Just Like This (Albin Academy)

by Cole McCade

  Like there was something drawing the energy out of his very soul, and it was devouring what it could from his flagging body just to try to sustain itself.

  Rian paused in flipping through the daily sketchbook a student had been working on, reviewing progress as the underclassman tried to get used to drawing in short, merging, feathery sketch lines as Rian had shown him rather than insisting on trying to do everything in a single contour line; last period would be over in a few minutes, the restless energy in the room picking up a fresh new charge as the clock counted down closer and closer to the end. It was always more tense on Fridays, that crackle of freedom for the weekend waiting breathlessly until, sometimes, Rian felt like he was standing on the other side of a very fragile fence just barely containing a herd of cattle right on the verge of a stampede.

  That invisible fence broke, as the bell rang—echoing over the school with a hollow bonging that made it sound like someone was going wild up in the old locked-off belfry tower, instead of the electronic recording that had replaced it. The entire room surged up like a tidal wave of restless, boyish energy, the silence breaking into raucous noise as the boys flooded toward the door, jostling and pushing and nearly trampling each other in their hurry to escape.

  If Chris hadn’t been so tall, Rian might have missed it in the chaos.

  The moment when that head of dark brown hair dipped beneath the rest.

  Fell.

  Disappeared.

  And Rian’s heart turned over like a failing, sputtering engine as Chris dropped out of the middle of the throng and collapsed to the floor.

  Rian jolted out of his chair, shoving it back so hard it rocked back on two feet, and flung himself around his desk, his pulse racing and his stomach jolting and his mouth so dry it felt like the swallowed scream in his throat had sucked all the moisture out of his skin.

  “Move!” he cried, pushing past the swarm of shouting, chattering boys and shouldering his way to Chris.

  Chris lay on the floor in an ungainly sprawl, and Rian only let himself feel half a second of chest-shattering relief that Chris’s backpack had apparently cushioned his head from impact before Rian dropped to his knees next to him, pressing his fingers to his throat, under his jaw; bending over his face, he turned his cheek to feel the exhalations from Chris’s nostrils, his parted lips. Breathing, pulse slow but there, skin ashen. The boy didn’t move even a fraction, eyelids firmly closed, body limp as Rian cradled his face, patting his cheeks gently to try to shock him to alertness.

  “Chris,” he pleaded softly, while the golden light from above dimmed as the boys, suddenly quiet, gathered around, staring, their shadows falling across him. “Wake up. It’s Mr. Falwell. Please wake up.”

  Chris didn’t wake up.

  His head lolled between Rian’s palms, and Rian’s heart turned heavy.

  Focus. Focus. Think.

  Move.

  He gently laid Chris’s head back down atop his backpack, then pushed himself to his feet. “Step back,” he said firmly, even as he backed away from Chris himself, toward the door. “Give him room to breathe.” Then he turned and quickly hit the emergency call button on the intercom next to the door, wired from every classroom to the school’s infirmary. “I need assistance in the art classroom, room one-one-six-A,” he said firmly. “A student has collapsed unconscious.”

  A crackle came through the speaker, before the voice of Nurse Hadley barked over the room, sharp and clear and no-nonsense and seeming to promise that she’d take care of things; she’d make sure everything was all right. “I’m on my way.”

  Yet that promise wasn’t enough to calm the sick, cold-shiver feeling in Rian; wasn’t enough to ease the tight clutch of fear digging claws into either side of his spine.

  And he drifted closer to Chris, watching him worriedly, never taking his eyes away as he caught his phone up from his desk and tapped that simple black and white icon in his contact list, lifting his phone to his ear and begging, pleading.

  Pick up, Damon. Please, please just...

  Pick up.

  * * *

  Damon didn’t remember leaving the gym.

  He didn’t remember putting his phone down.

  He didn’t remember bolting down the halls, vaulting up the stairs, racing across the gnarled wooden floorboards on the third floor.

  He only remembered the sound of Rian’s voice on his voicemail.

  And then suddenly he was outside the infirmary door.

  Damon, please. It’s Chris—he’s just collapsed in class, I’ve called the nurse, just please pick up, please...

  He didn’t know what tore his heart apart more, cruel and sharp and shredding that beating muscle into nothing but feebly twitching pieces.

  The ragged, frightened sound of Rian’s voice, pleading for Damon to be there.

  Or the sight of Chris in the infirmary bed, sprawled there pale as death save for the fever-bright spots in his cheeks, his uniform replaced with a thin smock, an IV inserted in his inner elbow and attached to a bag of clear fluid suspended from a pole.

  And his shoulders and arms, where they were visible...

  Covered in bruises.

  Some large, some small, but in colors ranging from sickly green-black to livid purple, anywhere from weeks old to days—or less, fuck, some of those looked like they could have happened hours ago.

  “What the fu—”

  “Shh,” Nurse Hadley hissed from Chris’s bedside, her head snapping up, her red-painted, stern mouth—the only splash of color beyond the graying, tight bun of her strawberry blond hair against her pale skin and white uniform scrubs—tightening as she glared at Damon. “He’s trying to rest.”

  Chris’s eyes fluttered open; they were glazed, worryingly dark, murky. He lifted his hand limply, flicking his fingers in a shaky wave. “Hey, Coach.”

  Damon forced himself to bite back the curses building up into a lump in his throat, his jaw so tight he felt the strain pulling in his neck and pushing up into his temples, but he forced a smile for Chris. “Hey, kiddo. You look pretty banged up there. Been playing with another team?”

  Like hell.

  Bruises that bad didn’t happen even in practice. That was what the fucking gear was for. There might be a few red marks, a few sore spots, but any coach who let a kid get beat up that bad was doing something wrong.

  What the hell was Chris involved in?

  On the opposite side of the bed from Nurse Hadley, Rian hovered at Chris’s side, looking down at him with his hazel eyes darkened to deep tiger’s-eye by worry, his mouth a crumpled line of upset, his brows wrinkled; he fretted his hands together, then touched Chris’s shoulder lightly before looking up at Damon, those glimmering eyes heart-wrenching in their frustrated anguish.

  Felt like seeing every damned thing twisting through Damon thrown back at him in a golden mirror, until he had no choice but to feel it all.

  But Chris laughed—raspy, hoarse, but sweet as ever, even if he winced as his body shook against the mattress. “Nah. Promise I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” Damon growled, then snapped his gaze to Nurse Hadley. “He doesn’t look fine.”

  “He won’t get any better if you agitate him,” Hadley bit off, then flicked her fingers at Rian. “We’ll talk in the hall. Let him rest.” She touched Chris’s arm gently, then, her voice softening. “Try to get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll check on you in a little bit, and bring you something to eat.”

  Chris offered her a warm, grateful smile. “Thanks, Miss Hadley.”

  “That’s Nurse Hadley,” she answered with mock sternness, her lips curving reassuringly.

  Only to go flat as she pinned Rian and Damon both with sharp looks, before turning to walk pointedly from the infirmary room.

  But not before pulling the suspended curtain around Chris’s bed, rather firmly cutting
Chris off from them.

  Rian came straggling after Nurse Hadley, and Damon stepped back from the doorway to make room, watching them both helplessly as Rian turned a forlorn look over his shoulder before the nurse pulled the door to behind them.

  Damon slumped against the wall, dragging a hand over his face. “So want to fill me in?”

  Nurse Hadley adjusted her uniform. “He’s exhausted,” she said crisply. “Fatigued—looks like sleep deprivation, but also dehydration.”

  “And those bruises?” Damon snapped—only to earn a look that made him wince, shrinking back like one of the students from Nurse Hadley’s penetrating gray stare.

  “I thought you could answer that,” she said. “Considering the most likely answer.”

  “Hasn’t been happening in practice,” Damon said. “I don’t push my boys like that—not to mention he hasn’t been to practice in over a week now.”

  “Then your guess is as good as mine,” she answered.

  “What do we do?” Rian interjected softly, hugging his arms to himself; he looked pale with worry, his eyes shadowed, haunted. “I tried asking him, but he was just coming out of it at the time and I’m not even sure he heard me.” He swallowed, rough and rasping, and pressed his fingertips to his trembling lips. “It was bad enough when he collapsed, but when Nurse Hadley stripped him and I saw those bruises...” Stark eyes pleaded with Damon, an unspoken ache that Damon felt echoed below his ribs. “They’re on his chest and legs too, Damon. He’s been hiding it under his uniform.”

  “It’s possible he’s being bullied,” Nurse Hadley said. “Several of those contusions are consistent with punches, kicks, perhaps knees or elbows.”

  “Fuck.” Damon ground his teeth, glancing toward the closed door. “Why is he not in the hospital?”

  Nurse Hadley clucked her tongue. “It’s nothing I’m not qualified to treat here. A few days of rest and he’ll be almost as good as new.”

  Rian’s brows drew together. “But—”

  “Don’t start, young man,” she interjected, giving him a flat look. “It’s not about my ego. It’s that transporting him to a hospital out of town will only add to his fatigue and stress, and that will make him worse. He needs rest somewhere quiet, familiar, and safe. He knows us here. Leaving him with impersonal strangers may just make him less likely to open up to us about what’s happening, because he’ll feel like he’s done something wrong and been incarcerated.”

  Damon sighed, scrubbing his hand restlessly through his hair. “So we really don’t have the first clue what the hell happened to him.”

  Nurse Hadley shook her head. “Not yet. He’s not been very forthcoming.”

  “Have you called his parents yet?” Damon asked.

  “It’s on the list, but I haven’t gotten to it,” she answered. “They’ll want to know why their son looks like he got jumped in a back alley, and I have no answers for them.”

  Rian plucked at the sleeves of his deep blue caftan, the drifting fabric ballooning against his chest where he clutched his arms to himself. He gave Damon another of those entreating looks. “Can we try to talk to him? See if he’ll let us in?”

  Even if Damon hadn’t already been thinking the same thing...that needy, worried look in Rian’s eyes would have pushed him over. As ragged as Damon felt, seeing Rian with his heart laid so raw, his fear and worry for Chris overflowing his edges to spill everywhere...it made Damon ache to reach out, to comfort him, to try to give at least one of them some kind of solace and stability when they were caught in this horribly helpless position.

  And he couldn’t help curling his hand against Rian’s shoulder, squeezing gently. He’d been—fuck, he couldn’t help that he’d been trying to keep his distance from Rian for a thousand reasons over the last week, but right now the idea of distance hurt and it took everything in him not to pull Rian into his arms right in front of Nurse Hadley.

  “We should,” Damon said, and Rian smiled wanly, lifting one pale hand to touch the back of Damon’s wrist. Damon forced himself to let go, and glanced at the nurse. “Please. Ten minutes. We’re not gonna upset him too much. If he’s beat up that bad, this is serious—and it’s better if we try to get to the bottom of it before school administration gets involved.”

  She grimaced with a low, uncertain sound through her teeth. Rian laid his hand to her arm, biting his lip. “Please, Nurse Hadley. For his own good.”

  Nurse Hadley let out an exasperated sound, pinning them both with stern looks. “Ten minutes. I won’t have you aggravating his condition and exhausting him further. And don’t let him get worked up enough to dislodge his IV. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rian said quickly, and Damon nodded tightly.

  “Yeah. Got it.”

  She gave them another skeptical, measuring look, then flared her nostrils and pushed the door open. “Clock’s ticking.”

  Damon exchanged a long look with Rian, then stepped aside to let the slender, fey man enter before him.

  Rian drifted in like a ghost, his hands clasped close to his chest. Damon followed in his wake; he couldn’t help the need to stay close to Rian, as if they were together in this, and he barely stopped himself from reaching up to rest a hand on the small of Rian’s back. He wasn’t even sure if it would be to comfort Rian, or to comfort himself.

  But he stayed close, as they pushed the curtain aside and stopped next to Chris’s bed. Rian rested his curled hands against the edge of Chris’s bed, while Damon settled to sit on the mattress at Chris’s feet, leaning on one hand. Chris looked between both of them, then offered a weak, tired smile.

  “Promise I studied for my midterms,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t have to look at me like that.”

  Rian let out a chuckle, sad and barely whispered. “You know, I think you’ve earned an extension.” He rested his hand to Chris’s wrist, looking down at him with his eyes so warm that Damon... Damon wondered how he could ever have thought Rian was shallow; that he didn’t care about the consequences of anything to anyone but himself. “Do you want to tell us who did this to you?”

  Chris shrugged vaguely, his smock rasping against the sterile white sheets of the infirmary cot. “Nobody did this to me. I’ve been, you know...in the gym. To make up for missing practice. Guess I went a little too hard.”

  “About that,” Damon murmured. “You haven’t been missing practice to work on your art project, Chris. We’ve been talking about that.”

  Chris sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening, his mouth crumpling as he darted a sharp look between them both. “I—I—it’s not, I don’t...”

  “You’re not in trouble,” Rian assured softly, a gentle sweetness in his voice. His long, thin fingers curled further around Chris’s wrist. “We’re not upset with you. It’s okay. You must have been pretty scared to lie to both of us, but we’re not angry. We just want to know why.”

  “Whatever it is,” Damon added, “we only want to help. Not punish you. No matter what’s going on, nothing’s going to happen to you for telling us.”

  Chris hesitated, his eyes flickering, his lips parted.

  Damon could see the moment he decided to dissemble. The moment he closed over; the moment he decided to smile, as if a smile could make them believe everything was okay.

  That smile was as fake as those quick, shallow things Rian fell back on—and it hurt just as much, when Damon felt like that smile was just another retreating step pulling Chris away from him, out of his reach. Out of their reach, when right now he felt like...like he and Rian were holding on to each other while each reaching out a hand to Chris.

  But Chris wasn’t taking their hands, as he said with a sort of strained pleasantry, “I really...just...look, there’s nothing wrong. I’m okay. I’ve just been studying too hard and working myself too hard, and I just...you know, I feel like I’ve been away from the team so much that I jus
t...don’t belong there anymore, that’s all. But I’ve been trying to make up for it with extra workouts, and just overdid it.”

  “You belong on this team for as long as you want to belong, Chris,” Damon promised. “But if you miss too many more practices, it’s going to affect your scholarship. And then we’re going to have to get your parents involved, and I don’t think they’re going to believe you got those bruises working out.”

  “No!” Chris gasped, jerking up on the bed—then wincing, pulling his wrist away from Rian’s grip to clutch at his elbow and the IV needle that must be biting into his skin. “Please—please don’t call my mom and dad. Please.”

  Rian bit at his lower lip, drawing it into his mouth and glancing at Damon, questioning; Damon inclined his head to him. A subtle nod answered, before Rian touched Chris’s wrist again more hesitantly, his voice soft, pleading.

  “Don’t you think your parents will care that you’ve been hurt?” Rian asked. “Because if this keeps happening...we have to call them, Chris. We have to tell them you’re not well. They deserve to know. They’ll want to take care of you. They’ll want to protect you just as much as we do.”

  “Please don’t,” Chris begged, his voice breaking; he stared at them with something stark and haggard in his eyes, and Damon realized...that fear went deeper than either of them knew.

  What was Chris afraid of?

  What had him so terrified that he would suffer through this to keep his secret?

  And how could they not call his parents, when his exposed flesh was a map of pain and abuse, and they needed to know what was happening to their son?

  Damon didn’t know what to say. And Rian remained silent as well, hazel eyes fixing on Damon with a sort of helpless, hopeless question dwelling in their depths.

  A question neither of them had the chance to ask.

  When Nurse Hadley stepped into the doorway, her stern, square frame blocking the sunlight streaming in from the hall outside.

  “That’s it,” she said, her voice flinty. “I told you not to agitate him. It’s time for both of you to go.”