by Cole McCade
Break in the case, Rian sent. My classroom?
Damon stopped short, just staring at his phone screen, his pulse ticking over sharply. What could’ve happened?
It didn’t fucking matter. A break was a break, and anything that could point them toward a way to help Chris was worth taking. When?
Five minutes ago would be good, but as soon as you can get here is second best.
Damon frowned. He was supposed to be heading out for practice, but...
Sometimes, you had to choose priorities.
The boys would understand.
Especially when he would do the same for any of them.
On my way, he sent back, and dropped his phone into his pocket before taking off at a jog, the afternoon sun beating down on the back of his neck.
By the time he made it down the hill to the football field, both the JV and varsity teams were already out on the green, geared up and stretching to warm up; as he hit the end of the footpath, several boys raised their hands, calling out to him and waving.
Damon halted at the fence, raising a hand in return before slipping two fingers between his teeth in a whistle, swooping up and then down, one he’d taught them as a rallying call—and without hesitation the entire group hauled themselves up and came trotting over, their gear clacking and rattling and jostling.
“What’s up, Coach?” Jess Ryder asked, breathless and tossing his mop of blond hair back.
“Not much you need to worry about.” Damon folded his arms on the fence. “Practice is canceled today. Sorry to let you know on such short notice, but we’ll pick up tomorrow. You can run drills on your own if you want, or just go back to your rooms.”
The nonstop murmur that was the inevitable noise of a flock of boys at rest fell still, and they all glanced at each other with worried looks before another boy—a freshman, Rory Sakurai, piped up. “Is this about Chris...?”
Damon blinked. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“He hasn’t been here,” Jess said. “And he’s acting weird in class. He’s in the infirmary, isn’t he? Like, been there all week?”
“...yeah.” Damon frowned, but hesitated only a moment before choosing to be just...honest. These boys trusted him, and they deserved to hear the truth. “He’s in over his head with something. Don’t know what, but me and Mr. Falwell have been trying to find out. There might be something I can do to help him, so I need to go take care of that right now. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t skip out on y’all if I had any other choice.”
Jess grinned. “Not a big deal. I mean, we want Chris to get better, right?”
“Yeah,” Rory said, shrugging, running a hand through his spiky mess of black hair. “He was supposed to teach me how to like, intercept without falling on my face. So the sooner he gets back here, the better.”
For a moment, Damon couldn’t breathe.
God damn.
No matter what their parents thought of them, why they’d sent them to Albin, out of sight and out of mind...he had some damned good kids; so good his chest swelled with pride.
And he grinned, reaching across the fence to clap the thick foam and plastic pad on Jess’s shoulder. “Then I’d better do my damned job and get him taken care of. I’ll be back tomorrow, guys. Be good.”
“Yeah, right,” came from the back of the throng, followed by laughter and snickers.
That laughter trailed him, along with a few cheering calls, as Damon took off back up the path, pushing himself against the incline of the hill even when his thighs strained, jogging back up to the school and ducking inside to make a beeline for Rian’s classroom. It felt like he knew the path to the art room almost as well as he did to the gym by this point, operating on instinct; this homing signal drawing him to Rian with a strange feeling of hope flaring in his chest not just for Chris...but that he and Rian could come together to work on this again without everything going wrong.
That flaring warmth in his chest leaped into a sparking flame, though, as he slipped through the half-open door of the art room and saw Rian standing there—perched on his desk like some kind of slim fae, his hair tumbling over one shoulder and mingling with another of those ombré shawl-style wraps, gradient rich purple and black draped over a loose silk camisole top and another pair of jeans that probably cost a thousand dollars for a few scraps of denim someone had deliberately ripped to shit and back.
But Damon only had a moment to relish the bursting feeling of wanting inside him before his brain processed the second person in the room, slouched in one of the front row chairs at the work tables and glancing at Damon guiltily from under his brows.
Luke Maddow.
Chris’s roommate.
Damon stopped just inside the door. “Luke,” he said slowly. “Hey.”
“Hey, Mr. Louis.” Luke sounded reluctant to even talk, and he glanced at Damon, then at Rian, before ducking his head and rubbing his fingers behind one ear, his dark brown skin starkly contrasted by the silvery white he had bleached his tight cap of curls to. “So, uh...wow. Didn’t know this was gonna be a trial by jury or some shit.”
“No one’s on trial,” Rian said gently, beckoning to Damon with a subtle flick of two fingers, even though his gaze remained on Luke. “But Coach Louis has been worried about Chris, since he’s been missing practice. I’ve been worried, too. You said you know something about Chris, so it’s better if both of us hear it.”
Damon frowned, drifting slowly into the room; what was going on here? He settled down next to Rian, propping himself against the desk and leaning back on his hands, very firmly ignoring that where one hand curled against the edge of the desk, it almost brushed against Rian’s upper thigh.
“You know something ’bout what’s going on with Chris?” he asked, and Luke winced.
“I...guess, yeah.” Luke’s shoulders worked tightly, restlessly inside his uniform jacket. “Look. Me and Chris are ride or die, you feel?” Brown eyes watched them suspiciously. “So you can’t tell him I told you.”
“Not a word,” Damon promised, and emphasized it with a finger against his lips. “You’re that worried about Chris?”
“That’s what ride or die means, fam.” Luke let out a derisive snort, slouching down in his chair with his arms folded loosely against his chest. “I keep his secrets, but not if they’re gonna fuck him up like this. I mean, the room feels weird without him. He’s been in the infirmary for what, like, a week? And I know y’all been sniffing around, tryna get people to dime on him. You really thought Merry was gonna sing?”
Damon quirked a brow, casting Rian a sidelong look, and found Rian giving him the same dryly amused, almost fond look right back.
So much for being subtle and not tipping any of the kids off.
“So yeah,” Luke continued. “I don’t know what he’s into, but...you can make it stop, huh?”
“We can try,” Damon said, shifting his gaze back to Luke—just in time to catch a hint of wary tension making him stiff, his gaze skeptical. Damon leaned forward, holding Luke’s eyes. “Hey. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re doing what a good friend would do. It’s okay.”
Luke mumbled something, lowering his eyes. “I...damn it, I should’ve said something sooner.”
“You’re here now.” Rian spoke with a comforting richness that seemed to promise all the warmth and understanding in the world. “That’s all that matters. And we’re glad you are. So just tell Coach Louis when you’re ready, Luke.”
Luke hesitated, and in the waiting silence that followed...
Damon felt something warm against the back of his hand, soft and smooth against his knuckles, and looked down to realize Rian had let his fingers fall to cover Damon’s, gripping gently. And Damon only hoped he wasn’t giving away the tightening in the pit of his stomach, the faint flutter-soft feeling in his heart, the way that light touch and the shy, almost entreating look Ri
an gave him made Damon feel like he was going to fall apart into a tangle of jumbled, messy emotions.
Especially when that look was saying, Be with me on this.
Together, you and me, handling this between us.
Damon turned his hand so that his fingers laced with Rian’s, hidden in the space between their bodies, and squeezed—before turning his attention back to Luke as Luke cleared his throat and began to speak.
“So uh, I...” Luke swore, then seemed to realize what he was doing and cringed, before clearing his throat and starting again. “Chris is, um...he goes out at night. After curfew. Like, almost every night. He sneaks out the window and gets past the guards, like, he knows all their rotations and he’s real good at it. And he doesn’t come back until morning.”
That hit Damon like a splash of cold water; he jerked, while Rian’s hand tightened on his spasmodically. They both stared at Luke, who shrank back, his face the picture of regret and a whole lot of other things that added up to nothing good.
“What?” Rian gasped. “Where is he going?”
“I don’t know,” Luke shot back defensively. “He won’t tell me, okay? He just takes his bag and he goes.”
“Hey,” Damon soothed. “It’s okay. We’re not upset with you. You did ask him where, though?”
“Yeah,” Luke answered, miserable and low, sinking down so far in the chair he was barely head and shoulders above the table. “He won’t spill. He just begged me not to rat him out.”
“You’re not ratting, you’re trying to protect him,” Rian said. “But when does he do his homework? His grades haven’t been slipping in other classes, and there are no missed assignments in his records. And when does he sleep?”
Damon grunted. “You’ve seen him. I don’t think he is sleeping.”
“No, uh...” Luke made an odd sound under his breath, dragging it out long and low. “He, uh, he does his homework before class, I guess. I usually wake up and he’s, y’know, grinding out at his desk in our room. But he, um... I can show you where he sleeps.”
Blinking, Damon paused. “...wait. Where?”
Wrinkling his nose, Luke pushed his chair back and stood, his body slumped forward as if these confessions were a heavy weight bowing him down; he shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled toward the door. “C’mon.”
Damon exchanged a confused look with Rian, before they both pushed away from the desk—and for a moment both stopped and stared down at their interlaced hands. Damon wasn’t sure which one of them pulled away first, but Rian’s face went red as a damned sunset, and Damon probably wasn’t much better when his own felt so fucking hot. After an awkward moment, they looked away from each other, and trailed Luke out into the hall.
They didn’t have to go far. Luke led them just a few doors down to the room Dr. Liu had currently been assigned for chemistry classes—one of the corner units with the most windows, because more windows meant venting smoke out more quickly. Liu wasn’t there at the moment, but the room was unlocked, and with a furtive glance Luke pushed the door open before flicking the light on and making a beeline for the supply closet door in the far corner.
Damon frowned.
What the hell was going on here?
He got his answer when Luke pushed the door open and stepped inside, turning on the dusty, swinging overhead lamp and flooding the long, narrow room with illumination. Most of the room was taken up by shelves and shelves of beakers, test tubes, pipettes, safety goggles, bottles of chemicals, any number of other classroom supplies.
But in the back, a broad, deep bottom shelf had been emptied out.
And a nest had been built there, as if the shelf was a bottom bunk piled with pillows and a rumpled mess of blankets.
Rian drifted deeper inside, leaning around Luke to see, while Damon hovered in the doorway.
“This is where he’s been sleeping?” Rian asked, voice hushed, aghast.
“Yeah,” Luke admitted guiltily. “When he skips practice, he hides in here to get some sleep.”
“...what is with people in this school repurposing supply closets?” Damon muttered, if only to deflect from his own mounting horror, and Rian flashed him a flat look, before sighing and lightly touching Luke’s arm.
“Come with us,” he said. “You’re not in trouble, just... I need your help for a little bit longer, Luke.”
Luke paled, his rich brown skin turning ashen. “What? Why? Where are we going?”
“To do something about this,” Rian said firmly, hazel eyes dark as they locked on Damon. “And talk to Assistant Principal Walden.”
* * *
Even living with Lachlan Walden, Rian had always felt a certain fear around him—or if not fear, at least a healthy respect for his authority, his icy temper, and a certain cold quality around him that said maybe, just maybe, he had killed a man or two in his past life before taking on the role of a boys’ school assistant principal.
But that fear, respect, trepidation evaporated completely as Rian marched his little coterie right up to Walden’s office, and rapped his fist sharply against the door with Damon hovering over one shoulder and Luke nearly hiding behind the other.
Rian was done tiptoeing around Walden’s expectations.
Chris was stealing two or three hours of sleep a day on a shelf in a closet, for hell’s sake.
They should have intervened before it got to this point.
And he wasn’t taking no for an answer.
After a brief moment, Walden’s chilly voice floated through the door. “If you’d like to stop attempting to break the hinges off,” he said, “you may enter.”
Rian glanced over his shoulder at Luke. “Wait out here,” he said. “We’ll call you when we need you.”
Luke sighed. “Seriously, man? Walden? You tryna get me killed?”
“Nobody’s getting killed here,” Damon said, smiling without much humor. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Then his hand pressed, warm and firm, against Rian’s back, his voice lowering as he bent in close, words kept between them. “It’s okay. I’ve got your back.”
Those words calmed the angry jitters under Rian’s skin more than he had ever thought possible.
And let him take a deep breath, straighten his spine, and push the door to Walden’s office open.
Lachlan Walden didn’t even look up from his laptop; his fingers never slowed, moving across the keys swiftly while behind the bright-lit lenses of his glasses, pale blue eyes darted across the screen.
“I assume,” he murmured without preamble, “you’re here about Christopher Northcote and his current medical condition.”
Rian barely waited for Damon to step in behind him before Rian reached back and slammed the door shut, so Luke wouldn’t have to hear his rising voice. “Oh, so you finally figured out he’s in the infirmary after a week?”
Walden hit the Enter key with a particularly emphatic clack. “I’ve known from the moment he collapsed in class. Who do you think the nursing staff reports to?” A cutting look flicked to Rian over the screen of the laptop, steady and unblinking. “Is there a reason for your tone, Mr. Falwell?”
“You know damned well there is.” Rian wasn’t letting that cold stare cow him this time; he planted his hands on his hips and glared at Walden. “I’m done dragging this out. We’ve tried calling his parents. We’ve tried waiting. The situation is getting worse, and we have a responsibility to do something.”
“We do,” Walden agreed so simply that Rian blinked; he’d been building up to an argument, but that just fizzled as Walden continued smoothly, “I’d be interested in your opinions on what that ‘something’ might be.” Walden’s upper lip twitched. “I’m also interested in how long you’ve been attempting to contact his parents without informing me.”
“Don’t.” Damon’s voice drifted from behind Rian, steely and forbidding. “Don’t
turn this on us. We are all responsible for Chris. All three of us.”
Walden inclined his head briefly in acknowledgment. “I take it some new development has triggered this confrontation.”
“You said we can’t do anything if Chris hasn’t been violating the rules, right?” Rian bit off. “Well, his roommate just confessed. Chris is sneaking off campus after curfew every night, but not even his roommate knows where he’s going. In fact, I think I almost caught him when I was out for a walk, but I thought it was a bear.”
“A bear, Mr. Falwell?” Walden repeated.
“A bear. I didn’t get a good look. It doesn’t matter.” Rian lifted his chin defiantly. “We have a confirmed violation. It’s time to do something.”
“Hm. Interesting.” Walden said each syllable slowly, as if mocking Rian’s impatience. “And no response from his parents at all?”
Damon made an irritated sound, deep and growling. “None. We’ve both tried. No emails, no phone calls back. It’s been over a week now, and they haven’t damned well said boo.”
“That is...disappointing.” Walden sighed. “I’ll reach out. Put more pressure on them to respond. Attempt to find any other avenues such as alternate emergency contacts, so they cannot remain unaware of their son’s predicament.” His fingers finally stopped on the keyboard, the rainfall patter of their noise silencing. “In the meantime, what would you like to do?”
“Search his room,” Damon interjected. “Might find something. Some kinda clue to point out where he’s going. Luke said he takes his bag with him, so what’s he putting in that damned thing that he needs when he’s sneaking out?”
“That, too, is an interesting thing to contemplate.” Walden leaned back in his chair, somehow managing to slouch while still maintaining perfect posture and a rod-stiff spine, all angles inside the neat lines of his black wool knit suit. “I take it Mr. Maddow is currently hovering outside, wondering if he’s about to face consequences.”