#kean

you don’t even bother turning around. you shrug him off, pushing your way through the crowd. 

the music is loud, and your head’s pounding. it reeks of sweat, and cheap cologne. something stubbornly sweet clings to the walls, and there’s empty cans and glass bottles clinking against your shoes with every step you take to get away from him. none of it matters, though. you can hear him follow behind as you slink into the hallway. 

“kean. will you take a fucking hint?” 

“but i’m so close to believing that you actually want me to leave you alone.”

“i do.” you turn towards him, frowning. “i don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“aw. don’t be like that, cap.” cold hands crawl down your sides, fingers featherlight against your skin to toy with the prop knife hanging off your hips. “did i hurt your feelings?”

you scoff, making an attempt to push past him. he catches your wrists easily, before turning your hands over so carefully in his own. “you fucking wish.”

“uhuh, okay.” you feel kean’s lips curl against the heel of your hands as he laces them with his own, presses a kiss to where your pulse is racing. you think he can hear it, too. think he sees right through you when he narrows his eyes. looks down at you through sweeping lashes, the black tears of his costume’s makeup running down his face, which he leans down to be level to yours. “you’re jealous, aren’t you?”

“no.” you yank your hands away from his. “you’re delusional.”

“come on, darling captain,” he murmurs, something eager in his voice. “you want me to say sorry? hm? is that what you need from me?”

“i want you to leave me alone,” you retort, “and go find the girl that kissed you instead.”

he runs a hand down his face, and it comes away smudged from the dark makeup around his eyes. “life’s already hard enough,” kean sighs. “i don’t need you making me harder, cap.”

“wow. it’s nice to know your dick’s at least bigger than your brain.”

“whoops,” he grins, and it’s lazy and self satisfied and you’re annoyingly overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kiss it off his face. “freudian slip, cap.” he leans down so that you feel him smile against the helix of your ear, “but fuck that. let’s get out of here.”

“you’re such a walking cliche,” you scrunch your nose. but this time, when he wraps a hand around the back of your neck, you don’t protest. 

“you love it, cap.” you let him lead you down the hall, pushing through writhing, dancing bodies. cutting straight through conversations. his palm is warm, curled against the nape of your neck. “don’t lie to yourself.”

you roll your eyes, but your words lack bite. “fuck you.”

“took you long enough to ask,” he grins. laughs, then, when you shoot him a withering look over your shoulder, just as he pushes one of the doors lining the hallway open. he lets go of you, and you stumble into the room. 

“no lights?” you ask, squinting at the darkness and managing to make out a washing machine. the vague shape of a laundry basket, spilling over with a pile of dirty clothes.

“so eager to see me?” he taunts, just as the door slams shut behind him. 

“forget it,” you step around a pair of socks lying on the floor and prop yourself up onto the washing machine, legs resting against the frontloader. “why’d you bother bringing me here? i don’t want to spend half my night in a room full of dirty clothes with you.”

“if it makes you feel better, cap, we’ve been in worse places,” he offers. "too many to count, yeah?"

you snap your fingers, something like pride unfurling within you. that warm feeling you get when you look to your past, feeling so glad to be on the other side of it. wondering what you would give to go back and do it all over again. “we used to be fucking insane, didn’t we? the school library, behind the auditorium curtains, the back of your dad’s car. god,” you groan, turning to him. “we didn’t even fog up the windows, did we?”

“nah,” he shakes his head, sounding just as proud. “and my dad knew, did i ever tell you that? he made me clean it inside out that weekend. gave me a long speech about saving it for marriage."

“oh my god,” you groan, running your hands down your face in shame. “i’m mortified. he probably thinks i’m some sort of degenerate sex addict.”

“but darling captain,” kean makes a show of feigning surprise. “you’re trying to tell me you aren’t?”

“shut up,” you snap. “this is serious, kean. your dad probably hates me now. i mean, i haven’t even met him yet and—”

“yet?” 

there’s something about the way in which he repeats it, like it’s a question. something downright perverse in how much it wants. you feel like you’ve been caught asking for something you have no right to desire. shame threatens to consume you, as you make an attempt to backtrack. 

“yeah. well, i’m bound to see him at formal school events, right? he’ll be at graduation and awards night, so…” you trail off, wondering whether he’ll believe you. “i figured…”

“yeah, that makes sense.” kean swallows, and it makes his adam's apple more prominent. you think he might be nervous, and the sight of it is lovely. you wish, again, that the lights were on so you could see him properly, but in the darkness of the laundry room, all you can make out is the shape of him. 

“i’m still mad at you, by the way.”

“when are you not?” he mutters.

“you’re the one who wanted to do matching costumes and shit, kean! and then you’re just going around fucking with other people?”

“you don’t own me.” he says slowly, as if he wants to hear what you have to say. there’s no explanation, there. something closer to a question, instead.

you trace the edges of his silhouette in the darkness and wonder why he always looks so much more unfamiliar when it’s just you and him. 

“i know,” you concede, even though you want to say otherwise. the way he’s looking at you… you get this strange feeling that you’ve failed some sort of test. “i don’t own you… but it’s not about you, kean. you can go run around with whoever you like. it’s about how it looks for me,” you lie. “i have a reputation, you know.”

“of course you do, cap. my very own degenerate sex addict,” he mocks.

“kean. you’re pissing me off,” you point out, jabbing an accusatory finger to his chest. “again.”

“yeah? you say that like it’s a bad thing, darling captain.” he intertwines your hands together, runs his thumb over your knuckles, taking his time with the callouses on your hands from all those hours of bass and guitar. “maybe i like you when you’re mad. you’re so…”

“what?” you prompt, and it’s so fucking eager. you’re glad he can’t see you right now. but you really, really wish he could. “what am i?”

“you’re you,” kean says, simply. “you’re so far away from anything i could ever be.”

you focus on the feeling of his hands against yours. the way the pads of his fingers draw small circles into your skin, over and over again. you could lose yourself to the feeling, you think, if you really let yourself fall into it. 

“i already know i’m better than you,” you force yourself to laugh. “so if that’s what you mean, then try again.”

“yeah.” he rests his head on your shoulder, and you feel the strands of his hair brush against your neck, electric-blue and black. feels silky. soft. “you are.”

from somewhere far away, the sound of loud laughter spills through the laundry door, and you can feel the music’s bass thrumming in your head. everything else is quiet, except for the sound of his breathing. the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. a steady hush settles over the room, like a pall of fog, rolling in low, until you can’t quite see anything clearly anymore. 

time slows to a crawl. every second stretches on longer and you’re struck, suddenly, by the realisation that none of this will last. an overwhelming longing comes over you, and it’s something like mourning without having yet lost anything at all. 

“what are we doing, kean?”

his voice is barely above a whisper in an echo of your own. “what do you want to be doing, cap?”

“i can’t stand running in circles.” you look up, tearing your gaze away from his hands enveloping yours and force yourself to stare at the thin strip of light which spills into the darkness of the laundry through the gap at the bottom of the door. “i want something real.”

“yeah?” you feel him laugh against your skin. low. wry. “this isn’t real to you?”

“i don’t know.” you admit, leaning your head against his. every word feels like taking off your clothes. laying yourself bare. “have you ever been honest with me?”

“always.”

“and you’d never lie to me?”

he pulls away from you, lets go of your hands. “why are you acting like you don’t already know the answer to that?”

“maybe i don’t.” 

you don’t dare look away. you don’t know what you’re hoping to see on his face, but you can’t bear the thought of it not being there. 

“talk to me, darling captain.” you can’t even look at him, even when he cups your jaw, carefully tilts your face up with both hands. “what’s this really about?”

“i don’t know.” your eyes sting. “you just matter a lot to me, kean. i don’t know.”

“you’re—” his breath stutters. your hands instinctively fly to your face, ashamed, but he’s quick to hold your face in his hands, thumbs swiping the tears away. 

“shit. sorry. i think the drinks are getting to me.”

“you’re crying,” he marvels, breathless. his palms are clammy and his touch burns hot. “why are you crying?”

“i don’t know,” you mumble. the more carefully he holds you, the gentler he cradles you, the more you wish you were someone braver. “i really don’t know.”

kean’s fingers fall from your face. skim down your neck, over your throat, until they’re digging into your shoulders. the sharp sting of pain forces you to finally turn to him. you meet his eyes in the dark, catch something strange through the tears. something you’ve never really seen so strongly before, in anyone besides yourself. 

it’s desperate.

“do you want me to tell you i love you?” kean says. “because i can. i can do everything, if you want me to.”

it unnerves you.

“why did you let her kiss you?” you murmur, dragging your thumb over the smeared lipstick stain marring his neck. 

something changes in that second, the exact moment you speak. you don’t know if it’s the darkness playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn that his face falls for a second. something falters, a flicker of disappointment, before smoothing over impassively. 

he smiles then, and it’s perfect, and he's perfect, and everything feels like it goes back to normal. 

“you want to know why i let her kiss me?” you nod wordlessly, and he only grins in response. “easy,” he says. “because i knew it would piss you off.”

“so you wanted me to be upset?”

“yep,” he responds easily. 

“but i thought you liked me?”

he frowns, considering you like you’ve just asked him a stupid question. “well, yeah,” he says slowly, tilting his head to the side. “why would i want to do any of this to you if i didn’t?”

“kean,” you shake your head, “that makes no sense.”

“does it really need to?” he sighs, clearly bored with the conversation. “you asked me why i did it, so i told you. thought you were smarter than that, though.” he adds. “play stupid games, win stupid prizes, cap.”

“yeah, but... i mean, do you think it worked?” you ask, playing with the hem of his costume’s miniskirt. 

“baby,” he taunts. "i’m not as dumb as you are. see?” your fingers slip under the thick plaid to wrap around the drawstrings of his sweats, acutely aware of the way his own hands curl into tight fists by his sides. “you get petty just like this when you’re jealous. it’s hot.”

“you talk too much,” you groan, ignoring the amused laugh that slips past his lips. “just… shut up and kiss me, kean.”

“so intent on being kissed,” he muses. “aren’t you?”

the words sound familiar, lingering uncertainly at the forefront of your mind for a few moments but you don’t quite manage to place them, before they dissipate into nothing but the feeling of the boy in front of you. 

“hurry up,” you mutter. 

“patience, baby.” kean practically buzzes against you, something simmering beneath his warm skin. he catches your wrists, twists them both behind your back as he pushes you closer against him, palm splayed over the small of your back. “you don’t want to take it off me first?”

you frown, and it’s only when he turns his face to the side, that your confusion sharpens to clarity, just as kean’s voice drops to something barely above a whisper. 

“make it go away,” he repeats, baring his neck. “it’s all yours.”

you stare at the remnant of the kiss marring his skin. so small, yet so impossibly fucking irritating. his eyes glitter in the dark, focused on the way in which you consider him. 

“i don’t want to be nice,” you confess.

something in kean’s eyes flashes. he swallows. his breathing is so shallow, but you pay no mind to the rapid rise and fall of his chest. focus, instead, on the way his blue eyes are framed by that black liner. the streaks of mascara running down his jaw. how pretty he looks right now, the picture of ruination.

“yeah, baby?” his voice is hoarse. strained. he tenses when you lick the side of his neck, right over the lipstick stain, muscles pulled taut. you marvel at the restraint it takes him not to touch you. “you don’t need to be.” you wonder how far you can push him before he goes insane. “you can do whatever you like, love.”

you think of manicured nails trailing down the lean muscles of his torso, stopping at his pants, and coyly toying with the zip. you think, because he mentioned she was a makeup artist, of wide, smoky, eyes looking up at him through gorgeous lashes, of a woman on her knees before him, looking so beautiful with her glossy lips around him. 

hence, at these disgusting fantasies you’ve conjured in your sick mind, your tone changes, now dripping with something as sweet and stifling as thick honey. what was before a feigned indifference is now a blatant, yet false, display of saccharine affection—

“i want to make it hurt.”

“baby,” kean breathes out. “you already have.”

and then your teeth are sinking into him, and it feels like retribution. 

the golden boy, melting like butter before you. you wish, not for the first time, that you had an audience to enjoy this performance of yours. to witness the way he falls apart just for you. kean shudders, when you suck at the sensitive skin. run your tongue over the stain. 

you’ve always known he was selfish—you just wished, for once, that you were wrong. you hoped you were the one exception.

he bites back a curse as you pull away from him, the thin string of saliva that connects you two. breaks apart when you look at your handiwork; the smudge is still there, albeit faded, framed by a ring of teeth marks that stand out, shaded a pale pink. 

you think about how hard you’d need to bite him to leave behind blood. how nice he would look, his pale skin beneath rivulets of—

“red.”

you still, your heart racing.

it feels like alarm bells are going off in your head when you remember your promise, a dull panic settling over and seeping into you, hook, line, and sinker. you were supposed to be there for her—you promised. the producer, she said—

‘one hour, or i’ll never forgive you.’

“fuck,” you gasp, “fuck! kean, get off me.”

“you’re joking.” kean shakes his head, keeping your wrists in place. he laughs, but the sound falls flat. it’s incredulous and unyielding. “no, baby, no. you’re not doing this again.”

“let me go,” you try to twist your arms out of his hold, but his fingers dig into your skin painfully. you kick at him, legs flailing in a desperate attempt to get him off, the panic turning into something more lucid. but it’s no use, because there’s no space for you to actually touch him. “get the fuck off of me!”

“no!” he hisses. “you can’t just— you can’t just take it away—”

you close your eyes for a moment, willing your voice to stay steady. be patient. you open your eyes, and try to smile at him. “kean, i need to find red. let me go.”

“are you fucking serious?”

“please.”

“cap, don’t be like that. why can’t you just—” he pulls you back by the wrists to get a good look at you, gaze searching your face for an answer. there’s something frantic about it. the way he’s looking at you is so unlike him. his eyes are blown wide, so fucking desperate. “why can’t you just stay right here? i’m sure your friend doesn’t need you, she—”

“i’m going to scream,” your smile drops, patience running thin. “get the fuck off of me, kazim, before everyone in this house thinks you’re a fucking—mmph!”

“shut up,” he clamps his other hand down on your mouth. you wrench your head to the side, try to bite him, but it’s no use. his palm is pressed flat against your lips, fingers holding onto your jaw painfully tight. “baby, you know i’ve never asked you for anything before.” kean says, voice strained. “but please. don’t go.”

with both hands firmly keeping you quiet and in place, he presses feverish kisses wherever he can. your nose. your eyes. your ears. “you said you wanted something real.” his kisses grow sloppier. open-mouthed and messy. “you said you didn’t want me to lie to you, yeah?”

you shake your head, but he’s too strong. his hand keeps you right in place. your neck feels like it’ll snap off if you keep jerking it to the side, so you go still in his hold when he tears himself off of you, buzzing with energy and barely-there restraint as he leans down to meet you eye to eye. 

“let me tell you something then, baby.” kean murmurs, forcing himself to smile. “i—”

the door to the laundry room slams open. 

the party lights immediately flood in to replace the darkness your eyes had grown accustomed to, and you blink, trying to make out what exactly you’re looking at. 

kean steps away from you, his hands falling to his sides. he looks bored. completely disinterested. your mind’s still wrapping itself around the whiplash of his emotions when you register who’s standing, silent, in the doorway, and—

oh, fuck.

red takes in the sight of you and kean before wordlessly walking away. 

“red! wait!” you scramble off the top of the watching machine, pushing past kean as you stumble outside, into the hallway. it’s hard to miss her, with her bright pink temporary hair dye. “red, please!” you sidle past pda couples and round the corner, reaching out to grab her shoulder. “would you just listen to me!”

she turns to you with wild eyes. “let go.”

“no.” you frown. “let me explain—-”

“i literally don’t even want to hear it. i told you i’d invited someone important tonight. you knew how much the music meant to me!” she exclaims. “this could’ve been my one chance to make some sort of name for myself outside of you and it was three minutes. it was three minutes of your life!”

you close your eyes for a moment. “i’m so sorry. i know i fucked up. where’s the guy?” you look around, scanning the crowd for someone you wouldn’t even be able to recognise. “you said he was related to some producer, yeah? i can talk to him, we can still perform. i have my bass and—”

“he left.” red says flatly, prying your hand off of her. “not everyone’s going to wait around forever. not everyone’s as stupid as me.”

“i wanted to leave,” you explain. “but kean wouldn’t let me go.”

“they never do, with you do they?” she sneers, showing off her canines. 

you blink. “sorry?”

“every fucking time. you are so self-absorbed. so desperate to be perfect. so obsessive.” she jabs a finger into your chest, looking up at you through narrowed eyes. “but never when it comes to me. you can be a shit friend, you know that?”

“i don’t mean to.” you plead. “i’m sorry—”

“whatever. go run back to kean,” red says, turning on her heels. she doesn’t even bother to look back at you when she leaves. “he’s obviously more important to you."

a better person, you think, would have chased after her.

it's not long until you’ve stumbled out the house and collapsed onto the side of the road. that's how he finds you again. all alone. so pitiful. so fucking pathetic.

and even though your head is in your hands and your eyes are closed, you’d recognise the sound of his footsteps and that familiar cologne anywhere. you think you’d know him even if you were blind. who else would ever think to get so close to you, without worrying about the bark or the bite or any of it at all.

you open your eyes as kean quietly crouches down besides you. he moves your hair out of your eyes and cradles your face in his hands as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held, and even though you know that’d never be true, it feels nice to believe in it for a moment.

“come back to mine, darling captain. let me take you home.”

you look at the hand he’s offering you—

over his shoulder, the party continues, indifferent to your departure. music spills out of the door, the same rotation of five rappers in every party playlist. it reeks of cheap vapes and stolen kisses in dark corners. the night air is cold and crisp and you’d really like to fall into something warmer right now and lose yourself in it completely.

—make the mistake of taking it. 

as he helps you onto your feet, his fingers curl around your wrist, and just for a second, you have this absolutely absurd thought that he couldn’t possibly let you go now without breaking a bone. stranger, yet, you wonder whether it’d be worth the trade off.

the banality of your desire terrifies you. but, just for tonight, you choose to allow it. you make no attempt to intellectualise or compartmentalise the thought. it disgusts you, as it always does.

but when else could you entertain something so horrific if not for halloween?

-

'my darling dumb captain.'

even on your way to class the following monday, all you can think about is what kean had said to you yesterday morning. the way he had looked at you. 

you haven’t seen him since the weekend, when you stormed out of his place—but not before kicking up a fuss and shoving every last paper off of his desk, tearing up his mock exams and cheat sheets whilst he only watched, a hand draped over his mouth in boredom.

don’t you fucking dare speak to me that way, you’d hissed, blinking back tears. you want to ruin my life that bad, kazim? do your fucking worst.

you’d expected something—you would have settled for anything. petulance on full display, claws out; it still wasn’t enough. he’d stared back silently, dull green eyes flat as they took in your display. unimpressed. 

you wonder whether he’s only just beginning to realise what a mistake he’s made in entertaining you for so long.

lost in your own miserable thoughts, eyes set on the floor, you almost manage to miss the sound of that familiar laughter—

your head snaps down the other end of the hall, instinctively searching for the source. and there she is, walking further away from you, stretching the space separating you from her. one of her arms is linked around freddy’s, and the sight of it makes your heart sink for some strange reason. 

“red!” you call out, already turning on your heel to chase after her. “red, hi.”

she turns to you, sharing a brief glance with freddy. “…hey.”

“listen,” you nervously bite at the inside of your cheek. “i’m sorry for how i acted on the weekend. you deserved better, and i know i let you down. believe me, i know."

“yeah, you did.” she says, sighing. “but it’s okay. it wasn’t anything serious, so—”

“but it meant something,” you insist, “to you. and i know that if i was in your shoes—”

“but you’re not.” red says gently. “and you never will be. so just forget it. we’re good.”

“okay,” you nervously pick at a hangnail, nails insistently digging into the peeling skin. “well, i think i… did i leave my bass at your house?”

“yeah, you did, but it was in my room, so it was safe. nobody touched it,” her lips quirk up, knowing. “i know how much that freaks you out.”

“obviously,  because people strum it like it’s a guitar.” you laugh, relief overwhelming you at the sight of her smile. “is it okay if i come by sometime this week to pick it up?”

“obviously,” the girl brightens, dropping freddy’s arm to fish her phone out of her uniform’s pocket. “instead of the weekend, how about—”

BZZZZZZZ.

the intercom suddenly crackles overhead, cutting her off. over the sound of the school speakers, one of the receptionists says your name. you frown, wondering whether you’ve misheard her until she repeats herself, leaning in closer.

that’s definitely your name.

“…to the principal's office, please. immediately.” 

is this some impromptu college leadership meeting? 

“shit,” you mumble, mind already racing. “i need to—” you turn back to red, slightly dazed. you flash her with what you hope is a sympathetic smile. “i should go see what that’s about. sorry.”

there’s no other reason for her to summon the school captain so urgently, right? 

red looks incredibly embarrassed, arm awkwardly dropping to her side. “oh, yeah. no worries. you should go.”

maybe it’s about the graduation dinner speeches. they do need to be sent in and approved, soon. 

“sorry,” you call out, already turning to leave. “what were you saying before?”

could it be a valedictorian debrief? your heart’s already racing. shit, did i manage to beat kean?

“nothing. nothing, just to come by whenever. you… you should probably go. that sounded urgent.”

“i will!” you promise over your shoulder, rushing down the hall in the opposite direction. “wish me luck!”

in your haste to leave, you miss the way her face falls just as you round the corner, disappearing from her sight yet again.

-

“this is a joke. this has to be a joke, right?”

the principal’s office is stifling.the blinds are half-drawn, and the air is still. it smells faintly of an artificial sort of freesia. it feels, too much, like a tomb. 

“you tell me.” you can barely manage to catch your breath when she leans forward in her office chair, worn leather crackling with the movement. “do i look like i’m laughing?”

you sit stiffly in the seat across her desk, fingers curled tight in your lap, relentlessly picking at that hangnail. behind her, the school’s crest and values taunt you from where they’re hung up high on the pale walls; staring down at you in disdain.

respectus. ambitio. integritas. 

“this is serious,” she emphasises, her voice is even but not unkind, and it draws your attention back to the matter at hand. “your academic integrity was compromised. we have indisputable evidence of you cheating on your final exams.”

“this has to be a mistake,” you insist. “i would never cheat. i mean, my record is spotless. it always has been. why would i jeopardise everything so close to graduation?”

she rests her chin on interlaced fingers, and you get this weird feeling that she’s not really seeing you right now. “it’s a highly stressful period for you. these exams determine the course of the rest of your life. it’s not unheard of for even the best and brightest of students to make reckless decisions out of fear.”

“you don’t understand.” you laugh, and it’s a little panicked. incredulous. the reality of the situation still hasn’t really settled in for you. “i can handle stress. i’ve worked hard enough to be able to face it without resorting to cheat, and work with someone else to—”

“it’s not collusion you were flagged for,” she clarifies. 

you blink, caught off guard. “then—”

“plagiarism. crystal clear.”

plagiarism? what the fuck?

“off whose paper?”

a faint frown, the lines of which settle deep into her sun speckled skin. “you know i can’t tell you that.”

“okay. i think i understand.” you take a mindful breath, fingers jabbing at the loose skin of your fingers. the pain makes it sting, keeps your voice steady. “let me re-sit the exam.” you propose. the desperation in your voice is so ugly, and so foreign. “let me re-sit the exam. you can make it more difficult, and have an exam coordinator supervise me directly for the entirety of it. i’ll do even better this time around, and you can confirm i never cheated.”

“i’m afraid that’s not in line with standard procedure. because this was a state-administered exam, overseen by the national education department. i can’t do anything about this, except report it as a potential academic breach for further investigation.”

breathe in. you didn’t do anything wrong.

breathe out. 

“and when they find me innocent? i mean, do you know if the investigation itself will show up on my transcripts?” you ask. “i really don’t want to let this affect my chances of admission into my top schools.”

wordlessly, the principal reaches into one of her drawers and wordlessly pulls out a folder. thumbing through the loose papers inside, she pulls out two papers and simply sets them down side by side in front of you.

“take a look at these, please.”

you recognise the one on the left as your latin exam. the very last question, which asked you to write an essay in response to untranslated stimulus material. it was the exact sort of question you’d been preparing to death for; and so you’d been ecstatic to see it on the paper. it was the easiest forty marks of your life.

the paper on the left, right besides yours, is unfamiliar for all of three seconds. 

you’d recognise that handwriting anywhere. 

after all, you’ve spent so many hours staring at it and poring over the words, memorising and committing them to memory, tracing over the messy loops; marvelling at the way even the lines never managed to contain it, as it tilted upwards at the end of every sentence, lazy, like the transcription of his thoughts was merely an afterthought, and that whoever was reading it should feel thankful that he even bothered to share his brilliant ideas down—illegible as they were written—in the first place.

the principal taps the desk with a perfectly manicured finger. she always looks so put together and precise, and yet there is a weariness in her voice today. “read what it says.”

at first, your eyes barely flitter over the writing, but then, your attention snags on all of the similarities. your scanning of the papers becomes a more careful perusal as you lean in closer, gaze flicking between both papers, side by side, as you directly compare them.

you remember wondering how every language he knew always yielded to him so well. how he could wield these words with such precision. the first time he scored full marks in his writing, beating you by a full fucking five percent—you’d stayed up for the next two nights, running on zero sleep, determined to change everything about the way in which you told stories. determined to replicate the way he wrote. to sound just like him. 

even now, you recall marvelling at his writing, running your fingers over the words almost reverently, stunned at the fluidity with which he picked his every phrase; how they were always strung together so naturally, effortlessly turning into something so, so—

unfamiliar.

because the paper you’re staring at right now reads nothing like kean’s. 

and do you know how you recognise that?

because it’s not good enough.

this is, undeniably, your own work.

yet, despite the stark difference in either paper’s handwriting, both of them read identically. it's not difficult to realise that they are copies. undeniably and overwhelmingly so. you look up at the principle, pointing to your own paper. “i wrote this.”

she purses her lips. “that’s up to the department to decide.”

“no. i wrote this.” you shake your head in disbelief, eyes still alternating between the papers incredulously. “kean was sitting rows away from me. how could i have copied his entire essay? the exam supervisor would have seen me if i was constantly turning around to look at his paper and, well—” the hangnail snaps off. you dig the points of your trembling fingers into the raw flesh it reveals underneath. “that makes no sense. right?”

you did nothing wrong. calm down. this is a misunderstanding.

it has to be.

“the state’s department of education—”

“i’m sorry,” you blink, brows furrowed. “but why am i the only one being questioned? these two papers are the same, sure, but if that’s all the proof you have then why are you only accusing me of plagiarism when the other student could’ve been the one to copy off of me? this is a really serious accusation that could absolutely devastate my applications and… it just doesn’t feel very fair to me that i’m the only one being interrogated right now?"

if your choice of words gets to the principle, she makes no indication of it, instead gathering the papers and neatly slotting them neatly back into a file, eyes meeting yours as she pulls the drawer open once more and places them safely back inside.

“i understand your concerns, but i’ve already spoken to the other student. i also spoke to the exam supervisor who initially flagged your papers and, yes, whilst you and the other student in question were not seated close together in the exam hall, it is my understanding that you were the only one between the two of you to go to the bathroom towards the end of your latin exam. were you not?”

“oh, wow,” you breathe. you lean back in your seat, but it feels more like you’ve fallen. “i didn’t realise a bathroom break could be used against me.”

“listen,” the principal says, not unkindly. “if you tell me the truth and come forward now, you’ll save both the college and yourself all the hassles and costs of a formal investigation. i’ve showed you the evidence, and it’s indisputable. of course, this will still need to be flagged on your transcripts, since plagiarism is a serious breach of academic integrity, but we can otherwise resolve this matter internally.”

you did nothing wrong.

“i already told you. i didn’t cheat.” her eyes bore into yours, searching. “i refuse to take the blame for something i didn’t do.”

“i’m only going to ask once more. did you, or did you not completely plagiarise another student’s exam?”

this is just a misunderstanding.

“i did not.” you stare at her. “and i never would.”

at that, she seems almost disappointed. “understood. well, you can see yourself out, then. we’re going to have to report you officially, but after that, the college can’t help you. you’ll receive an email from the department once the investigation is over.”

you stand, surprised to find that your legs aren’t shaking, like your hands are. you shove them into your pockets, fingers piercing into the bleeding, exposed flesh around your nails. “is that all?”

“as i’m sure you understand, we’ll obviously need to reevaluate your role as the college captain, seeing as this conduct is in serious violation of our school values and policies but we can do that at a later date. you’ll get an email from the vice principal when it comes to sorting that out.”

you don’t say anything at first. your mouth is dry. you knew this was coming, but hearing it aloud still feels like something sharp lodged in your chest. 

“will i still be able to graduate on time?” you ask, and you barely recognise the sound of your own voice.

“yes,” she replies, hands folded in front of her. “but, as you’ve probably realised, this will not look good on your university transcripts. regardless of the results, the fact that there was a potential breach of academic integrity will permanently be recorded under your name. any institutions you apply to regardless of the area of study and course requirements will have access to that information.”

you nod once, casting your gaze to the floor. “okay.” then again, more quietly, almost to yourself. “okay.”

she watches you for a moment, like she’s waiting for you to say more, but there’s nothing really left to say. the silence stretches. you don’t meet her eyes. you can’t. your whole life, you’ve never let anyone else see you cry, and you’re not about to start now.

the bell rings, signalling the end of the day, and it’s a welcome reprieve from the suffocating office. you don’t even remember stumbling outside her office, let alone shoving past the crowded hallways and up the stairs, until you’re standing in front of kean’s locker, barely able to make out the numbers engraved across it.

he’s only just managed to close the door before you’re onto him. you push him, palms flat against his blazer and digging into his badges as he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “well— what the fuck did i do this time?”

“you know exactly what you— the latin exam!” you hiss, as he patiently pries your hands off of him. “they’re saying i cheated on the extrance exams and— i— they’re reporting me!”

“right,” he snaps his fingers. “so that’s why the front office called you up. well,” he looks down at you carefully. “did you?”

you blink, despite yourself, momentarily caught off guard by the flat tone of his words. “you’re asking me if i cheated?”

“well, yes. baby’s first words?”

“stop! this is serious, can you— can you just cut the bullshit,” you cry. “you know me. i’ve never— i don’t need to cheat! and it was your paper and i know it was you! i fuckin’ know the way you write and what you say and i know you—”

“your point, cap?”

“you copied my shit word for word!” you insist, and even though it’s the end of the day, your outburst earns you the attention of people moving past in the hallway. but you ignore their pointing. when they whisper, you pretend you don’t hear any of it. “why?” you push. “why would you do that? you don’t even need to, kean! you’re already so—”

“cap,” he frowns, but it’s not genuine. you can tell because of the way he’s looking at you. expectant. waiting, you think, to see whether you stick to the sick script. “if you think you know," he says very slowly. “then why are you here,, bothering me?”

“kean.” you plead. “please.”

he tilts his head to the side innocently. “please, what?”

“please tell them. if it’s you…” you close your eyes. “if it’s you, then i know they’ll listen.”

“yeah?”

“yes! you know they will!” you’re practically begging now. “please. i’ll do anything.”

“did i hear you right, cap?” his eyes brighten. he presses his tongue against the inside of his mouth, looking down at you in quiet contemplation. “you’d do anything?”

“do you want me to—” you reach for his belt with fumbling hands, uncaring of the fact that you’re still standing at his locker. for this? for this, you think you could do anything. “i can—”

kean pushes your hands away, a satisfied curl to his lips. “no, baby. not here.”

your face falls. “sorry. i’m sorry. i don’t know what to do. my whole fucking future’s been jeapordised and—” your voice cracks. “i don’t know what to do.” the admission itself makes you feel so much smaller than you already are. “i have no idea what's going on.”

the image of everything you’ve worked so hard to attain falls away, shatters right before you. you have the overwhelming urge to rip off all the badges on your blazer and press the pins into your skin, instead. to denounce yourself, before anyone else can get there first. competitive, even in your own ruination.

you can already imagine it now; the way they’ll all look at you. with something like pity, at first. they’ll walk on eggshells around you, choose their words with painstaking care. burnout, instead of filthy fucking cheat. platitudes and participation awards. half-hearted consolations because, well, maybe it was inevitable? how long will it all go on for? how long until you become nothing? until they forget even the sound of your name, let alone what you used to be? 

“there won’t be a point to any of this,” you rasp, doing your very best not to dissolve into tears. “if this investigation goes through... plagiarism?” you bark out an incredulous laugh. “none of the good schools would even fucking consider me. you don’t understand. i’m fucked. i’m fucked, kean. my whole future would be ruined. everything i’ve been working towards—”

“well, yeah.” he smiles. “that would be the point.”

your heart drops. you blink. 

“sorry, i— sorry. what?”

“what?” he mimics. “you heard me.”

“i don’t understand—” you fold in on yourself, twisting your fists into the hem of your blazer. “can't you do something? please, i'm not asking you to take the blame, just—just say something, anything—please.”

still, nothing. he leans against his locker, like your entire world isn’t caving in right there between his shoes. his silence needles at you until you can’t stand it.

“kean.” you hear the crack in your own voice, pathetic and small. “i don’t know what else to do. tell me. tell me what you want. i’ll do it, i swear, just… just don’t let them take everything from me. this… i mean, this has to be a misunderstanding, right?”

finally, finally, he shifts. the corner of his mouth tugs upward. “yeah, i’m sure that's all it is. don’t stress, baby. i’ll speak to the principal for you,” he says decisively. 

you stare up at him in a daze, momentarily stunned by the weight of his words. the implications of what he’s just told you. a confession, or a diversion? does his acceptance absolve him? 

will you let it? 

kean leans down, laughing as he taps his knuckles against your head. “knock knock, cap. pay attention. you heard what i just said?”

“yes,” you nod desperately. “yeah, i—” you swallow, force yourself not to look away from his eyes. crystal fucking green. ice cold. “thank you, kean. thank you so fucking much, i— i owe you one.”

he stares at you silently, the moment stretching on for longer than it should, and for a moment, all you can hear is the sound of your own breathing; ragged and too loud in the emptying hallways. 

“no,” kean turns your words over with a smile. “you owe me much more than that, baby.”

-

the meeting is called one week later.

you sit, picture-perfect, across the college’s principal team. 

you sit, picture-perfect, as kean tears you apart before them.

the room feels smaller than it should. there are too many eyes on you, already practicing their polite pity with every look they cast your way. all of it presses against your skin, and so it’s all you can do, really, to stay perfectly still in your chair, every muscle wired tight, when all attention in the room falls, momentarily, to kean.

he is wearing the same pinstripe blazer as you. the same white shirt and tie underneath, embroidered with the college’s logo and motto. and yet, there is no semblance of unity. you knew from the moment you saw him today that something had changed. an otherwise imperceptible shift in the way he looked at you. in the way he unscrews the lid of his water bottle, takes a long sip. he sets it down on the table in front of him, and then he stands. 

you know the rhythm of him, his tells; it’s the way you come to understand him, so intimate, only because you are consumed by his existence. it’s in the way he straightens his blazer before he speaks. the way he rolls his shoulders once, loosening them, like he’s about to step onto a stage. you’ve seen it before— in debates, in assemblies, in the locker room before a game.

so when he stands, you already know what’s coming. 

and when it comes, it doesn’t sound like accusation; it sounds like concern. 

kean’s voice, gentle and practices and careful and so fucking benevolent, because, oh, he’s worried you’re not who you used to be. that something’s changed. that maybe everything’s too much for you. that you’re not ready for it - kean turns to you - and maybe you never were.

and the moment he opened his mouth, he’d already sealed your fate. he sits down, ever the epitome of the college’s golden boy, twists open the cap of his water bottle and takes a long, satisfied sip—

and that’s when they hold out their hands.

the vice principal, stern-faced. the principal, arms crossed. your teachers and counselors and fellow student representatives, shaking their heads and sneaking shameful glances at you.

'badges, please.

regretfully, you can no longer be the college's acting captain, since your behaviour doesn't allign with the position's values anymore.

you understand, right?'

every pin you hand over stings in your fingers. the pile of metal on the desk grows heavier while your chest feels lighter in the worst possible way, like the most vital parts of you have been stolen. but you keep your face set, jaw locked, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall. you don’t meet anyone’s eyes. you don’t even paw at the peeling flakes around your fingers, but you notice, with a strange triumph, that kean stares at the bloodied mess of chewed skin when you fold your hands in front of you on the table.

when it’s finally done, an hour later and all of the papers are shuffled and the chairs are pushed back; no one looks at you as they leave. 

except kean. 

he doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t smile. just meets your eyes long enough to make it clear that he knows exactly what he’s done.

and when you storm past him, he follows at your heel, dutifully, all the way down to the music room where everything first began.

-

the sun is setting, the day dying, and you think you might just go with it.

“you fucking dick,” you collapse into a seat, with your head in your hands. you can’t even muster the energy to feel wronged, let alone meet his eyes. “i thought you were going to say good things about me. you said you would help me. you said you would help.”

he takes the seat right besides yours, close enough for his shoulder to brush against yours. “what good things?” 

“like my— my work ethic? my ambition? my passion and hard work and all of the care i've put into this position? all the sleepless nights and— fuck, kean! you know!” you cry, turning to him with wild eyes. “you know exactly how much i wanted this and what it meant to me! you know how far i’ve gone for it!”

“captain. the best both about you and in you,” he says softly, “was always me.”

it feels like a punch to the gut. 

you’d wanted, so fucking badly, to believe it was a misunderstanding.

but you see him now, the way you’d seen him the morning after halloween. 

‘understand?’ he had asked, his tone patronising and slow, as if speaking to a small child, ‘you are not, nor have you ever been, my equal.’ 

he turned around, and you remember feeling yourself sinking into his sheets, how you’d helplessly watched, stunned, when he picked up his pencil again, put it to the paper. ‘try and leave, 'cap. if you're stupid enough to hate me, then i'll just make sure you have nothing to go back to.’

you saw how the pencil he was holding pressed against the paper, his knuckles white, the way it snapped into two when he tried to write with it. ‘and then, when you realise that the only notable achievement of your pathetic life has been me,’ you saw the way he calmly set it aside, picked out another one from his draw, how he had rows and rows of pencils arranged by the hardness of their lead—

the words ring in your head, and you wonder where everything started to go so wrong.

‘well. you’ll just come crawling back, won’t you?’

“you did this on purpose.”

it was him, it had always been him, and he had meant every second of it. 

he had orchestrated it, planned it, and every humiliation, every betrayal, every stolen moment of trust had been deliberate. the way he’d kissed you in the supplies closet, on borrowed time — how he’d let you sink your teeth into him, drag the sharp points against his throat.

had any of it been real?

you blink, and this time, the words are quiet. almost mournful. “you did it all on purpose, kean.”

“you think so little of me, cap,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your lips, the way they curl into an involuntary frown. how they tremble. “look at you.” he marvels, “you would cry over me again.”

you freeze. disbelief slams into your chest, quick, hard, leaving your lungs hollow. “i’m done,” you manage to spit out, the words ragged, thick with every ounce of anger and betrayal you’ve swallowed all day.

he tilts his head slowly, deliberately, green eyes catching the last rays of the sun, glittering with mischief and something darker, something deeper, “you say that like we have something worth walking away from.”

“fuck you,” you manage, abruptly standing straight on shaking legs. you look down at him through narrowed eyes. “you’re not slick, kean. you don’t just get to take back everything that you’ve said to me.”

“wow,” he says finally, voice low and simmering with a strange sort of amusement, “you really are too easy, aren’t you?” and the words are admiration and provocation folded together.  

you wish he would just take it all back, you wish you could reverse time, but the part of you that still remembers why you believed in him—the part that wanted to think he was golden, perfect, untouchable—can’t even articulate itself, can barely survive the weight of what he’s just done.

“i hate you.” you blink stupidly. “i didn’t know— i thought you liked me! i thought we were friends.”

“baby,” his green eyes glitter in the evening sun as he stands, reaching a hand out to cradle your face up towards his. “i was never your friend.”

you shove him away roughly, “don’t fucking touch me.” you manage, "don't even look at me.”

“finally,” he laughs, cruel in a way that makes your stomach twist. “there’s a reason nobody else can stand the sight of you. you had one friend, cap, and you couldn’t even keep her. without me, don’t you get it?” he hisses. “there’s nobody there for you.”

“kean,” you say, very carefully, trying to keep your voice steady as you force yourself to meet his gaze. “if you don't leave me alone right the fuck now, i’m going to hit you.”

“aww, do you want me to be scared?" impossibly, he steps closer, lips twisting into a sardonic smile. "like you've never hurt me before?"

"no! no, you don't get to say that!" memories rise unbidden; halloween night, the way your teeth left little indents on his neck, the way he let you, the way it burned, like ownership and permission and a taste of power you’d never had before. like flying too close to the sun you’d worshipped your whole life. "you let me do all of that to you. you wanted me to, it was—"

“different?” his mouth twists into a cruel sneer. “yeah. sure it was.”

you thought this was a petty rivalry. you hated him, but you would never. you would never have done this to him, you think, with a fierce sort of insistence. 

“fuck you! it was different! so is this!” you insist, yelling. “this isn’t what we do—”

“this is exactly what we do,” kean laughs, but the sound is hollow. empty. “we fuck each other up, baby. you hurt me, and i hurt you. get. the fuck. over it.”

you would never have sabotaged his future, never stepped into that territory, never crossed that line. 

“i’ve never hurt you like you’ve hurt me,” you confess.

“look me in the eyes,” you think a small part of him dies at that, because he leans down, lowers himself down to your level. his voice drops to a whisper, clawing under your skin. “and tell me that you honestly believe that.”

"no. i don't owe you anything."

"no?" his hands curl around your arms, fingers tight, unrelenting, and for a second, just a second, you think he might just snap you right in half. "don't you?"

the door to the music room swings open. 

"kazim." freddy steps in, frowning. "dude, you gotta back up.”

kean shuts his eyes, takes a slow, measured breath, gathering the patience he always seems to have in reserve, and when he opens them, he glances over his shoulder with that tense, sharp smile, fingers still pressing painfully into your sides. “wonderful. the fucking cavalry’s arrived, has it? do you ever see me interfering in your relationship, frederick?”

“nice try,” red claps her hands together decisively, “except the two of you aren't in a relationship. now step back, or i’ll scream for someone.”

“and you call me a cliche,” kean incredulously mutters under his breath, but his eyes are still on you, glinting green in the dimming light. "really, love?"

“stop fucking whispering and piss off. i’m not joking right now.”

“christ,” kean sighs, low and weary. he cracks his knuckles, flexes his wrist by his sides as he leans over to kiss you. you feel the words carved against your mouth. soft lips against yours, infuriatingly gentle. “come find me when you're over this little tantrum. maybe then we can talk like adults."

without giving you a chance to speak, kean turns, wordlessly steps straight past both freddy and red with ease. freddy kicks the door shut behind him.

it's difficult for you to find your voice in the silence that follows. you’re shaken, the words he’s said to you cutting just like barbed wire. they stand, unsure and awkward, too scared to come closer. the last of the day’s sun streams into the music room, burning a brilliant, bright red.

“thank you,” you manage.

“it was nothing,” red says, staring at the harsh indents kean’s fingers left in your skin.

“no.” you say, voice weak, but certain all the same. “it was everything.”

— one month later

the verdict arrives the night before graduation. 

the national department of education, printed in perfectly even letters across the front. your name and address directly beneath that. 

you completely tear apart the envelope with an eager sort of hope. your eyes scan the letter in quick fragments of sentences, and it takes your mind a second to catch up with what you’re reading. even longer, still, to process it.

you read it again. 

again.

again.

nothing changes. the words on the paper stay the same.

‘...write to inform you that the department, following a lengthy investigation, has found satisfactory evidence of academic misconduct and compromised integrity…’

‘...an evident and appallingly shameless attempt at plagiarism, with no attempt to be covert…’

‘...in the event that you disagree with this decision, please visit https://dpteducation.misconduct.gov for more information about the appeals process…’

‘...may take up to three months to lodge and process, and regardless of success, all appeals possess an upfront cost of…’

you stare at the sheer amount of the number that follows, before quietly folding the letter into precise little quarters and curling up to cry. it feels too much like a quiet acceptance of your own ruination. and yet, there is nothing else to do.

nothing changes.

nothing ever changes.

-

kean is, unsurprisingly, valedictorian. 

naturally, graduation is a stifling affair. 

you watch him walk up to the podium, to give his farewell speech. his hair’s grown longer since you last saw him during final exams. the electric blue streaks have grown out, fading into a striking, silky black. you watch, feeling sick to your stomach, as his pale hands carefully smooth out his script on the lectern, deft fingers reaching to adjust the microphone higher. 

he stands on the stage in silence, just for a second. he says nothing, (he doesn’t need to) only watches on, observing his audience with a perfect politeness. almost immediately, a collective hush spreads over the entirety of the city hall. idle chatter and laughter ceases completely in his presence, and the quiet is so precariously overwhelming that you take care not to so much as breathe the wrong way. 

evidently pleased, kean smiles. you‘re helpless to do anything but watch, as he takes the time to place his hands on either side of the lectern and, only now—upon having confirmed that yes, everybody inside of these hallowed halls is indeed listening very carefully—does he deign to begin his address.

“good evening fellow graduates, beloved family members, and esteemed faculty.” his voice echoes in the silence, each powerful syllable purposeful and precise. you watch, dumbstruck, as he introduces himself, “my name is kean kazim, and tonight, it is my utmost pleasure to have the honours of being nominated the class of 2016’s valedictorian.”

you doubt that there is a single person in the audience who doesn’t already know his name.

such a perfect and polished boy with such a bright future ahead of him—

a future that you used to see yourself in.

“—the absolute best. you should all be immensely proud of yourselves and—”

admittedly, it was a shameful fantasy that you would never admit to anyone, least of all to kean, but it was wholly yours. something nice to think about. a tentative little dream worth working towards and keeping very, very close to yourself. 

“—can not wait to bear witness to all of the wonderful things you will all accomplish in the future. truly—”

you cast your sights higher than a house in the suburbs and a family dog; let yourself imagine the two of you living in the highest floor of a glittering skyscraper and dressing in real leather to watch pulitzer prize winning plays on the weekends and sit at dimly lit bars and sip on expensive drinks to celebrate inevitable promotions and, maybe, just to get away from the city, you would escape to a quaint little beach house that would sit empty for the better part of the year—doing nothing except for waiting.

“—been an honour and a privilege to belong to such a talented cohort. you’ve all—”

waiting for its inhabitants to come back to it. 

waiting for the key to turn in the lock.

the click that’d follow.

the door to inevitably swing open.

a perfect life, fit to serve as the perfect fantasy for someone as perfect as him. and by extension, in your most shameful thoughts, you would let that degree of perfection extend to yourself too. 

“—thank you, and please, don’t forget that for you, for us, this is only the beginning.”

you’re jolted out of your thoughts by the round of applause that follows kean’s speech. it’s a raucous cacophony of acclamation and you hate that you expected nothing less. of course, the golden boy receives a standing ovation. the boy next to you leaps to his feet, furiously clapping, and you’re surprised to find that you just don’t have the energy to pretend to be shocked anymore.

you feel off-kilter, if anything. your gown is itchy and your knees are pressing against the seat in front of you and the walls of the city hall feel like they’re closing in. you’re growing more nauseous with each passing second from staring at the harsh spotlight that shines down on kean. the light illuminates his best features. those sharp eyes and that sly mouth you used to love so much, currently curled into a perfectly patient smile, as he so graciously waits for the applause to die down. 

the emcee, standing right besides kean and looking so much smaller for it, nervously waves his hands to quell the audience’s excitement to no avail. the clapping and cheering continues to drag on for a handful of minutes before the crowd eventually stops fussing and quiets down. the boy next to you finally takes his seat, and you don’t need to know his name to know that you hate him.

“thank you, ladies and gents. whilst your enthusiasm is greatly appreciated, in order to finish tonight’s ceremony in a timely manner, the college respectfully requests that you abide by my visual cues.” he swallows, the nervous bob of his adam’s apple unflatteringly prominent beneath the harsh stage lights. “now then, for our last speech of the night, i’m pleased to welcome your 2016 school captain, kean kazim, back to the stage, this time for the college captain’s address. he truly needs no introduction—” knowing laughter runs through the crowd, “—and once more, we ask that you please hold any applause until the end.”

the emcee steps aside. 

kean steps up. 

the city hall erupts into applause.

you tell yourself that it doesn’t (shouldn’t) matter that you aren’t up there with him, because you never ran for school captain for the recognition. just because you no longer have the shiny badge of honour, doesn’t mean that all of the work you did in your position matters less; it doesn’t mean you matter any less.

but, staring down at your shoes as the applause continues to ring all around you, you can’t help but blink back bitter tears.

hours of hard work and blood and sweat and tears and it was all meant to come back to moments like this; where you could stand proud before thousands of faces you could swear you’d never even seen before and speak about all of your successes; knowing that each and every person in this audience was forced to know you by nothing but your merit.

you roughly wipe at your eyes with the back of your hands. your knuckles come away wet, but what fucking good will crying about it do? you blink back any more tears and bite your tongue, looking back up at the stage. you were meant to be celebrated, tonight. 

you were supposed to be up there right besides him. 

and, as if thinking the exact same thing, kean’s gaze slowly sweeps over the crowd impassively whilst he speaks, before his attention snags—

there you are.

—settles, right onto you. 

you give up on making out what he’s saying when you meet familiar green eyes, gleaming under the stage lights as he smiles, attention lingering for only a few short seconds—

he’s staring.

before he swiftly looks away.

you dig your fingers into the graduation run-of-show in your lap, feel the glossy diploma crinkling harshly under your hands. you lose track of time, ripping into the sheet as you stare, unblinking, at the stage where he stands. untouched, and unforgettable. so unlike yourself; subjugated to become a member of his audience.

the golden badge pinned to the lapel of his blazer taunts you. the standing ovation that follows kean’s perfect deliverance of the speech the two of you wrote together months earlier is a sort of humiliation you’d never known before.

is it worse, you wonder with a detached sort of irony—that kean doesn’t spare you a single glance for the remainder of the ceremony, or that you continue to sit there and stare up at him, waiting for him to look at you again like some stupid dog chasing after it’s             own

                fucking

                          tail.

-

without the weight and warmth of your heavy gown, the night is unbearably cold. 

you’re perched on the front steps of the city’s town hall, an arm wrapped around your knees in an effort to stay warm. you stare at your phone screen, watching the uber driver fall victim to the city’s late night traffic.

kean persists, nonetheless, lingering at the edges of your periphery. “you’re still mad at me, cap.”

“school’s over,” you say, without bothering to look up at him. “no need to call me that anymore.”

“sure, but you lost your position before we graduated.” he graciously points out. “i think the name suits you whether or not you’re wearing the badge.”

don’t react.

“it’s freezing.” the uber’s just ten minutes away, you remind yourself, making an effort not to repeatedly refresh the app. “you should get going.”

“nope,” he replies. since he’s standing right in front of where you’re sitting on the steps, you can see him impatiently tapping his foot from over your knees. his shoes are all polished and pointed, clean black leather reflecting the bright city lights. “we need to talk, cap.”

nine minutes. “i have nothing to say to you.”

“yeah? you had plenty to say a month ago.”

don’t react.

“i’m tired. let’s talk later.” 

“tired from what, exactly? all you had to do was sit, stay and listen, no?” kean laughs lightly. “then again, cap, that’s always been a problem for you, hasn’t it? but i don’t mind, you know. i think it’s kind of cute, actually.”

fuck this.

“well, congratulations.” you finally look up at him, with the sweetest smile you can muster. “i’m just your dumb bitch. haha, real funny, i get it. you’re so much better than i could ever be. happy?"

“well, yeah.” he smiles privately. “i know that. do you?”

you nod. “you’re right. of course you are.” you know better than anyone that it was never a competition, “and yeah, i get that now. you’re going to go on to be the greatest, whereas my entire future’s been jeopardised. great job, kazim. do you have any idea what that feels like? to be so fucking ruined?”

his foot stills. “yeah.” he hums, turning your words over. “i do.”

you scoff, turning back to your phone. six minutes. “don’t make me laugh.”

“captain,” he says very slowly. “what do you think you are to me?”

at that moment, you’re grateful you can’t see his face. moreso, even, that he can’t see yours. 

“you want the truth, kean?”

“always.” 

“i don’t care.”

“you don’t care?” he repeats.

you think you might have laughed if you didn’t feel so close to crying. for years, you’ve watched him handle difficult theorems, impossible questions, and translations in dead languages with an irritatingly effortless ease. and all it takes is this for him to sound the most uncertain you’ve ever known him to be; more than he has any right to be.

“yeah. i give up. congratulations.”

he hums thoughtfully as he takes your words into a rare, quiet kind of careful consideration. “that’s really all you have to say to me?”

“yep. that’s it.” you confirm. “i don’t care about any of this anymore. whatever it was, whatever we were or whatever we had, it’s over. you can go, now.”

this isn’t the first time you wished you could understand him like he seems to understand you, but it is the first time you find that you don’t try to convince yourself that you do. 

something in his eyes darkens. “point of contention, cap.” his voice drops an octave lower, not quite pleading (never that) but something obliging, almost. “i don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“i don’t need your permission.”

he tilts his head to the side. “that doesn’t change anything?”

“that you care? fuck no,” you laugh wryly. “you can’t expect it to change anything,” four minutes. “if it means absolutely nothing.”

“darling captain,” he smiles. it doesn’t reach his eyes. “you’re breaking my heart.”

around you, the city carries on, completely indifferent to the devastation it observes; overhead, brightly coloured neon signs continue to blink on and off, and the skyline glitters against a pure black, starless sky as midnight traffic passes by in an indecipherable blur .strangers with somewhere to be hurry past where the two of you stand—all laughing, or arguing, but undeniably alive—though their faces are blank, colours dulled and voices all muffled, almost apologetic, as if even they’re aware of their intrusion.

you’re still standing on the steps of the city hall, looking down at kean. it’s rare that you stand over him, for once; rarer, even, that you see him as somebody smaller than you.

the car draws closer, until it’s only a minute away. until it’s close enough to be within reach.

“i don't know if it’s worse that you really did this to me,” you confess, eyes flitting over him, from the tense lines of his jaw to the way he helplessly flexes his fingers by his sides, “or that i still don’t want to believe you would.” you can’t help but memorise the sight of him one more time. “i would have never done the same to you.”

“yeah,” he says simply. “i know.”

you wait for him to say something more. a chance to explain himself. 

everything from the distant wail of a siren to the blinking of the traffic lights and the warmth of the city hall behind you is far away, and rendered completely unimportant. the rest of the world has folded itself into complete quiet, and all that matters is that you watch kean’s mouth falter like he’s about to say your name but decides against it.

when he, too, falls silent, you descend the stairs of the city hall. step right past him, and down into the busy street.

“for what it’s worth,” you hear him speak up from behind you, just as your phone goes off.

you stop in your steps, but you don’t dare turn around. you don’t even spare him a glance over your shoulder. you can see the uber parked on the corner of the street, waiting for you to crawl inside and cry the whole way home.

“i love you,” kean says, voice unnervingly soft, deliberate, and it cuts right through you. “so much that it fucking drives me insane. i love you so much that i hate you for it, because you’ll never need me how i need you. you could never understand how jealous i am. because this is all so easy for you.” a bitter laugh. “and i can’t fucking stand it anymore.”

something akin to grief threatens to overwhelm you, but you realise only now that there is nothing good left to grieve. “i really liked you, kean.”

“nah,” he shakes his head. “you don’t. you might think you did, because you didn’t know me. but that was some perfect version of me you made up in your head.” he smiles, tapping the side of his head twice. “i know, because i played along with it. but now that you've seen me, now you've seen me for who i've always been, you’ll walk away.”

“you would have me stay?”

he doesn’t answer immediately. the pause stretches, heavy, weighty, and when he speaks, it’s quieter, almost intimate. “i think that i need you to.”

“why?” you ignore the buzzing of your phone. “so you can fuck me over again?”

a flicker crosses his face, quick and fleeting, and then he sighs, runs a weary hand down his face in quiet realisation. acceptance. “you still don’t understand, do you?”

“i don't care to." you resolve, "i don’t care what i was or wasn’t to you. i don't care about who you were to me. i never even want to see you again, kean. you understand that? i don’t care about any of this anymore. i never want to know what you’re doing or where you end up and which circles you run in and how great you become. do you understand, kazim? i never want to bear witness to you again.”

at this, he seems to come back to himself. you think you catch a flicker of doubt, a softness at the edge of his green eyes, before his features smooth over into the unreachable, untouchable, golden boy you’d watched on that stage all night. the perfect boy you’d first hated. the perfect boy you’d first fallen for.

you expect him to say something—anything, but he doesn't. he is entirely quiet. still and unmoving, for the briefest of moments. then, he just nods, slow. deliberate. 

“okay,” he says at last, voice low, measured, unyielding. “okay.”

there’s a dazed look in his eyes as he turns on his heels.

he doesn't even let you walk away first. even this victory is his, even this, your declaration, the departure that was always eventually going to follow, all of it is orchestrated by him.

you blink, and he’s gone. swallowed by the crowd weaving around you two. between passers by, you catch glimpses of his hair. a flash of that faded blue you can still remember running your fingers through. he doesn’t even deign to turn around once, as he leaves you behind in the cold. 

the city is entirely indifferent to what it’s lost tonight. from somewhere behind you, the city hall glows brightly, like an ember in the dark, warm light spilling out through doors thrown wide open, but it all feels so far away. the way kean would say your name, the way he used to come apart beneath your hands, and have you fall away by his own; it all feels so far away.

you furiously wipe at your eyes with your sleeves, and they come away damp. 

each step of distance between you and him makes you only want to cry harder and, as it grows, it feels harder to hold back the tears. 

you hate him for it, but even that resentment isn’t pure; laced with the ridiculous ache of fascination, of remembering every infuriating, infuriating little way he’s known you, has pushed you, has seen into you more fully than anyone ever should.

and it terrifies you, because you’ve always imagined control in your own life, always believed you could contain yourself, your feelings, your reactions, and yet here you are, trembling in the middle of the sidewalk like a fucking idiot, all because of him.

you've just graduated high school, for fuck's sake.

life is only just beginning to open itself up to you.

you swallow hard, roughly pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes again, as you sidle into the uber. you don’t even remember finding your way here. you only know that from inside this car, the city grows smaller in the distance and that everything else too, then, should fall away, and fade into insignificance.

so why does it not?

“hey, kid,” the driver tries meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror. “you okay?”

“fine,” you manage, watching the skyscrapers grow smaller and smaller. 

“bad breakup?” the driver tries again.

“...something like that.”

"you're so young," he offers. "you could have the whole world in your hands if you wanted to."

"thank you."

you fall into an awkward silence after that, and so he wordlessly turns up the radio before turning back to the road. you’re grateful for it. the police sirens and pedestrian chatter and bitter traffic and the music all fades into the background as your focus narrows to the widening gap between you and him.

all of it belongs to kean—

your first love. your first loss.

—and yet, this is the last time you will see him.

or so you think.

it will be ten years before you meet kean kazim again.