b a d l a n d s

Brayden tries to listen patiently as Arlo rambles away his explanation, not that he even needs one, but his lips are twitching with the effort to hold in laughter, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he watches him in amusement. 

“Fuck off,” Arlo scowls as Brayden bursts into laughter, brows furrowing even as he relaxes into his boyfriend’s grasp. “It’s not that funny.” He pauses for a moment, enjoying the rhythmic sensation of Brayden’s blunt nails skating across his scalp. “Okay. Maybe it is.” He shrugs, relenting, and his scowl easily morphs into a small, self-deprecating smile. 

Location: Chicago, IL—hotel Date: Saturday, March 30 Time: Early (open)

Alanna is not a morning person. Especially not the night after a party, especially not when their flight isn’t for ages. In a better world, she’d be asleep for hours still. Actually, in a perfect world, she’d sleep right through this hangover. In the real world though, she wakes up at 6am with a horrible taste in her mouth and a head that’s pounding enough to keep her awake the rest of the morning. 

She isn’t sure how long it takes her to roll out of bed and track down painkillers and water, to get dressed and do her makeup as well as she can in this state, but she doesn’t feel much more like a person by the end of it. She needs food. She doesn’t want the continental breakfast either, with its sad looking collection of fruits and oatmeal packets and plain coffee creamers. 

But the prospect of facing Chicago alone? Alanna can just see herself getting lost and missing the flight. Or, worse, calling Cade to come find her in the nick of time—making her the exact opposite of the cool, independent step-sister she wishes she was. 

Thankfully, there are familiar faces in this hotel even at this godawful hour, and Alanna stops the first one she sees. “Hey, any chance you’re hungry? I need bacon. And hash browns. Maybe some eggs too. Definitely a fancy coffee with lots of milk and sugar.” 

One of the very, very few perks of being a college student who abstains from (mostly) everything, is the distinct lack of hangovers he has to endure. He hasn’t had one in years and he definitely doesn’t have one this morning. Which, honestly, makes it all the more pathetic that it’s still so hard for him to get up. He’s a fucking college athlete who routinely wakes up before sunrise, practices intensely multiple times a day, juggles training with schoolwork, and everything in-between and yet - there’s just something about the morning after a game that he can’t quite put his finger on. It could be the partying, of course, but that’s not always a factor (certainly not if they lose) so, more likely, it’s the adrenaline crash. The inevitable burn that comes from flying too high for too long. 

It makes him ache. Everywhere. All at once. 

A good kind of ache, mostly, but still not exactly pleasant.

But, luckily, he has Brayden. Brayden, who shakes him awake not once, but three times after he misses his alarm. Brayden, who all but shoves him into the shower. Brayden, who sends him off on a bleary mission to retrieve, quote, “something fucking edible before we get on this plane.”

He’s in the lobby, staring forlornly at a broken juice dispenser, when Alanna grabs his attention. 

“You had me at bacon.” He grins, wearily, and gestures toward the large double doors on the other side of the foyer. “You think we can brave the masses and make it back here before roll call?”

Location: Fox Party Date: Friday, March 29 Time: Late Night (open)

When Wmyack told them all to enjoy the night, Jen took it to heart. While the Foxes didn’t win, they’re acting like they did, and Jen is reveling in it. That’s part of being a Vixen, just kind of going with the mood of the team they cheer for. They’re grateful there’s a party tonight, because it’s always a little disappointing when they spend their away games in their hotel rooms, especially in a cool city like Chicago. 

The night is kind of a blur, but Jen knows they spent the majority of it dancing between celebratory shots. Now their skin is tacky with sweat, and their makeup is smeared underneath their eyes, but they’re the kind of drunk where everything is too fun to worry about little things like that. At some point, someone must’ve ordered a pizza, because now Jen has a slice of Chicago pizza in each hand, one for themself and one to pass on to anyone who may need it. 

They weave through the crowd, shaking their hips to the beat as they navigate their way around the room until they bump into someone. “Pizza delivery!” Jen exclaims as they hold up the slice they haven’t bitten into yet. “It’s important to soak up the alcohol, and I hear it’s against the law to go to Chicago without eating pizza so…” Jen ungracefully shoves the slice in their direction, a too big smile on their flushed face. 

Arlo snags the clumsily proffered piece of pizza just as a large section of stringy, lukewarm cheese sloughs off the dough. It lands on his wrist and, without missing a beat, he slurps it off. Probably not like, the best manners ever but, hey, it’s a party. Everyone here (except for him) is fucking tossed, which means they likely won’t remember his barbaric display anyway. Plus, he’s fucking starving. 

“You are a saint,” he praises Jen in between bites, eyes bright with infectious joy as he attempts to try and dance and stuff his face at the same time. “Seriously, just when I start to think my best friend can’t get any more amazing, they show up, out of the blue, with sustenance just when I need it the most.” He leans into Jen’s side with a dramatic sigh, mouth still full. “Are you psychic? Do you have some sort of “Arlo Alarm” that goes off in your head when I’m mildly inconvenienced by something? Because, if so, number one: I’m sorry. Deeply, truly sorry. Number two: please keep bringing me random food?”

The pizza, while it puts up a valiant effort, is no match for his hunger. He finishes in record time, even despite the attempt at multi-tasking, and, when he’s done, he fixes Jen with a small, satisfied grin. 

“You having fun?”

Location: Parking Lot Date: March 29 Time: 9:32 p.m. (OPEN)

Akira isn’t ashamed to admit that when the Foxes converged on him on the court…he’d cried. He’d hugged anyone who would let him throw his arms around them and then he hugged them all again. Screw the game. They could lose tonight and Akira wouldn’t care an ounce. They were going to the death match. They’d made it. The Foxes were going places. And the Foxes did lose but…Akira didn’t care. Barely even noticed the scores as they walked off the court, sticks on their shoulders. They’d made it. He felt weak in the knees just knowing it.

It’s a struggle to separate himself from the mass of celebrating Foxes and Vixens in the locker room, but he hurts and, if he’s being honest with himself, he needs a moment to himself. Needs a moment to breathe, to tell himself that this is real. That it isn’t a dream. And the warm water on his shoulders feels fantastic. He lingers there, water running down his body, head resting against the wet wall. Thinking of everything and nothing all at once. He plays the game over and over in his head, reliving the rush of scoring  over and over again. By the time he gets out of the shower the rush hasn’t faded. His hair is damp when he gets dressed and walks back out into the fray, gathering his gear and heading out to the bus to drop it off. 

He shoves it in the storage compartment and spends a little bit of time with Wymack by the bus. They don’t talk much, Wymack never does, but he puts his hand on Akira’s shoulder as he turns to leave and smiles at him an Akira’s heart soars. He’s on cloud nine as he leaves, headed for the nearest person he can find. He doesn’t even care who it is as he slides up next to them, still riding high. “I still can’t believe that we made it. It’s like…like I’m going to wake up and it’s all just a…dream. You know?” Akira fidgets, shifting from one foot to another and shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “You’re going to the party, right?” He smiles. “Come with me?”

Over an hour later and his hands are still shaking, residual adrenaline practically leaking through his pores. He knows, eventually, that when he comes down from this, he’s going to crash hard, but for now, he let’s himself enjoy the weightlessness. The joy. It’s been a long time coming and, fuck it, he’s proud as hell. To be a Fox - a loser who, somehow, still keeps managing to win.

He grins fiercely at the thought as he shoulders his way out into the parking lot, eyes adjusting to the post-stadium dimness. They’ve lost the battle, sure, but they’re one step closer to winning the war. In the grand scheme of things, that’s really all that matters. He’ll take a thousand losses if it puts them even one inch closer to their (to his) dream.

He looks for Brayden in the sea of orange that’s converged around the bus but doesn’t immediately spot him in the chaos, too preoccupied with reminding himself, repeatedly, that this is not a dream. (They’re here. They’ve made it.) He starts, a little, when a nearby voice breaks him out of his reprieve. Akira is standing next to him, shower damp and radiantly triumphant and Arlo wants to hoist him on his shoulders and carry him around like that for the rest of eternity. 

He settles for a smile. 

“Man, you were insane. That was insane. This is insane, right?” He laughs, and he probably sounds just a little hysterical but, like, holy shit. They’re so close, now. “It does feel like I’m dreaming and, any second, I’ll wake up back at the Tower, late for biochem with drool all over my shirt and someone’s gonna yell ‘Psyche!’ or something. It’s just crazy, that this is real.” He reaches out and gives the other striker an affectionate shake. “Fuck yes, I’ll go with you! You’re like, the hero of the night. I’d be honored to escort you to your esteemed admirers.” He gives a little bow, complete with over-exaggerated flourish, before straightening up, still beaming from ear-to-ear.

Brayden didn’t mean for the kiss to turn heated, especially when they’re on the roof, which is everyone’s favorite moping spot. But as Arlo draws him in and lets out those little noises, he can’t help it. Living with two other guys means they don’t get to be together like this as much as they’d like, unless they get creative— like using Brayden’s car, sometimes just as a place to go or to drive somewhere private, like that field they went to watch UFO’s.

A muffled low moan slips out of him as he lets himself get lost in it, carding his fingers through Arlo’s long, dark hair and kissing him deeper. It’s weird to think about when he had that stupid no kissing rule, back when he stuck to one night stands. It was his fucked up way to make sure no one got too close, not even these nameless guys he’d never see again. But Arlo changed everything, and continues to change everything he thought about himself.

He never thought he’d have a boyfriend, let alone one that he could so clearly picture the future with. He never thought he’d have someone important in his life after what happened with his family. It’s still fucking scary, but he’d rather have this and be afraid to lose it than not have it all. 

When the kiss finally breaks, he exhales shakily and licks his lips, his eyes trailing over Arlo’s flushed cheeks and swollen lips. The sight does nothing to help him calm down, but he can’t look away. It’s not hard to agree with him when he feels like this and can’t do a whole lot about it. “Yeah,” He answers quietly and rests his hand on the back of Arlo’s head. 

“You wanna be on my dick?” He playfully asks after a beat with a raised brow, an attempt to lighten the mood a little. “Noted. I’ll pencil you in for…whenever we get the fucking room to ourselves.”

“Uh. Maybe?” In that moment, Arlo is extremely grateful for the unforgiving temperature. His face is already wind-chapped and red, so the uncharacteristic flush that overtakes him is difficult to make out in the low light. He blows out a shaky breath, fighting the urge to fidget, and tries to psyche himself up to have this conversation. 

One that he’s been thinking about for awhile. 

Brayden can’t stop the fond smile from forming on his lips as he looks up at Arlo’s overenthusiastic smile, lifting a hand from his pocket to brush his thumb against the crinkles by his eyes, his skin cold against Arlo’s. “Those are smile lines,” He corrects quietly, wondering when he ever paid attention to shit like that. It’s not like he’ll ever have those, he doesn’t smile enough. Frown lines are kind of a given though. An image forms in the back of his head of an older, grey-haired, wrinkly Arlo, and he finds he likes that idea–growing old with him. 

Unfortunately, it’s still 2019,  and he’s still in the middle of Championships, barely hanging on by a thread. He doesn’t want to bring down Arlo’s never ending optimism, but it’s hard to believe him when he feels like this. “Yeah,” He agrees quietly, sounding unconvinced. “Sorry I’m…being like this,” He gestures to himself before shoving his hand back in his pocket.

Brayden doesn’t miss the slight disappointment on Arlo’s face when the kiss ends too quick, and he purses his lips in an effort to fight off another fond smile. There’s only so much he can give before he starts looking like a puppy. “Yeah?” He asks quietly before leaning in to kiss him again, for real this time. 

As cheesy as it is, this is much more effective than the cigarette, losing himself in kissing Arlo. He never thought a person could do that for him, make his chest feel so full and warm, when he was only just shivering from the cold while spiraling in his own thoughts. 

Brayden tastes like smoke and sharp, winter air. His lips are chapped and cold and his hands, where they rest against Arlo’s waist, spasm with tenuous restraint. He’s fucking perfect. This is fucking perfect, and Arlo slowly comes undone with it - the overwhelming affection and admiration he has for this man. It leaves him lightheaded. Helpless. Adrift. And he finds that he doesn’t really care at all. 

He snakes a hand up to grip the base of Brayden’s neck and uses the newfound leverage to pull him closer, until their bodies are flush against one another. The kiss turns messy, intense, and he can’t help the ragged noises that escape him at the slide of Brayden’s tongue, the brush of his stubbled cheek. He can’t remember the last time they sat somewhere, alone, and just made out.

He’s missed this. 

“Fuck,” he reluctantly pulls away after a few moments, chest heaving. His cheeks are flushed from exertion and beard burn, lips raw and wet. “You are... unfairly good at that.” He shakes his head fondly, but doesn’t move an inch, determined to stay close and leech as much body heat from his boyfriend as possible. “I swear I’m not trying to be like, one of those high maintenance partners that’s gotta be on your dick twenty-four-seven, but fuck.” He sighs. “I miss just being near you, man. I hate that everything’s so busy right now. That every second we’re not preparing for the next match feels wasted. Sucks.” He buries his face in Brayden’s shoulder, digging his nose into the other man’s collarbone.

He growls on instinct, half-feral in that moment when Arlo Booth finally enters his awareness and wrenches him from the place of careful numbness he’s been constructing for himself. He hates him a little for that. He knows that he shouldn’t. That it isn’t fair. Arlo Booth has always been kind to him. He’s treated him fairly, decently. 

But Lucas Ervine had been kind to him, soft and gentle and warmer than anything Raph has ever been able to hold onto before. And he’d still hurt him in the end. Without meaning to or wanting to Lucas Ervine had hurt him. Arlo Booth is being kind now and he is still hurting him, reminding him that he is broken enough to insight pity. What good is kindness if it can hurt him too?

It is better this way. He never deserved to have him in the first place and Lucas Ervine is better off far away from him. He knows this. That hurts too but at this point, it is only a drop in the bucket of countless other collected hurts. 

Raph doesn’t bother to lift his head from where he’s tucked it in his arms and on top of his knees. This is the most vulnerable he’s been out in the open in a very long time and he wants to cling to what little protection he has. Even if keeping his face hidden does nothing to actually protect him, it feels safer like this, less real.

“You don’t need to stay. I will be fine,” he says in a small voice. He doesn’t want for Arlo Booth to feel obligated to stay with him. He doesn’t need his company to recover. He’s dealt with a loss like this before after all. “I don’t even know what half of those things are.”

Arlo sighs quietly and drops into a slightly uncomfortable squat in a halfhearted attempt to shield himself from the worst of the icy wind whipping around them. He brings his hands to his mouth and breathes. Warm, damp air skates over his numb fingertips and he shivers in silent relief.

He stays quiet, for awhile, just allowing his mind to drift while he waits for Raph to respond. It’s not hard, really. He’s exhausted - strung out and running on fumes after two intense practices, class, lab, and an actual mountain of homework. This time of the year is always chaotic but somehow, when it hits, he always feels woefully unprepared. He can only image how hard it must be to deal with all of this on top of such a sudden, unexpected loss.  “I know I don’t need to stay, man. S’not the point.” He shrugs, windbreaker rustling as the fabric rubs together. When he speaks, his voice is soft, but firm. “I was serious, before. I’ll leave, if you want me to. But, if not, then I think I’ll stick around. Fresh air and all that.” He waves a hand, vaguely. 

“Typically it’s the vice captain next,” Grant says, tone dry. Even if that were to change, it would be more Wymack’s call than Grant’s. It’s hard to think about now, but in a few short months this won’t be his team anymore. He knows, on some level he’ll always be a Fox. He knows, on some level, that  he’ll always be able to call Wymack if he needs him. But it won’t be the same.

That’s why this injury is so horrible, even if it is going to heal. Every game—every practice—he has left with this team is vital. His days with the Foxes are numbered now. He hates missing even more.

And what’s he going to leave behind? The captain who got them this close, injured himself, and sat on the bench while the rest did the real work? When Grant took over the captaincy, he didn’t spare much thought to the woman he’d replaced. Unfair, maybe, but he’d been so focused on his own excitement and terror going into the next year. She didn’t leave behind a legacy, not the way Grant wants to—with her there’d been no Championships at all,  let alone a Championship title. This injury means it’s even more important that they go further. He won’t be known for this.

In a few short months, this won’t be Grant’s team anymore, but it will be Arlo’s still. Does that mean Arlo’s won their rivalry by default, just because he’s younger? “Why? You hoping to stage a mutiny?”

He’s right, of course. Traditionally, the captainship has been handed down to the vice at the end of the captain’s last season. But - this team has a lot of talent. And crazier things have happened, right? It’s not outside of the realm of possibility for Wymack to appoint someone else. To shake the status quo. As a returning player, he has to be ready for anything, including a leadership upset. 

And, if he’s really being honest, his curiosity in the matter isn’t... strictly business. 

He and Claudia have history. Complicated history. And seeing the reigns passed down to her - it’s going to be weird, undoubtedly. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to see her as an authority figure. As someone he can have confidence in. Not after everything that’s happened between them. 

He’s going to try. Of course he fucking is. But it’s going to be difficult. A lot more difficult than working under Grant, actually. Because, for all his latent envy and repressed longing, he trusts Grant. Implicitly. He strives to be like him, to be better than him, and somehow that makes things better - not worse. Grant’s more than just a figure. He’s a rival, a silent pillar of support, and a fierce competitor. All things that have earned Arlo’s respect. His (admittedly unspoken) admiration. 

He’s going to leave behind a hole in this team. A vacuum - dead space where there should be order. Substance. And Arlo’s not convinced Claud will be able to fill that. (He’s not convinced anyone will.)

But speculation at this point is mostly pointless. As easy as it is to let his mind wander, to contemplate the future, he needs to focused on the here. On the now. 

Location: Room 324 Date: March 18th Time: 5:34 PM

“It’s called Brunswick stew.” Her voice was softer than the sound of the cut of knife, blade meeting the cutting board with each dice of the potato in her grip. She remembered a time when the knife in her hand had seemed more daunting, child sized palm barely wrapped around the handle, intimidated by the sharpness and size of the weapon. No, not weapon. Tool. But before being expected to take the helm of her father’s kitchen, Marley had seen it used more for the former than the latter. Waved carelessly around as the means of a threat, or more carefully aimed with precision, though it was always the carelessness that was scarier. The unpredictability of it, dependent on his anger, and the strike that had been made against him. 

She’d mistakingly told him of her sister’s running away, in the kitchen. She should have known better. Should have waited until after dinner, but before the drinking, for that sweet spot in the middle where his belly was full and his mind was sedated by it. The food had almost been ready when he’d began calling for her sister. Once should have been enough for her to come running (had she have been there, there wouldn’t have had to have been a first call), but when the sound of her footsteps did not appear, he called again. The second call alone was enough to trigger his temper, her name called louder, more demanding, and still met with silence. His face had turned redder than the stew, hand hitting the counter and making Marley jump with the force, spit flying from his lips with the third, booming call of Emma’s name. It had been three calls too many, his body thrusting forward to go find her for herself, hand instinctively grabbing at the knife on the counter, and though not being there, being in no real harm, Marley found herself speaking up out of pure and utter instinct, to spare her sister. She’s not here, her voice tore through the tense space. Initially, she feared not reaching him, him finding Emma’s empty side of their room for himself. But his body stilled in the entryway of the kitchen, almost eerily so, the only movement being the rising and falling of his shoulders. What do you mean, she’s not here? She did not see his lips move, but could hear the clench of his jaw. She, she’d tried to swallow down her fear, but it sat there in her throat, mouth suddenly dry as she tried again. She’s gone, papa–Marley had barely blinked by the time that he’d turned on her, crowded her against the counter with such force her hand instinctively fell to the stove for balance. Searing heat met her palm, but her focus was on the blade of the knife poised at her throat. What do you mean she’s gone? Where is she? Where the fuck is she, Marley? 

She’d been making Brunswick stew that night, too. Had to clean it up off of the kitchen floor, the cabinets, the ceiling…

A sudden sting brought her back, glancing down to find that she’d since found the end of the potato, but the tip of her finger. “Shit.” As to not contaminate her work, she was quick to pop it between her lips, already moving towards the kitchen sink and turning on the faucet. “Fingers aren’t part of the recipe, I promise.” She gave her guest a half-hearted smile, sticking her hand underneath the running water. “It’s been pretty chilly, lately. Best time to make it.”

“Shit, you okay?” Arlo steps fully into the suite, finally moving away from the spot where he’d been hovering, awkwardly leaning against the door jam. “I don’t think I’ve got a band-aid with me, but, I know I’ve got some sport tape and gauze in here?” He jiggles the duffel bag that’s thrown over his shoulder for emphasis.

“Oh, and sorry. You know.” He waves a hand, vaguely. “For sort of just standing there like a dumbass? I was headed out to the library but the smell sort of drew me in. And you looked so ‘in your element’ that I didn’t want to interrupt?” Arlo shrugs, shooting her a sheepish grin. “It was like watching the Food Network or something. You were so focused. You even have the fancy knife work, like Rachel Ray or something.” 

He’s honestly a little jealous. There are times when the cafeteria food, as carefully planned and nutritious as it is, just doesn’t cut it. And, while he’s an adequate cook (had to have been, to look after himself in the years after his dad was incarcerated) he’s not great. He doesn’t enjoy it. It’s just another thing to keep him going. Another means of survival. 

He wishes, sometimes - in the wistful way that people often do when they know the thing they want is so far removed from their reach - that his mother had left behind some of her recipes. The authentic, soul-satisfying food his Dad used to reminisce about as they ate lukewarm wings from the dive bar down the street. 

It would have been nice. To have that - some part of her, no matter how small. 

“I know you’re probably close to finishing up but, do you want some help? I can at least do the dishes or something. Give you a minute to catch your breath?”

Brayden sags a little when he hears Arlo’s voice, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. He looks over his shoulder and frowns when he sees the thin jacket he has on. “What the fuck are you wearing?” He asks with a sigh. It’s a little hypocritical considering he’s practically curled in on himself because he’s only wearing a hoodie, but that doesn’t mean he wants Arlo following his lead. 

As soon as he feels his boyfriend pressed against his side, he wraps his arm around his waist and tugs him closer. Body heat is probably their best bet right now, and that’s the only reason he then rests his cheek against Arlo’s shoulder, not because he needs the extra comfort right now. He bites back the urge to point out how easy it is for Arlo to say that when his brother is already out of the Championships, but he’s not going to hurt him just because he feels like shit right now. He likes to think he’s grown past that phase in his life. And knowing Arlo, it’s not actually easy for him at all. That isn’t how he wanted the Trojans out of the running. 

“Great, next it’ll be wrinkles,” He mumbles sarcastically before gritting his teeth in an attempt to choke down the growing frustration. “I dunno. Feels like since we just lost to a team we beat before, our chances of beating the rest are pretty fucking slim.”

Before Brayden can take another soothing drag from his cigarette, it’s plucked from his mouth. The protest dies on his lips as Arlo brings the cigarette up to his own, and he can’t help but watch as he wraps his lips around it. It’s pathetic how that small move distracts him enough to forget about the cigarette all together. 

Rolling his eyes, he leans in and gives Arlo a quick, chilly kiss. “How long have you been waiting to use that line?” He asks with an amused snort. He wouldn’t say he feels better yet, but with Arlo here he feels less like he’s drowning in his own self-deprecating thoughts. 

Brayden leans into him and Arlo feels himself relax marginally, something in his spine unfurling at the touch. It’s not a lot, really. Just Arlo, taking some of his weight, holding him up. Touches like these should be ordinary - commonplace, by now.

But, to Arlo, they’re still new. Still so fucking special, because it means Brayden trusts him. Implicitly. Enough to be vulnerable. To let his guard down, even if it’s just a little. That’s huge, for both of them, and he can’t help the rush of pride that overtakes him with every brush of the hand. Every lingering look. Every tug or pat or press. 

Arlo keeps quiet, gaze fixed on the horizon, but he can’t quite keep the soft, satisfied smile off of his face. 

“Everyone has wrinkles,” he answers after a moment of silence, shaking his head fondly. “Me included.” As if to emphasize his point, he deepens his grin to almost comical levels and proceeds to point out the faint crow’s feet it causes around his eyes. “See? Totally normal.” He brings a hand up to playfully ruffle Brayden’s hair, expression easing back into quiet contentment. “And, dude. We’ve come back from worse than this, right? I think he still have a chance.”

The kiss, when it happens, is warm and dry and sweet. And, of course, over much too fucking quickly. He doesn’t pout, because he’s an adult, but he does shift his gaze back to the horizon with a slight air of disappointment. “Awhile.” He answers, surprisingly truthful. It’s just that, lately, with everything going on (school and the championships and supplementary practice and strategy sessions) they haven’t had much time for.... this. For them. And he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t miss it. 

Location: Fox Tower Roof Date: Thursday, March 21 Time: Night Status:(open)

The room is empty. Half of it is stripped bare. All of it is wrong. There should be a yellow comforter on the bed, a mess of video games and paper and pens on the desk, clothes in the dresser. It should not be empty. Lucas Ervine should be here. He isn’t.

Raph sits on the bed. The air here stills smells a bit like Lucas Ervine but that will fade in time Perhaps the ache will too. 

This shouldn’t come as a surprise. Raph should just be grateful he had the chance to be near him at all. He certainly didn’t deserve to be. People have always been impermanent fixtures in his life. Everyone leaves and they do not come back. Everyone except for Frank. This isn’t the first time he’s had this thought. He’s always known this at his core. But it is the first time this has hurt so much, cracking something inside of him and sliding it out of place, the broken edges of it grinding against his ribs whenever he tries to breathe. 

He leaves that place where nothing is right and the last trace of Lucas Ervine’s presence in his life is fading. The Fox Tower’s roof isn’t much of a hiding place but it’s close by and far off the ground and he can curl in the darkest corner furthest from the door and he can breathe through the awful, choking pain that’s filled his chest and he can try not to feel anything at all. 

He doesn’t notice when the Fox Tower door slides open.

It’s not his problem. 

It really, really isn’t. He’s got two term papers due by the end of the week, a lab report to finish by tomorrow, six slides to identify under a ‘scope, and a greenhouse full of plants that need watering by the end of the night because he drew the short straw again in his Greenhouse Management course. 

It’s not his problem. 

He just came up here for a quick smoke break. Fifteen minutes, tops. And then back to work. 

Except there’s Raph, curled into himself like a wounded animal, looking fucking wrecked, and Arlo knows. Of course he knows. They all do. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before - they’re Foxes, after all. Heartbreak is kinda in the job description. But this is Raph and Arlo’s willing to bet this hasn’t happened for him, yet. 

That this is a first.

And Arlo’s biggest weakness has always been his team. He cares, relentlessly, about all of them - sometimes against his own better judgement. But he can’t just... walk away. Not without at least offering his company. Raph, of course, may not want it. And honestly, that’s understandable. But, on the off chance that he does, Arlo’s not going anywhere - term papers be damned.

He comes to stand near to Raph, making sure to keep a comfortable distance between them, and drops his bag to the ground. Silence reigns for a moment as he fishes his lighter out of his pocket. Out of respect, he’s not actually going to smoke, but having something to fiddle with helps him relax. 

   When Indigo first figured out that Arlo had an interest in fashion, and better yet, had leanings towards being a little camp just like she did, their friendship fell into place from there. It helped that Arlo was a very talented striker, too, someone that Indigo could find herself looking up to naturally. She’d never admit it, not to his face, but Arlo had formed into quite a role model role for the blonde. 

   It made days like this easy-going. Something small to enjoy. 

   That was the best part about The Foxes, and Palmetto in general. All of their unique differences were celebrated here, encouraged even. She’d thrown herself right into that environment, and it was those little displays of acceptance (like she and Arlo’s fashion debates) that made being part of this world all the more special. 

   “Yeah… I mean, I guess it would be nice to win the same year I finally become a striker,” Indigo mused, turning her smile into a smirk as she lightly prodded an elbow at him. “Maybe all this time, that is all the Foxes have needed. A little bit of me out there scoring?” She opened the vanilla coke in her hand to take a drink, planning to just pay for it when she got to the register. 

   Until now, Indigo had been too nervous to even picture a win like that for the Foxes. She hated disappointment.

“You may be onto something,” he muses, cutting her a mischievous grin. 

She is good. It’s not a secret. Maybe it’s because they play the same position,. or because of their off-court friendship, but he finds himself watching her in practice sometimes. Comparing her to himself. To Brayden. To all of their veteran strikers. Her style is different, for sure. But he thinks, with time, she’ll be a force to be reckoned with.

It would be nice, for them to pull out a win. To allow their freshman to transition into their sophomore year with a championship under their belt would probably be a hell of a confidence booster - and a hell of a legacy.

They lapse into silence again for a moment as they pay for their gas station fare and head back out into the cold. Arlo, of course, immediately rips into his taquitos as they walk. They’re still piping hot and he burns both the tips of his fingers and the roof of his mouth as he scarfs them down, but it’s a price he’s more than willing to pay. 

“Okay,” he starts around a mouthful, “question: what are you wearing for the next after party? I’ve gotta know because, personally, I don’t think anything can top what you pulled out last week.”

Grant’s look of horror must be obvious, despite all his years of practice with the media, because Arlo is quick enough to reassure him. It isn’t necessarily that Grant thinks the Foxes will fall apart the moment he misses a practice—but he can’t be sure that isn’t the case either. For better or for worse, he wants to be there, even if it’s from the bench. 

So often, being at the helm of a team like the Foxes feels like endlessly putting out fires. Maybe he’s become more obsessive as a result, so convinced that any lapse in his judgement or dedication would mean things hurtling off the rails. Clearly, that isn’t the case, at least for one or two practices. Grant has the decency to look chagrined when Arlo makes it clear that his comments were just a joke. He shouldn’t doubt his team.

Well. Grant shouldn’t doubt the entire team. He’s almost positive there are some—Sasha comes to mind—who would love to see a bad practice devolve into a brawl. 

But despite the way he complains or chastises, Grant doesn’t truly believe the team as a whole needs him to function. That’s part of the captaincy: he believes in them wholeheartedly, with or without him. He just hadn’t thought the without him part would come so soon. 

At least it won’t be forever. As long as the Foxes stay in the running while he heals, Grant will get at least one more game with them. As long as their timeline is right for his recovery, as long as nothing goes wrong, as long as Grant doesn’t injure himself further on accident—he shifts, uncomfortable, and stops those thoughts as best he can.   

“A Championships miracle,” Grant counters. That seems more important than a months old holiday. Then again, he’d thought the Championships were more important even during the Christmas season, so what does he know? “Well, good,” he adds, somewhat uselessly. “We’ll need that focus, going forward.”

He tries very hard not to think about what happens if it isn’t enough either—forever a pressing thought, but worse when he’s on the bench. When they’re going to play soon enough, and Grant won’t be able to do a damn thing to help the team. “If nothing else, I guess this is good practice,” Grant says. The attempt to put a positive spin on it falls flat, even to his own ears. “For when I graduate, I mean. Maybe we should consider this a trial run.” 

“Hadn’t thought of it that way,” Arlo muses quietly, relaxing further into his seat as some of the awkward tension drains from the air. It’s something that, if he’s honest, he hasn’t really allowed himself to contemplate that much. How finite their time on this team is. How fleeting this sense of family, of belonging, really is. 

After all, no matter how good any of them are, they’re all replaceable. That’s the nature of this shit - they eventually have to move on, and then they get replaced. It’s how it has to be, even if it stings. Even if he wishes he could just... stay. Indefinitely. Here. Where, despite all the chaos and unpredictability, things still manage to make sense. 

He releases a breath through his nose and forces himself to return to the conversation. To push down his lingering apprehension, his fear of the future, for another time. 

Location: Fox Tower Roof Date: March 15 Time: Post-Game (open)

Brayden feels stupid for sulking, especially because hiding after a game is starting to become a tradition for him. They’re in a good enough place that this loss doesn’t seriously ruin their chances, but he feels like they no longer have that grip on Championships that they used to. The Ravens beat the Trojans, and they can’t even beat the Bruins. Maybe, his mistake was thinking he could actually do this in the first place, finally prove himself. It feels like a one-sided competition anyway with his brothers weird encouraging text messages and surprise birthday presents. Or Landon is just so unbothered by the Foxes that he’s not even considering the possibility they’d do better than the Ravens. 

He lets out a groan and buries his face in his hands, annoyed with his own train of thought. This is the reason he stays with Betsy every summer and has to see her twice a month, because he just can’t stop. He knows he’s come a long way since he first joined the team, but there’s a difference between knowing and feeling. And sometimes, he feels like he’s still that lost eighteen year old, especially when his hands tremble like this, and he craves something stronger than a cigarette. 

Placing the cigarette between his teeth, he buries his trembling hands in his jacket pockets, tucking his chin against his knees in an effort to combat the cold breeze. Smoking on the roof during winter wasn’t the smartest idea, but he feels too caged in his dorm right now. He hears the door bang open behind him and doesn’t even react, still tucked in on himself. “Hey,” He greets, words muffled by the cigarette. “Here to join the party? Good luck, it’s fucking freezing up here,” He makes an effort to sound unaffected, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work. He’s a fucking terrible actor. 

“Is it?” Arlo replies breezily, fighting a full body shiver. “I hadn’t noticed.” He steps out onto the landing in a thin sweat jacket and a pair of threadbare jeans, obviously unprepared for a prolonged stay outdoors.

He crosses over to where Brayden’s bundled up against the wind, nose and cheeks rosy from the chill, and drops down into a squat next to him, staring unabashedly at his solemn profile. His gaze catalogues his boyfriend’s thick lashes. His strong jaw and soft hair. Each of the individual callouses on his fingertips. 

He’s so fucking gorgeous and so unbelievably brave.

Arlo lets out a small sigh. It creates a puff of steam that dissipates before it can mix with the lingering smoke in the air.

“Thought I’d find you out here. You’re getting predictable in your old age, dude.” He leans into Brayden’s side and jabs his gently in the ribs with his elbow, smiling softly. “You okay? I mean, I know we lost, but it wasn’t that bad, right? We at least got in a few solid goals.” The encouragement rings a bit hollow, even to his own ears, but he holds onto it with his usual brand of tenacity. “I think we’ll be alright.”

They lost a battle: not the war. 

That’s all that matters, right now. They’re still in this.

He’s still in this.

Without thinking, he reaches out and snags the cigarette that’s been dangling between Brayden’s lips. He takes a drag with hands trembling from the cold, exhales heavily, and then  unceremoniously tosses the butt off of the roof.

“Your mouth’s always occupied.” He says in lieu of an explanation, shrugging. “Starting to get a little jealous.”

Back in Palmetto, it feels like last week could have been a dream: Did he really go home? Did they really win in the death match? Did Leo really win a fight, after months spent playing his own failure out in his head, dreaming it was different, dreaming that he won?

Of course, back in Palmetto, the death match now behind them, some of the immediate rush has worn off. Leo won a fight, Leo earned his red card—and he doesn’t regret it, but it always stings to sit out. But, at least, when he gets back on the court, it won’t be with his fight against the Ravens hanging over his head, painting him as an easy target: a player who didn’t fight—who, even when he started fights, couldn’t finish them,  who hurt himself more than he hurt his opponent. A fucking joke.

He wants to control his image. He wants people to see him as he wants to be seen. So many times, he feels like that’s been taken from him—even if the only person that took it from him was, well, himself. He failed on the Ravens. He failed on the Foxes, too: struggling so many games this season without a point, breaking his hand in front of a screaming crowd.

But, if he’s turning things around, then he’s doing that, too: He scored against the Rebels, another goal added to a tally that’s growing, even if it’s still modest, still far away from the scoring title he won on the Tritons; He showed that he could throw a goddamn punch, that he could stand his ground on the court, that he could make someone bleed.

He holds onto that, as he watches the games that will help determine who they play in the next round, knowing that—for the first game, at least—he won’t be playing. “If we go fast we could hit up a drive through,” he offers, looking up at Arlo with a grin, making his keys jangle in his pocket so it’s clear he’s offering to drive. “Or, like, make a beer run. We could turn this into a drinking game—say, take two drinks every time the commentators manage to shit talk us even when we’re not on the court?”

He doesn’t expect Leo to respond. In fact, even directing the question at him in the first place had been a shot in the dark. For a long time, Leo was one of those people on the team that felt almost....unreachable, to him. Preoccupied and self-internalized in a way that Arlo truly couldn’t understand - though, not for lacking of trying.

He’d reached out a few times, sure. Tried to offer the other striker advice. A listening ear. Something. But, he’d always come away from it feeling like he’d done more harm than good. 

In the end, he’d backed off. Opted to give Leo space - room to try and figure out whatever it was that was bothering him so much. (Because, for some Foxes, space has been the only thing that’s ever mattered. That’s ever helped. Space and time.)

So, he’s surprised when the other striker answers. Even more so when he seems genuinely interested in hanging out with him. Surprised, but happy. 

“I like the way you think,” Arlo replies with an earsplitting grin, eyes crinkling with mischief as he begins to trek down the bleachers toward the exit. “As long as you don’t care what I’m drinking, that is.” He throws over his shoulder, shrugging lightly. “Not a beer person, but, I still think we can still make this interesting. You ever have kombucha? It’s... pretty fucking rank. Sasha made me try it a few weeks ago because, according to her I ‘eat like a seven year old and need more probiotics in my diet’”Arlo rolls his eyes before continuing, “but it tastes like actual fermented piss.” 

“I say we hit up that fancy corner store a few block over and grab some. That way, when we take shots, it’s punishment for both of us.” Arlo pauses momentarily, turning back at the bottom of the stands to fix Leo with a slightly apprehensive look. “That is, unless you like kombucha. In which case: one, please forget I just went on a totally off-base rant about it and, two, we can go get burgers?”

Juggling school with exy had become increasingly hard for Sydney now that they were in the postseason. She barely had time to work on any of her assignments outside of class so when the opportunity finally arises, she takes it. 

By the time Sydney looks at her phone, she realizes it’s time for a break. Besides, if she has to mix another color together to get the perfect shade of pink she might just snap. She finally gets up from her stool and heads towards the door, stretching her arms above her head and wondering how much damage the paint fumes have done over the years. It’s not until a familiar voice rings out in the hall does she snap out of her thoughts. 

She picks up on what Arlo’s saying immediately. “Arlo, there you are!” Sydney jogs down the hall towards him, trying to hide the smile on her face; this wasn’t the first time she had to rescue him from someone in the building. She steps in between the two, much to the dismay of the photographer. “Sorry, but I have to steal him. Our exy coach will be pissed if we’re both late to the court. I’m sure you understand.” She offers a sympathetic smile, hoping it’s enough for them to get the hint and leave. 

She waits until the other student is out of earshot before turning back to Arlo. “Photography majors, am I right?” It’s no surprise to her that the other students in the art department fawn over him whenever he’s there. She was almost tempted to put up signs that said ‘LEAVE THIS MAN ALONE’  with his photo so he could come and go as he pleased. 

To his immediate relief, Sydney plays along. In a truly expert move, she manages to both excuse them without incurring the unmitigated wrath of the photography grad student and do so in a way that, while polite, brokers absolutely no argument . 

She really is a pro at saving his ass.

As soon as the other student is out of view, he heaves a relieved sigh and bumps Sydney’s hip companionably with his own in a show of silent thanks. 

“You’re telling me. You’d think I would have learned my lesson by now, but, I just can’t stay away.” As if on cue, his eyes trail down the hall, toward the last door on the left, which happens to be the lounge. Which happens to house this floor’s vending machines.

“Walk and talk?” He asks, gesturing toward his destination - though, really, that should already be pretty obvious for Syd. He’s been coming here (and, subsequently, running into her) for months now, in pursuit of his illusive Takis. “What are you working on, this week? Still chasing that perfect shade of pink? Or have you moved on? I hear green’s nice, this time of year.” He shoots her a playful smile, unable to help himself from teasing, just a little.