Moru

Direction: Slash (M/M) Rating: R (For violence/non-explicit erotic content) Fandom: Original Work Pairing: Kyle Ashford (Psycho) / Dikiy Word Count: ~3,500 words (6 pages) Chapters: 1/1 (Complete)

Summary: The post-war world is ruins and rare miracles – like a sky suddenly ablaze with stars. On the roof of a dead building, two meet: Dikiy, carrying the weight of unimaginable betrayal, and Psycho, whose clown mask has cracked to reveal raw pain.

Years later, Dr. Kyle Ashford tries to live in a world without war. But the past haunts him through nightmares and an old photograph – a ghost he can’t escape.

Chapter: Memories of the Last Conversation

Night shed its mourning shroud. Clouds that had hoarded death for decades dissolved, unveiling a canvas of stars. Not timid flickers, but a furious, blinding downpour—untainted by the city's light pollution. The city was long gone; only ruins remained after the war.

People froze. Breath caught in throats. Someone whispered, afraid to scare the miracle: "Look..." In silence thick as tar, crystal seemed to chime. Were shards of fear crumbling to dust? Or frozen hearts cracking as they remembered the forgotten taste of wonder? Light fell on faces, gifting a promise of a better future.

On the roof of a long-dead building, its walls breathing dust of past catastrophes, sat two figures. Dikiy—russet-haired, skin the color of scorched earth, clothes gnawed by time and wind. His legs dangled over the abyss like roots seeking soil in concrete. His brown eyes, usually sharp as knives, devoured the stars—greedily, like an orphan seeing bread for the first time. Beside him, frozen like a shadow, stood Psycho. Tall, unnaturally pale as if grown without sun. Hair like ash from laboratory fires; eyes like fog after electroshock. Clothes hung on him like a shroud on an exoskeleton. For the first time in years of running, his clown mask had cracked. No grimaces, no joint-clicking. Only silence, heavier than ruins. He wasn't looking at the sky. He was looking at Dikiy—as if he were the only star incapable of betrayal.

Psycho sank down beside him, his movement unnervingly fluid—like a predator aware of its claws. An arm slung over Dikiy's shoulders, not an embrace but a claim. His head rested against Dikiy's sun-baked skin, pale hair tangling with sun-bleached russet. "Remember childhood?.." Psycho's whisper scraped like glass on metal. "Running wild, acting stupid... How I teased you!" The corners of his lips twitched upward. "Just nerves," Psycho caught himself thinking—as his lips brushed Dikiy's ear. Cold. Dikiy shuddered but didn't pull away—pressed into Psycho's side like an anchor in a storm. "And once... bit you. Like this." Teeth clamped down on the earlobe. Gently? No. A test: "Can you endure this pain?" Dikiy growled deep in his chest, fingers digging into his knees, but yielded to the bite—as if it were the only language they spoke. "Remember how I almost killed you today?.." Psycho's breath hitched like a seizure. His hand trembled, gripping Dikiy's shoulder; his voice frayed into a desperate, cowardly whisper. "Sorry. Knew we had kids, girls... But..." He released the ear. Fingers—cold, thin, bruised from today's fight—dug into Dikiy's jaw. Forced him to face Psycho, bracing for condemnation. "...love you."

Their lips met, but the kiss was combat. Dikiy's lips were chapped, hot, reeking of dust and war's acrid smoke. He froze, braced for a blow. Psycho's lips—smooth, cold—tasted of medicinal bitterness and... blood. Whose? Irrelevant. That flavor was more familiar than bread. Psycho pressed roughly, demanding entry. Dikiy clenched his teeth, body tensing: "Shove him away! Bite!" Psycho's tongue slid over sealed lips—not a caress, an interrogation. "Open up. Trust me." Dikiy howled into the kiss—a rasping, broken sound. His fingers clawed Psycho's back, tearing fabric like feral claws. Dikiy surrendered. His mouth opened—not for tenderness, but like a fresh wound. Hot breath mixed with tears; rage escaped as a groan. Psycho pushed deeper—not a conqueror, but drowning. Arms locked around Dikiy's neck, pinning him close.

All Dikiy felt: Pain from fresh wounds flaring where their bodies touched. Rage at the man before him—who'd preached loyalty hours ago, now trampling it. Fear this was the last "forgive me." And Psycho's genuine warmth—unfelt by anyone for years.

All Psycho tasted: Salt of Dikiy's tears—yes, we've hurt each other. Copper of blood—his or mine, long since mingled. The void filled only by this burn. "Don't leave. Don't abandon me with the monster inside. Please."

Scents coiled around them: gunpowder baked into Dikiy's skin, maybe alcohol and ozone on Psycho's fingers. But undeniable—the dust of ruins beneath them was their shared home. Their shared grave. Both knew it.

Stars didn't break them apart—Dikiy's sharp shove did. He threw Psycho off, not with strength but with sudden, icy rigidity. Fingers that had clawed Psycho's back now clenched into fists, nails biting palms until blood welled. He stood, back to Psycho, to the shimmering sky, to their dead city. Shoulders trembled not from sobs, but fury boiling beneath his skin. "Love me?" Dikiy's voice was low, hoarse as rusted hinges in wind. He didn't turn. Stared into the blackening ruin-abyss. "Say you love me..." He whirled around. Eyes—two coal pits in a pale face—drilled into Psycho. "...What about loyalty, huh? How fucking sick are you... to say that after everything?" He stepped forward. His shadow swallowed Psycho, sitting on the edge. "I was the first to turn my back on you!" Words exploded like bullets. Each one scalding, poisoned. "When I learned... who... WHAT you really are. What hides behind that pale skin, those insane eyes. A monster from the same fucking lab as the ones we fought! I got scared. Like a fucking pup. And instead of standing with you... I spat on everything between us." Dikiy clawed at his torn collar, choking. Air seared his lungs like the day he first lied. "I turned our family against you! Your Jess!" Her name tore out like vomit. "Whispered in her ear nights while you were off 'protecting' us! Loved it! Every doubt she had, every glance my way. Every fuck in the ruins' shadows while you thought she waited!" He laughed—dry, shattered, mad. "I was the one who led enemies to our last fucking refuge!" He paused. Chest heaving. No tears—just a desert of self-loathing in his eyes. Stared at his shaking hands—hands that once fought for Psycho, then... "...And you tried." His voice dropped, softer but sharper. "Tried to be reliable. Protect 'em. Save 'em. Alone. While I... hid behind their backs like a coward. Knowing I'd led them to slaughter." Empty gaze lifted. "I watched them fall. Did nothing. Because my target was you." A final step brought him nose-to-nose with seated Psycho. Bent close. Hot, ragged breath scorched Psycho's face. "I betrayed you. Them. Everything we built in this hell. I'm rot eating the roots. Poison in your last sip of water." His whisper terrified more than screams. "After all that... you stand here? Kiss me? You truly... forgive me?"

Psycho sat thunderstruck. A lump strangled his throat; his body fused to the roof's humming asphalt. Thoughts raced for a lever, a button—anything to halt the inevitable. But time—that cruel sand—had run out. Too late. Dikiy stepped back. And back. Until his boot heel hovered over emptiness. Spine straight, unnervingly calm. "Wh—" Psycho choked. Air refused to come. "—What're you doing?!" More a moan than words. Dikiy didn't flinch. Didn't hear. Another step. His whole foot now hung over void. Wind whipped his clothes, rendering him ghostly. "STOP!" Psycho's scream tore loose—raw, animal terror. "WAIT! STOP!" He lunged, instinct shattering paralysis. Hands clawed empty air where Dikiy had been. Too late. Dikiy took his final step. Not a jump. Not a fall. A step back into nothingness. One second—a silhouette against stars. Next—only wind whistling over the edge. Psycho frozen mid-lunge, fingers clutching nothing. Below, no cry. No thud. Just silence swelling in Psycho's ears. And the yawning void where his brother—his traitor, his beloved—had stood.

...Dr. Kyle Ashford jolted awake. Cold sweat trickled down his temples. His hand strangled his office chair's armrest, knuckles white. Before him lay an open patient file; on the desk—a faded photo in a wooden frame. That photo. A once huge, noisy, absurdly happy family against an unbroken city. There: Kyle himself, young with a mad glint; his Jess, smiling, holding their baby; their friends; Jane cradling her son by Dikiy; and Dikiy, standing apart with that cryptic half-smile Kyle now saw as a silent scream for help. The intercom buzzed like a gunshot. Kyle flinched, tearing his gaze from frozen smiles. His heart still hammered in his throat, tasting of ruin-dust and unshed tears. "Dr. Kyle Ashford? Your daughter, Alice, is here." Kyle inhaled deeply, shakily, banishing the nightmare's dregs. Fingers brushed the cold glass over Dikiy's face. "Ah, yes... So long ago." "Ah— Yes, Cynthia. Send her in." His voice rasped but steadied. Hanging up, he felt reality—smell of old paper and furniture polish, the desk lamp's soft glow—reclaim him. The door opened quietly. "Dad?" Alice—sixteen, Jess's mirror (same sun-white curls, same mischievous brow-arch, untouched by tragedy)—peeked in. "Busy? Can I?" The sight anchored him. Kyle stood, hiding a slight tremor in his legs. Lips that twitched at the photo now warmed into a smile. "Of course, little star! Always." Arms spread wide. Alice flew into them, nuzzling his crisp suit jacket. He held her tight, palm feeling her back's warmth, hearing her carefree laugh—real, alive, salvation from ghosts. In this embrace was his world, hard-won. A world after war. After Dikiy.

But the shadow fell longer than the past itself...

A week later, Kyle stood at the edge of an ancient forest encircling the dead city like a wreath of moss and silence. Alice waited quietly, clutching wildflower bouquets. Air hung clear and cold, smelling of pine and decay. They followed a faint path to a clearing hidden among pines, fenced by tall, rusted iron bars. Here lay a long-abandoned graveyard. Most headstones lay toppled; inscriptions weathered away. Who rested here was unknowable—but Kyle remembered where he'd buried his family. He stopped by an old oak, its side charred by ancient fires, then moved toward the fence. Here. Kyle placed a smooth, dark stone—brought from a distant shore—by the unmarked grave. Not a monument. Just a sign: "I remember. I was here." Alice laid flowers beside it. Untold the full story, this was her first visit. But she knew—this place mattered. "Was he your friend?" she whispered, eyeing the stone. Kyle was silent long. Wind rustled leaves like pages of a grim old book. "Yes," he breathed at last, voice soft but firm. "He was my brother. My pain. My worst mistake... and my salvation. Without him... without what he did, and what I did... I wouldn't be here. Neither would you." He pulled her close, gaze not on the stone but toward the city ruins. Toward the roof where Dikiy's life ended—and part of Psycho died. "He taught me..." Kyle paused, finding words. "...that even in deepest darkness, there's room for forgiveness. Even if you don't deserve it." They stood in forest silence a while longer. Then Kyle turned. "Come, little star. Let's finally visit Mom." He didn't look back. They wandered the graveyard awhile—Kyle introducing Alice to his old family, sharing only the good. As sunset bled away, they left. Walking the forest path, Kyle looked up. The sky was clear, cloudless, vast—just like that night when all the stars were visible.

Author's Notes: Set in a post-apocalyptic world after the war, where "Psycho" and "Dikiy" were call signs/aliases. Yes, this could be considered an addendum to "The Old World," though you won’t find the original work—it lives unwritten in my mind, a story I’ve nurtured since age ten. ⚠️ Content Warning: Contains heavy themes (see tags). Your feedback means everything.💖

Dedication: This is for Little Me. The child who first kindled my love for storytelling. The child who spun vast, intricate worlds and plots in his mind. Thank you. Today, I rewrite HIS favorite story—reimagining what this tale could become. If this addendum intrigues you, and you’d like to see their full story... let me know in the comments! We’ll see what unfolds ;)

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✨ OMG, I'm still screaming! My fic just hit its first major milestone in tag rankings!

Most unexpected win: 🥉 #25 in #Massage with 2.72K bookmarks!

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Direction: Slash (M/M) Rating: R (For violence/non-explicit erotic content) Fandom: Nora Sakavic - "All For The Game" (AFTG) Pairing: Kevin Day/Aaron Minyard Word Count: ~3000 words (6 pages) Chapters: 1/1 (Complete) Tags: Hurt/Comfort; Friendship; Massage; First Kiss; Everyday Life; Romance; Fluff. 

Summary: Aaron felt like he’d been hit by a truck. After a brutal practice, all he wanted was to faceplant into his pillow and die. The last thing he expected was Kevin Day to sink onto the bed beside him and touch his aching shoulder.

The warmth of strong hands, the sharp scent of ointment. The pain faded. In the quiet room, there was only the two of them.

Chapter: A Quiet Evening After a Grueling Practice

“Hold still,” came a voice right by Aaron’s ear. Before he could process it, strong fingers dug into the rock-hard tension of his right shoulder. He jerked on the bed, a low groan ripped from him by the unexpected, piercing pain.

“Ow! Kevin, what the hell?! Are you nuts?” Aaron tried to twist away, but the pain instantly locked his movement, sending him face-first back into the pillow. Every muscle in his back and shoulder felt like a tight, fiery knot after that ill-fated fall under the double block.

“What, what,” Kevin grumbled, sitting unceremoniously on the edge of Aaron’s bed, the springs groaning in protest. His touch was firm, almost rough, yet incredibly precise, finding every knot of tension beneath the sweat-damp fabric of Aaron’s t-shirt. “You should’ve held your ground, not folded like a sack. Turn over properly. Or do you wanna walk like a robot tomorrow?”

The pain, sharp from the sudden invasion, began to slowly retreat under the insistent pressure of Kevin’s fingers, replaced by a deep, almost painful warmth. With each circular motion over the agonizing knot, the tension melted, giving way to a heavy, pleasant lassitude. Aaron’s jaw unclenched involuntarily, his face pressing deeper into the pillow. Damn, it actually helps... flickered a reluctant thought.

He cracked one eye open, nose buried in the pillowcase. Kevin Day. The Kevin Day, whose personal space was sacred and other people's problems were just annoying obstacles on the path to Exy greatness. Sitting here, on his perpetually rumpled blanket, and... massaging his shoulder? Kevin’s hands, usually gripping a racquet with deadly force, moved now with methodical, almost surgical precision. Aaron caught himself watching the path of those strong fingers across his shoulder blade. Why the sudden concern? Did something happen? Or... The thought cut off as Kevin pressed down especially hard on a spot near the blade.

“A-ah! Are you trying to break my bones, you sadist?” Aaron hissed, though without the earlier anger, more out of habit.

His gaze slid over the familiar chaos of his half of the room: a t-shirt lay discarded near a lone sneaker, a precarious stack of notes tilted threateningly on the nightstand, a poster of crossed Exy racquets glaring brightly on the wall. In stark contrast – Kevin’s territory: the perfectly made bed, the neat stack of sports strategy textbooks on the desk, the only decoration being a sun-drenched diagram of the court taped to the wall. A shaft of evening sunlight gilded dust motes in the air and caught the tense line of Kevin’s jaw. Kevin didn’t answer the jab, just snorted faintly. His brows were drawn together in that familiar focused furrow, as if he were solving a complex play, not kneading his teammate’s muscles. Lips pressed tight, breathing even but slightly deeper than usual. His fingers, so sure and strong, faltered for a second when they hit a particularly vicious spasm.

“Relax, Minyard,” his voice came out unexpectedly low and slightly rough, lacking its usual bite. “You’re stiff as a board. Is that how you hold a block?” The grumbling was a ritual, a familiar shield, but there was a new... caution in his movements. Aaron thought – though maybe it was the deceptive evening light? – that the corners of Kevin’s stern mouth softened for a fraction of a second. Was he... trying?

“You’re... mmm... not much of a masseur...” Aaron mumbled into the pillow, but the end of the sentence drowned in a fresh wave of relief as Kevin worked the shoulder blade with strong, circular motions. He couldn’t pretend it hurt anymore – only a deep, almost sweet fatigue flooded his muscles. “...Though your shoulder blades... apparently... don't count... Hey, ease up, Day! I'm not a practice ball!”

The protest sounded fake, like a child’s “I don’t wanna sleep” when their eyes are already drooping. Kevin just snorted again, but his fingers – so sure, so knowing of his body – suddenly slowed. They slid higher, to the base of Aaron’s neck, and began working the stiff muscles there with uncharacteristic fluidity. Not just strength, but rhythm. Circular motions, deep, drawing out the last dregs of pain. Aaron felt his own breathing begin, involuntarily, to sync with that rhythm. Deep inhale – pressure, exhale – release.

Kevin dissolved. His grumbling faded entirely. His usually straight, rigid spine curved slightly forward, as if bearing the weight of invisible focus – all his concentration funneled into his palms, into the muscles beneath them. His breathing deepened, quietened, almost mirroring the rhythm of Aaron’s sighs. The focus he usually reserved for dissecting plays was replaced by another state – immersion. The world seemed to shrink to the warmth of skin under his hands and the rare, quiet sighs escaping Aaron’s chest.

Aaron, lulled by the warmth and this new, hypnotic rhythm, began to drift towards sleep. Consciousness blurred like mist. His muscles went completely soft, pliant. He jerked his head awkwardly, trying to shake off the drowsiness, and felt a stray strand fall across his forehead. And then – a touch.

Kevin, almost without thought, mechanically, with the same absorbed focus he’d massaged with – brushed the stray lock back. His fingers barely grazed the skin of Aaron’s forehead, skimmed his temple – a light, fleeting gesture of care, so unlike him. Aaron flinched. Not from pain. From the tenderness that speared through him like an electric current. His eyes flew open for a split second, but he lacked the strength to turn. He froze, listening to the frantic pounding of his own heart.

Silence. Thick, warm, filled only by their breathing and the tremor of that gesture. And then... it happened.

Kevin’s fingers still rested against Aaron’s temple. He, too, seemed frozen by his own action. And then... as if obeying an impulse born in that silence and closeness, Kevin leaned lower. His breath ghosted over the damp skin of Aaron’s neck – hot, uneven. And then – lips. Light, almost weightless, touched the sensitive spot right at the base of his neck. Not even a kiss. More like a silent press. A moment. Heat. A jolt.

Aaron moaned. Softly, stifled, not from pain – from shock and the sudden heat that exploded from the point of contact and flooded his entire body. He shuddered violently, as if electrocuted, curling in on himself, feeling his face flush crimson. God... Kevin... Did he just...?

A moment of awkward silence hung, thick and resonant. Kevin jerked upright as if burned. His breath hitched. He pulled back so fast the bedsprings gave a pitiful shriek.

“Ointment,” his voice rasped, tight, like he’d just run ten laps. “Need... ointment. Warming kind. Or you won’t be able to move tomorrow.”

He stood, almost stumbling, and strode towards his own nightstand with its impeccably medical first-aid kit, his back to Aaron. His shoulders were unnaturally tense, his ears burning so brightly it was visible even in the slanting sunset rays.

Aaron lay motionless, face still buried in the pillow, but the shame and heat were slowly giving way to... confusion and a strange, frightening warmth inside. He heard Kevin rummaging frantically in the drawer, dropping something. He ran away. Like a kid. And for some reason, the thought made the corners of Aaron’s mouth twitch upwards. He gritted his teeth, trying to stifle the stupid smile. His heart hammered like after a sprint. The sharp smell of sports ointment suddenly filled the room, mingling with the scent of sweat and... something new. Something intensely personal.

Kevin returned with a tube. He stood by the bed, hesitating to sit again, shifting his weight. The plastic tube crumpled in his sweaty fingers. His gaze skittered over Aaron’s back, over that spot on his neck where minutes ago... He sharply looked away. Just do it and leave, flashed through his mind, but his legs refused.

Aaron opened his eyes. He didn’t turn, but felt the weight of the gaze on him. Slowly, fighting the lingering stiffness in his neck, he turned his head on the pillow. His gaze – still blurred from interrupted sleep, but with a glint of familiar defiance – met Kevin’s.

Of course, Kevin didn’t miss the traces of exhaustion on Aaron – the dark circles from late nights, the pallor (though, if he was honest, Kevin kind of liked it). The lingering embarrassment, the faint blush on his cheekbones that made the usually quiet, cold, albeit sharp Aaron look almost... cute. But the main thing wasn't the sharpness, it was... understanding? And a barely perceptible, sly spark deep in his gaze.

Aaron saw his confusion, saw him mangling the tube, and... he found it amusing.

“Well, oh great healer?” Aaron’s voice was hoarse from recent drowsiness, but the subtext was clear: "Scared to continue after your little 'surprise'?" “Working out your ointment application strategy? Or changed your mind about saving this 'idiot'?” The corners of his lips twitched, fighting a smile at the sight of Kevin’s tense figure.

Kevin flinched at the direct question, a flush flooding his neck and ears, visible even in the half-light. His eyes darted sideways, lips pressed into a thin white line. He looked like a schoolboy caught red-handed, not the captain of the Exy team.

“Shut up, Minyard,” he exhaled, but it sounded weak, almost devoid of its usual cutting edge. “Just... didn’t wanna wake you. If you were almost...”

Aaron didn’t let him finish. He rotated his sore shoulder – the movement slow, slightly exaggerated, showcasing the residual stiffness, but with an unexpected fluidity that could almost be called... enticing. As if he wasn’t just pointing out the sore spot, but inviting Kevin’s hands back.

“Almost doesn’t count, Day,” he said quieter, a warm, sleepy note entering his voice. “That ointment’s clearly not for decoration. Or are you waiting for a written invitation?”

That look... Blood rushed back to Kevin’s face, but panic was replaced by resolve. He stepped forward sharply, no longer hesitating.

“Don’t take invitations from idiots,” he grumbled, more like his usual self, sitting on the edge of the bed. But in his movements as he squeezed the pungent warming ointment onto his palm, there was none of the previous rough force. There was caution, concentration. And a desire to fix the awkwardness with action.

The first touch—Kevin’s palm, slick with ointment, landed on Aaron’s sore shoulder. Hot! Aaron actually surged forward from the surprise – the ointment wasn’t just warm, it burned with a deep, living heat.

“Whoa!” escaped him.

But Kevin was already rubbing it into the muscles – firmly, confidently, deeply. Pain retreated before a wave of healing fire. Aaron groaned – this time long, low, from relief and almost sweet pain.

“Yeah... like that...” he whispered, letting his head drop back onto the pillow. The muscles beneath Kevin’s palm melted, becoming pliant, warm putty.

Aaron felt the final easing as Kevin worked silently, methodically, coating the entire shoulder and shoulder blade area. The heat penetrated deep, searing away the last remnants of pain, replacing it with a heavy, blissful lethargy. The tension built up over hours dissolved. Aaron relaxed completely, his breathing becoming deep and even. Consciousness drifted again, but this time it wasn’t from exhaustion, but from a deep, pleasant calm. He only dimly registered Kevin’s strong fingers working the ointment in, the heat spreading under his skin, the world turning soft and safe.

The heat of the ointment pulsed beneath his skin, intertwining with the residual warmth from Kevin’s hands. Aaron lay there, nose buried in the pillow, but sleep had retreated, pushed aside by a strange lightness in his muscles and the tense silence hanging between them once more. Kevin still sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on Aaron’s shoulder blade, the ointment now absorbed.

“Better?” Kevin’s voice sounded muffled, unnaturally loud in the quiet. He was clearly trying to reclaim the ‘savior-captain’ role.

“Way better,” Aaron mumbled, not turning. He felt Kevin’s palm twitch slightly. “Thanks, Kev. You...” he hesitated, gathering courage, “...you’re different today.”

Kevin tensed, his hand jerking back as if burned.

“Different?” His voice turned sharp, defensive. “I just did what needed doing. So you don’t let the team down tomorrow. Nothing more. Forget that...” he stumbled, “...episode. It was stupid. Just plain fatigue.”

Denial. Loud, clumsy. Like a shout in an empty room. Aaron slowly rolled onto his back, fighting the lingering stiffness. He pushed himself up on his elbows, his gaze – no longer sleepy, but clear and sharp – meeting Kevin’s eyes. Kevin sat turned away, fists clenched on his knees.

“Forget?” Aaron said quietly, but clearly. There was no anger in his voice, only certainty. “Forget you fixing my hair? Forget your lips touching my neck? Forget you running off like a freshman caught cheating?” He saw Kevin flinch with each word. “That wasn’t an ‘episode,’ Kevin. And it wasn’t ‘fatigue.’ It happened. And it...” Aaron paused, his voice softening, “...wasn’t unpleasant to me.”

Kevin froze. He seemed to stop breathing. He stared at his clenched fists, shoulders trembling with tension. Denial hovered on the tip of his tongue, but the words stuck. He was fighting – himself, this new, terrifying reality.

“Don’t... don’t make it a thing,” he finally forced out, voice hoarse, tight. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does,” Aaron interrupted him, softly but inexorably. He sat up higher. “It means you care. More than you’re willing to show. It means I...” he swallowed, “...matter to you. Otherwise, you’d have just thrown the ointment at me and walked off. Like usual.” His gaze was open, without tricks. “It means everything and more, Kevin Day,” he said, as if savoring each syllable of his name.

Silence. Thick, heavy, filled with the beating of two hearts. Kevin lifted his head. His eyes – dark, full of turmoil and something else, fragile, unfamiliar – met Aaron’s. There was no familiar confidence, only bewilderment and... fear. Fear of being understood. Accepted. Fear of this new, uncharted territory between them.

“I...” he began and stopped again. The denial crumbled under the weight of that gaze and those words. He found no arguments. Couldn’t. He just... sat. Stunned. Vulnerable.

Aaron saw the struggle, the capitulation. He didn’t push. Instead, he slowly, very slowly, pushed back the edge of the blanket beside him, on his own bed. Without a word. Just an invitation. Space. A choice.

Kevin looked at the free space, then at Aaron, then back at the space. Seconds stretched like hours. And then... he surrendered. Not with words, but with movement. He carefully, as if afraid to startle, shifted from the edge of the bed to sit on the floor, his back against the frame, forehead pressed to the edge of the mattress. His shoulders were still tense, but it wasn’t defense anymore. It was... weariness. Deep, genuine.

“I don’t know how to do this...” Kevin’s whisper was barely audible, muffled by the mattress. “...how to care. Like this. Not about the team. About... one person.” He clenched his fingers on his knees. “It’s scary.”

Aaron shifted closer quietly, not touching him.

“It’s not scary,” he whispered back. “It’s... like a blind pass. You just trust. And move forward.” He paused. “And I’ll catch it. Always.”

Another silence. But this one was different. Not heavy, but filled with understanding.

The air seemed to vibrate with the unspoken, and then Kevin turned his head, just slightly, so Aaron could see his profile in the gloom – the clenched jaw, the shadow of long lashes. Their gazes met again. And this time, there was no fear in Kevin’s eyes. Only a quiet resolve and a question.

Aaron understood. He didn’t say anything. He simply leaned in, slowly. He gave Kevin time to pull away. Kevin didn’t move.

Aaron’s lips touched the sensitive skin at the base of Kevin’s neck – as gently as Kevin had once touched his. But this wasn’t a random impulse. It was a choice. An affirmation. A promise. Light as a breath, but heavy with meaning.

Kevin shuddered, but didn’t pull back. A deep sigh escaped him – a stifled sound of relief, capitulation, and acceptance. His hand moved awkwardly, uncertainly, to cover Aaron’s hand resting beside him on the mattress. Fingers intertwined. Hot. Trembling. Real.

They sat like that, in silence, in the dimness of the room. The heat of the ointment on Aaron’s shoulder mingled with the warmth from their joined hands and this new, fragile trust between them. The pain was gone. The tension dissolved. All that remained was a deep, unfamiliar calm. After a while, Aaron’s breathing became deep and even again, his head lolling limply onto the pillow. He fell asleep, but their fingers were still intertwined.

Kevin sat on the floor, leaning his back against the bed, staring into the dark. His mind wasn’t racing with its usual strategy thoughts, only a peaceful fatigue and this strange, warm feeling that now had a name. He carefully disentangled his hand, gently, like handling something precious, brushed the tousled hair back from Aaron’s forehead, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and only then rose. He didn’t go to the desk. He walked to the window, looking out at the campus lights. The evening was quiet, but now that silence was filled with new meaning.

The pain in Aaron’s shoulder had eased. The pain in his own soul – the one he never spoke of – had also receded, dissolving in this strange, new silence. He didn’t look at play diagrams. He just sat, feeling the rhythm of calm breathing behind him – the only score that mattered now. Lights flickered outside, and inside the Foxhole, something important had begun. Not a game. Life. Beneath the skin. At the level of the heart.

Author's Notes: This story was born from my desire to participate in a contest by an amazing author — consider it my entry piece. I adore the Kevin/Aaron pairing, so I decided to start with them. Comments, critique, or just your thoughts mean the world to me as a beginner! Feel free to share what you liked/disliked. Your feedback is my motivation to keep writing! I’d love to hear your impressions 💖

Dedication: My very first real fanfic! So I dedicate it to myself and to someone special. To the person who inspired this story to exist.

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