito de Coco.
"I just came to deliver the levitation spell notes you left on the table. You're welcome." Her voice lacked any empathy or courtesy, to tell the truth... Agott wasn't at all interested in seeing the cursed cloak, instead, She just took a few stiff steps forward and practically shoved the folder against her coconut-colored chest. "And you should put that away right away. It's past time and we need to go home. The sun is already setting and I don't intend to waste my time waiting for someone who gets distracted by any... measuring tape on the floor."
Coustas frowned and crossed his arms, sensing the obvious hostility directed at them While Tartah, in the background looked down at the ground, adjusting his glasses with a visible pang of hurt. He raised an eyebrow, seeing the redhead's sad state.
"You should thank me. If I'd been five minutes later, you two would have ended up falling and rolling on the floor, Therefore, they would be stuck together, entangled in a tangle of thread and fabric." As if feeling the need to sour the atmosphere, Agott made another sarcastic remark, hoping that this time she would get some reaction from Coco, anything but meeting those confused eyes. "...I didn't know that VERY CLOSE PHYSICAL PROXIMITY was part of the professor's evaluation criteria. Is this a new design method, or have you simply forgotten how personal space works?"
Coco blinked, alternating her gaze between Agott and Coustas, with an expression of utter and complete incomprehension. She brought her hand to the back of her neck, scratching slowly as she spoke. "Hã? What are you talking about, Agott? I was just taking a line out of it..."
"Don't be idiot, Agott. We're just working!" He interrupted her with a dry click of his tongue and running a hand through his brown hair, completely bewildered by what was happening. To him, her comment was just her usual bitterness. He put his hand on his hip, staring intently at her. "And another thing, if you're in such a hurry to leave, you didn't need to come all the way up here. Nobody forced you to be her delivery service, you know? We know very well how to get home alone, you understand? If so, thanks."
He went back to collecting the needles with genuine irritation, and when he finished, he sat down in the chair with his legs spread, The body turned slightly protectively towards the girl with green hair. "If your problem is a lack of personal space, the door you entered through is still right there, open."
The look she gave him was so icy it could easily freeze the running water on campus. She clenched her fists at her sides. And her jaw was so tight it could not tighten. She was clearly shocked by the audacity of that annoying boy speaking to her in that way, and even more so by the fact that he was acting as if he ruled Coco's space! Who does this loveless, maternally deprived person think he is?!
Wait...without maternal love? she doesn't have the right to use that insult. She looked down at the floor, wondering what she could possibly call him.
Before she could retort, Coco stepped forward, gesturing nervously with her hands, Her hands moved so fast it could be compared to the speed of a running fan, her face turning towards Coustas and Agott respectively. "D-D-Don't be so rude! You wouldn't like it if someone spoke to you like that!... AH! Hey Agott! Sorry, we didn't mean to be rude... It's just that the project is really stressing us out. Thank you so much for bringing the notes, you're an angel!"
She simply turned her face away, letting out a nasal sound of disdain, refusing to soften at the other girl's sweet tone. The tension in the room was so palpable that the air felt heavy; Tartah was the first to realize that an impending disaster was about to happen, Agott's pride mixed with Coustas's stubbornness would result in a disastrous argument. He cleared his throat loudly, taking a step forward. adjusting his glasses trying not to pay attention to how he looked like an extra among the trio. "Hum... Coustas? Are you finished for today? Practice on the neighborhood soccer field starts soon. I brought my bike, like we agreed yesterday. You know... to take you there." He cleared his throat again, his index fingers anxiously touching the tips of each other. Coustas played on the local youth team, and Tartah, although he didn't play, always went along. It had become part of their routine; he would pedal and Coustas would ride on the back, spending hours playing until they got tired. And he himself would sit in the stands, reading his comic books or just watching his friend's quick movements across the field he didn't particularly like that kind of game.
"Damn I completely forgot about the time!" He looked at his wristwatch with his eyes wide and ran to where his backpack was lying on the ground. If you were putting your things away hastily, or practically throwing books around haphazardly and begging them not to get crumpled—his father would scold him later. He looked at Coco with an apologetic smile as he reached the door. "Sorry, Coco. Duty calls. Shall we continue tomorrow at lunchtime?"
"Sure! Go ahead don't make the coach angry!" she nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to the piercing glare Agott was giving the boy's back.
Tartah gave a half-smile, feeling a slight relief in his chest as he watched Coustas finally move away from the sewing table ready to leave with him. But the atmosphere in the room was still heavy enough to make someone want to cut with one of those fabric scissors.
"Well, don't be late, I'd like to be able to get home early without any more interruptions." Agott let out a heavy sigh that she didn't even know was holding back, her face visibly relaxing. She adjusted the strap of her bag, which kept falling off. She turned around and, with firm steps, walked towards the door; the same door that that bastard Coustas told her to leave if she felt uncomfortable.
""Wait, Agott! Wait for me!" Coco hurried, entering the same slightly comical desperation as Coustas. She began stuffing the notebooks haphazardly into her backpack, nearly dropping an open pencil case in the process. tossed the leather briefcase the witch had given her right on top of the mess, adjusted her hat with one hand, and grabbed the coat with the other.
Down the hallway, Agott walked with long, firm strides, her posture perfectly impeccable, though inside her mind was a complete mess of irritation. Coco came close behind, struggling to catch up, her backpack swinging heavily on her back. "Wow, you walk really fast when you're in a bad mood!" She exclaimed, finally matching Agott's pace and breathing a little heavily, displaying that innocent smile that always disarmed others. "What happened? Did one of your spells go wrong?"
She stopped abruptly in the middle of the empty hallway, her knuckles reddened from gripping the strap of her own purse. She took a deep breath, The air was doing little to soothe the burning in her chest. When she turned to face Coco, her purple eyes flashed with a mixture of wounded pride and a frustration she refused to understand. "My spells worked perfectly. Unlike your sense of priorities, you get distracted with irritating ease." She crossed her arms; a muscle in her neck was so tense coco could see it jumping out of her skin. "You two looked like two idiotic clowns, laughing loudly enough to be heard from the central courtyard. I thought the festival costume was something serious for you."
"Huh...?" She blinked three times in genuine confusion, not understanding why her friend seemed so defensive. She reached for her own collar, adjusting the fabric that suddenly felt like it was slightly suffocating her skin. "But I take it seriously! Like, very seriously! It's just that... he was very nervous because his motor coordination isn't very good, and I was just trying to help him relax. It's easier to handle things when you're not tense, you know?" She took a step forward, approaching slowly as if she were tending to a skittish cat, with the aim of touching her friend's hand to calm her down "And we've come a long way! You should have seen the embroidery..."
"I've seen enough," she interrupted turning her face away, unable to continue holding Coco's absurdly clean and sincere gaze. The girl's lack of malice irritated her even more, because it meant she had no idea of the effect she was having, and honestly... that was one of the things she hated most about the girl. "...I just...I just think there are limits to... technical assistance. Removing hair strands from someone's hair crosses the line of professionalism a bit, don't you think?"
Before Coco could process the comment or try to defend herself, the sound of footsteps and the clinking of bicycle chains echoed from the side ramp of the building. Down below, in the courtyard that led out to the parking lot, the two boys walked side by side. Coustas was gesturing excitedly with one hand while explaining some game tactic he intended to use in practice. Beside him, Tartah pushed his bicycle, lost in thought. " ...And if their defender comes to close the angle again, I can pretend I'm going to run to the end line and pass with my heel! What do you think?"
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, making a nasal sound that tried to sound enthusiastic but failed miserably, The other boy's words went in one ear and out the other; his brain was still stuck on the scene of the two of them having fun as if they'd been best friends since childhood. "That sounds like a good strategy, Coustas. Just avoid the risk of twisting your ankle again like last month. I don't want to have to carry you around with you complaining the whole way."
"What? That was just a silly accident!" he chuckled, then playfully punched Tartah on the shoulder. The touch made Tartah's stomach churn, but he maintained a neutral expression. "And besides, you complain, but you love being my personal driver. Come on, hop in, I'll pedal to the field."
The girls watched the boys cycling toward the school gates. Coco leaned against the metal railing, her body leaning forward. Her eyebrows furrowed in a line of genuine concern. "Coustas is so impulsive when he plays. The last time he tried to dribble past the striker from the other room, he ended up falling awkwardly against the goalpost. He spent two whole weeks using those noisy crutches, remember? Poor Tartah had to carry his backpack upstairs every day because he refused to ask the inspectors for help."
She shifted her gaze to fix it on Coco's profile. The worried crease on the green-haired girl's forehead, the way her eyes followed the trail of dust left by the bicycle... All of that acted like drops of vinegar on an open wound in Agott's pride.
"He's not impulsive. He's just a brainless idiot..." Her tone came out sharper than she intended, laden with a disdain that barely masked her discomfort. She turned her back to the landscape, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder with a sharp tug. "Coustas is not your responsibility. If he breaks a leg playing football, the fault lies entirely with his lack of judgment. Honestly, I don't know how Tartah still has the patience to be his personal doormat. Carrying a backpack? Taking him on the back of his bike? If I were Tartah, I would have already left him halfway up the avenue so he could learn to be a decent person."
"Although I don't need a bicycle to get here..." she thought to herself, if she knew how to ask nicely, her mother would arrange for someone with transportation to pick her up every day. "My mother gave me permission to go back alone simply because she's forgotten me here several times..."
"Turn that mouth away! They're best friends, it's normal for them to help each other. And Coustas isn't stupid, he just... gets too excited." Coco protested, looking at her friend with a mixture of surprise and confusion. She was used to her friend's sharp wit, but this was just too cruel! Although deep down she knew that Agott was right...sometimes Coustas would throw herself in front of the high school bullies without caring if he broke something.
"Excitement is what Tetia feels when a new season of some silly kdrama comes out. What Coustas has is a pure lack of common sense... But of course, you love defending your new sewing partner! It must be amazing to spend the whole day fawning over someone whose greatest talent is missing the needle stitch and getting ink on their hands."
"And whose greatest talent is stealing my place." she finished mentally, feeling her stomach churn. "Why does coco care so much about what happens to him? He's just a noisy kid on the football team who doesn't even know how to match the colors of his uniform. Why does she need to act like he's the center of your universe?"
Coco took a step back in utter shock. The optimistic smile that used to light up her face crumbled completely, replaced by an expression of pure incomprehension and hurt. Her cheeks, previously flushed from the day's activity, paled slightly before lighting up with a blush of shyness and offense. "That... that's not true! I don't flatter anyone! We just... we have a very short deadline for the festival! And Coustas is putting in a lot of effort, he really wants the costume to be perfect. He just doesn't have much practice with needles!"
"Practical? He spilled India ink on his own writing report and then thought it would be a good idea to wipe it off with his shirt sleeve, which is white..." She recalled, raising an eyebrow, the way Coco seemed so determined to defend her new little friend got on her nerves! "If your concept of 'effort' is spending two hours laughing while cleaning his dirty fingers, then our standards of academic excellence are dramatically opposed."
She opened her mouth to argue back. She wanted to say that Agott was being unfair, that their friendship hadn't changed, and that Coustas was just a good friend who needed help. She wanted to remind Agott of all the times they spent afternoons together in the library, deciphering complex magical theorems in the grimoire. But the words wouldn't come out of her mouth; she couldn't put her thoughts into words. Against Agott's cold, calculated facts, her purely emotional justifications always seemed foolish. So, all she did was look down, staring at her own shoes, while nervously fidgeting with the hem of her schoolgirl skirt. "That's not how it is..." her voice began to falter, almost fading away Those eyes seemed to read every one of her weaknesses, leaving her completely speechless. "You're acting like I'm doing something wrong. I just wanted to help..."
She looked away immediately, unable to bear the wounded glint in Coco's green eyes without her own shield of pride cracking. She turned around, her heels clicking against the concrete of the balcony with military rigidity, leaving behind a heavy silence and a Coco who was still trying to find the right words to bring her back. "Do whatever you want, just don't come crying to my desk when your precious sewing partner ruins the midnight-blue velvet with sweat from football practice."
"But what happened to her? If Coustas really got hurt... of course I'd be worried. Of course I would help. I would worry about any of them. About Tartah, about Richeh, about Tetia... and especially about her...If Agott fell, I'd be the first to carry her on my back. Doesn't she understand?" She let out a long sigh, letting her shoulders slump slightly. It wasn't the first time the other girl had acted so harshly, but there was a new bitterness in her tone today, an urgency to hurt before being hurt that Coco couldn't quite decipher. She lightly patted her own cheeks to ward off bad thoughts, She would go to her friend and solve that problem with the classic and age-old method: COMMUNICATION!!
Meanwhile, a few streets away, the cold evening wind lashed directly at Tartah's face. The bicycle wobbled slightly whenever Coustas swerved to avoid a pothole with his usual chaotic energy. Tartah tried to keep his eyes fixed on the small print of his comic book, but the truth was that the pages were just a gray blur. His fingers, cold from the wind, gripped the edges of the hardcover so tightly that the tips were pale.
He could feel the movement of Coustas's back right in front of him, the rhythm of his friend's breathing changing as he pushed the pedals up the avenue leading to the community field. Coustas was humming some tune, completely oblivious to the turmoil dancing in the boy's mind on the back of the bike.
"Are you going to sit in the front row of the stands tonight? The guys from the other street said they're bringing a heavy defense. If I score that backheel goal I told you about, I want to make sure you see it!"
''I'll be in the same place as always, But try not to kill yourself before halftime. If their defense is that tight, you should pass the ball, not try for a miraculous backheel goal."
Coustas let out a loud laugh, throwing his head back for a second before focusing again on the steep climb. "Where is your faith in your number ten? If I don't take a chance, what's the point?"
"the point is that you come home alive," he thought, but kept the words to himself. He pressed the comic book against his chest, feeling the knot in his stomach tighten a little more. Coustas acted as if everything were a high-stakes game, both in football and in life. He threw himself headfirst into it, Without fear of getting hurt, trusting that, in the end, there would always be a safety net to catch him. And what hurt Tartah the most wasn't the fear of seeing his friend break a leg on the field; it was the painful realization that, lately, Coustas seemed to be running towards another net. One that Tartah would never be able to imitate.
The bicycle finally conquered the uphill climb of the avenue, and the floodlights of the community field appeared on the horizon, crackling against the dark sky like cold, artificial stars.
On the neighborhood soccer field, the sound of the coach's whistle and the impact of cleats against the grass echoed through the late afternoon. Sitting atop the concrete bleachers, he held a blue pen, twirling it deftly between his fingers, a nervous tic that always surfaced when his mind was full. His eyes never left a single point on the field: Coustas. He genuinely enjoyed seeing his friend there. The closed-off, focused expression Coustas displayed at school gave way to a vibrant glow, a pure and contagious energy. He seemed free running after the ball, and seeing him happy brought a silent warmth to his chest. But the warmth soon gave way to a knot of Anxiety in the stomach.
He watched Coustas ask for the ball, arms outstretched, his breath forming a light mist in the air that was beginning to cool. When the ball reached his feet, Coustas made a quick cut, leaving a defender behind with an ease that made the few spectators in the stands gasp in admiration. An opposing midfielder, clearly frustrated at having been dribbled past earlier, advanced towards Coustas with his body bent, showing no intention of cleanly retrieving the ball. He stood up from the bench and was about to yell at the boy to move aside.
But there wasn't enough time.
The towering midfielder had no intention of braking. He came in with his shoulder low, directly targeting Coustas' side, who had all his weight on his left leg to make a tackle. It was a nasty collision, disproportionate for a preliminary practice session. The impact was unavoidable. A sharp clash of shins and shoulders that echoed all the way to the top of the stands. Coustas was thrown sideways, his body crashing against the hard ground near the sideline, where the grass had already given way to bare, stony earth. The coach's whistle ripped through the air immediately, but for Tartah, the world seemed to slow down.
He watched Coustas hold back tears, his brow furrowed in a deep line of pain as he clutched his left ankle. For three interminable seconds, The boy remained lying there, his face pressed against the ground, his clenched fists buried in the dust. The cold panic that always haunted Tartah's mind surged up his spine all at once. He knew Coustas's history; he knew how much his friend neglected his own body and how much he hated appearing vulnerable.
The coach walked to the middle of the field, shouting something about keeping the game clean, but didn't interrupt the training session. Coustas, refusing the outstretched hand of the opponent who had knocked him down, forced himself to his feet. He visibly limped for the first two steps, letting out a low curse through gritted teeth, before spitting out some dirt and returning to his position, slapping his thighs with the palms of his hands as if he could forcefully ward off the pain. Coustas asked for the ball again, ignoring his own knee pain. He had that stubborn expression that Tartah knew so well. The same expression he used when he spent hours trying to solve some difficult chemistry problem at school, refusing to admit he needed help until he mixed the ingredients wrong and almost blew up the room.
Tartah released the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding, but the relief wasn't complete. He knew his role there was merely that of a silent observer, the backstage boy who held the backpack and ensured the way back. But, seeing the dirt stain on Coustas's uniform and the slight tremor in his left leg as he prepared to run again, The silence of the stands began to feel like a prison that was too small. He wanted to go down, he wanted to intervene, he wanted to be the person Coustas listened to when the rest of the world was noise.
"Why does he always have to be like this?," Tartah thought, feeling the tip of the blue pen mark the palm of his hand from the excessive grip. "Why does everything have to be an open-hearted battle for him?"
The training session dragged on for another forty drawn-out minutes, a test of endurance for both Coustas' muscles and Tartah's nerves. When the final whistle finally blew across the field, most of the boys collapsed onto the grass, exhausted and sweaty, But Coustas merely walked slowly to the sideline, dragging his left foot with a stiffness he tried to disguise at all costs.
Tartah was already descending the concrete steps of the bleachers. He pushed his bicycle by the handlebars with one hand, approaching the fence just as Coustas grabbed his water bottle.
'You're limping," he said bluntly, stopping his bike. His voice was low, laden with that analytical quietness that usually irritated or calmed Coustas, depending on the day.
"I'm not!" Coustas immediately countered, throwing his head back to chug the rest of the water. Cold drops trickled down his neck, mingling with the sweat and dust of the field. He tossed the empty bottle into his training bag and glared at Tartah with his typical defensive expression. "It was just a light bump. It's over now."
"You were thrown to the ground by a guy twice your size and landed on your own ankle. I saw it from up here." Tartah insisted, stepping forward and reaching out to grab Coustas's backpack before his friend could even lift it. "Let me carry that. Sit down for a minute."
He snorted, but the sharp pain that shot up his calf when he tried to put his weight on it was too much. He slumped onto the metal bench with a low groan, running his hands over his face to push away the frustration. "That guy's an idiot. He went straight for my best leg."
His ankle already displayed a reddish hue that would soon turn into an ugly purple. Tartah touched the side of the bone with his fingertips, with extreme, almost clinical care. Coustas let out an audible gasp and reflexively pulled his leg back.
"It's not broken, but it's going to swell up a lot if you don't put ice on it soon. You can't ride like that. I'll give you a ride on the back."
""Will you give me a ride on the back of your bike?" He let out a weak laugh, though his brow remained furrowed in pain. "Tartah, you weigh half as much as me, and your legs can't handle climbing Central Avenue. We're going to end up falling on a flowerbed."
"I can handle it." He replied, his voice gaining an unusual firmness that made Coustas shut up. The bespectacled boy stood up, brushing the dust off his trouser knees and pulling the bicycle back. "Just get on and hold on tight. And don't move around too much."
He blinked, surprised by his friend's almost authoritarian insistence. He swallowed his pride, leaned on Tartah's shoulder carefully so as not to unbalance him, and slid his good leg over the back of the bicycle, settling awkwardly onto the metal rack. His hands instinctively sought Tartah's waist, gripping the fabric of his coat firmly. Tartah felt the extra weight tighten the bicycle tires and, for a second, her own heart skipped a beat at the sudden proximity. The heat of Coustas's body, still warm from the workout, contrasted sharply with the icy night wind that was beginning to fall on the neighborhood. He firmly planted his feet on the pedals, took a deep breath, and propelled the bicycle out of the sports complex.
The return trip was silent. The sound of the bicycle gears and the noise of distant cars filled the space between them. Tartah channeled all his strength into the legs, his face contorted from the effort of maintaining his balance on the climb while the wind ruffled his hair. On the back of the horse, Coustas kept his head down, his chin almost resting on Tartah's shoulder. "Hey, Tartah..."
"Hum?"
'Thanks. For coming today. And for... you know, not making me drag my feet back home."
Tartah swallowed hard, feeling Coustas's hands tighten slightly around her waist because of a ripple in the pavement. A wave of quiet, comforting satisfaction filled her chest, but almost immediately, the image of the sewing room returned to her mind. Coco's smile. The way she touched Coustas's hair. The ease with which Coustas accepted her presence.
The burning of jealousy, which had been numbed by concern for the injury, returned subtly, mingling with the exhaustion from the physical exertion. "I'll always be with you, Coustas... I just wanted you to take better care of yourself. And... pay more attention to those around you."
Coustas frowned, not understanding the hint of bitterness in his friend's tone. "What do you mean? I'm paying attention."
He didn't answer. He just gripped the handlebars tighter and kept pedaling under the streetlights, knowing that the next morning at school, Coustas would probably be back at that sewing table, sharing laughs with a girl.