Work Text:
he says, “hey son, why don’t you talk through this with me?
just tell me what you’re doing it for”
A bridge in West Virginia, December 2005
The wind whips at Kevin’s clothes as he stands with his good hand on the rail, watching as the water glitters in the moonlight underneath him. It’s a little cold, and he wishes he brought a jacket- but he has no clue how he’d get it on over his mangled hand, and it’d be useless in a moment anyways, so instead of shivering he makes himself still and focuses on the task at hand.
Climbing over the railing.
He winces as he cradles his left hand- still bleeding steadily- and uses his right to hold his weight as he hoists one leg over the barrier, then the next, turned so the toes of his socks (he hadn’t had time to grab his shoes after running out on Riko) line up between the slats and his heels sit still a couple inches from the edge of the concrete.
Okay. First step done. There’s only like, two steps to this.
A lone car blinds Kevin as it swings around the corner and onto the bridge. The headlights dim a little as it approaches and slows to a crawl, and Kevin’s heart stops.
The car doesn’t, though, and even after the driver makes weird continuing eye contact through the passenger window as he goes by, he continues onward and away from the scene, despite the bloody college student literally teetering on the edge in front of him.
“Okay.” Kevin says, to no one, and shuffles awkwardly to turn around, grabbing at the railing behind him to stay upright. His right hand connects and gets a grip- and then his left hand smashes down on the rail and he screams. The pain washes over him, all white-hot and sharp like knives, and he almost loses his balance as he relives Riko’s boot coming down repeating and vicious, the wet crack and splat of bones and blood on the Nest floor as Riko’s hand kept his arm steady, Jean’s strangled gasp at his ear- but somehow he manages to right himself and pant to catch his breath. Fuck, he really should just do it now. No point in catching his breath and waiting for his hand to stop throbbing like it’s going to explode if he’s just going to end it all in a minute.
But something in his stomach twists at the thought. He’ll do it when the pain is dull. He’ll do it when his lungs feel normal again.
While he waits, another pair of headlights rounds the corner. Patiently, he waits for it to go by- but the engine rumbles to a stop behind him.
He stares down at the water. He’s on a time limit now- preferably sometime before whatever stranger that just opened and closed their car door can get close enough to him to notice the two on his cheek, can tell who he is- the fan at the gas station had been more than enough, and shoving his hand in his pocket had hurt like a bitch- but his eyes flick to his socks first. There’s splatters of blood there, on his feet and on the concrete, and as he watches as more drips from his hand and falls, missing the edge by a centimeter and disappearing into the black waves below. His time is up. He has to follow it down. He wants to follow it down.
Footsteps get louder behind him and his grip on the railing loosens. He holds his foot out over the nothingness-
“The fuck? Kevin Day?”
Kevin freezes in place. He’s obsessed over that voice in many an Exy interview- it’s unmistakable, the gruff annoyance in it, and even the questioning tone can’t disguise the fact that David Wymack, coach of the Palmetto State Foxes- Kevin’s none-the-wiser fucking father- is standing right behind Kevin on the bridge.
He almost laughs out loud, because this is one hilarious cosmic joke. Kevin knows Wymack is staying at a hotel in the area- he’d watched him like a hawk at the winter banquet just the other day- but for him to, at this exact time, drive across this exact bridge, is comical. And, it’s Palmetto-halfway-house Foxes Coach Wymack- of course he saw a kid about to jump off a bridge and stopped. That’s so painfully him Kevin hurts a little at the thought.
“Alright.” The railing squeals a little as Wymack leans heavily against it, and in the corner of his eye he can see the tribal flames on the Coach’s arms. This guy is his biological dad, and this is the closest he’s ever been to him. “I’ve done this song and dance before, kid. You want to talk about it?”
Of course he has. Kevin’s read over the Fox lineup a thousand times- not all of their backstories were press-friendly, but starting backliner Matthew Boyd and notoriously violent striker Seth Gordon at least both had histories of addiction. It was more than likely a Fox or two had pulled something like this before, and though the thought of it is more than morbid Kevin’s heartstrings are twinged at Wymack’s willingness to jump into the fray.
Kevin squeezes his left hand into the fabric of his shirt instead of answering Wymack’s question. He winces at the shooting pain it sends through him, but lets it course through his arm in waves as he watches the blood soak his clothes.
“Jesus, what happened to your hand?” Wymack asks, blunt. Kevin’s actually appreciative of it- it makes him respect Wymack a little more to know he won’t beat around the bush. Apparently he appreciates it for too long, because Wymack taps his fingers impatiently and cuts back in with a rough, “Kid? You there?”
Kevin swallows, and speaks for the first time since before Riko smashed his hand. Or, tries to- all the screaming has near fried his vocal chords.
“I’m here.” Kevin replies simply, voice cracking. He keeps his eyes downward.
Wymack’s tapping pauses. He snorts at his own joke before it even leaves his mouth. “You trip over your skis or something?”
Kevin’s grip on his shirt relaxes as he looks at his hand. It’d need surgery, if he was planning on living past the next ten minutes. Even then he’d probably have chronic pain the rest of his life, definitely never play Exy the same again. Riko would not be happy about that. It wouldn’t matter that he was the one to break it- the press would go crazy, and Riko’s careful crafting of his “perfect court” would crumble when the press saw an injured Kevin- wouldn’t matter, either, that Riko had won their one-on-one, or that the master had seen it, or anything- nothing would matter. That was the point.
“Or something.” Kevin’s voice sounds unfamiliar even to himself, broken up and quiet.
“Ravens don’t have a nurse or anything you could go to?” Wymack was talking like he was sitting with Kevin in an office, not trying to keep him from jumping off a fucking bridge. “What about that tall-ass backliner who’s always got you covered, uh… Moreau?”
His heart breaks at the mention of Jean. He forcefully pushes all his thoughts about the other boy out of his head- there’s no way he’ll go through with this if he thinks any more about him. Kevin swallows thickly and shifts his feet on the ledge, taking note of Wymack’s slight flinch- he’s standing at the ready to grab me if I jump.
“Jean-“ Kevin means to say more, like is stuck at the Nest, is too afraid of Riko’s punishment to raise a finger, but all he can get out is the name before a choked sob clogs his throat. His heart literally aches. It’s past time. He should jump now, before he backs out- before he gets into Wymack’s car and drives right back into the master’s- no, more frighteningly, Riko’s grip, no matter how badly he wants to make sure they can never hurt anyone he loves ever again. He steels himself despite the tears on his face, tries to figure out how to jump in a way Wymack can’t catch him, and just as he figures it out-
“You know, I did this once.” Wymack says at length.
“Did… this?” Kevin asks, and despite his better judgement, turns to look at Wymack. He’s all hard edges, but soft tones, and in his browbone Kevin sees his own worried wrinkle mirrored back at him. Shit. He should probably kill himself before he tells Wymack he’s his father like he desperately wants to right now.
Wymack chuckles despite himself. His eyes flick down to his tattoos, and for the first time Kevin realizes they might be covering something. “Got up on a bridge, all rage and sickness and self-destruction. Threw my sneakers down before me, which sucks. Nicest pair of shoes I owned.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, voice a little thick in his throat. “Even tried to jump off. Classmate of mine saved my ass, though.”
Kevin clears the lump in his throat. He tears his eyes away from Wymack and purposefully points them down, at the blood on his socks, at the gleam in the waves so far below him. He should be able to do this, right now, fast enough Wymack can’t catch him, soon enough that his hand won’t keep throbbing like it is, before Riko can send someone after him, before Jean realizes he’s left him- but he can’t, his feet won’t move and his blood is warm and wet on his shirt and the stone in his stomach is keeping him anchored to this ledge like an idiot.
Suddenly one of Coach Wymack’s hands is on the back of his neck, and the knot in Kevin’s stomach and the lump in his throat burst at the same time. He chokes, and Wymack’s hand moves to rub over his shoulder as sobs wrack his frame- which makes him laugh. It’s stupid- to any regular person this would be an insane view, college Exy star Kevin Day with a broken hand crying and laughing at his failure to kill himself as an opposing team’s coach holds him back, but to Kevin it feels like a big fucking joke. He can’t tell Wymack that talking to his dad like this is a childhood dream. It’s like the world is pointing and laughing at him and saying I know you want this and I will never let you have it.
And god, isn’t that a familiar feeling.
Kevin only laughs harder. He’s nearing delirious, with the pain in his hand only spurring him along as he laughs all the breath from his lungs and then some- Wymack must think he’s going insane, with tears on his cheeks and blood on his socks and laughing like an idiot. He’d fit right in on the Fox lineup now.
“Take a breath, kid.”
Kevin doesn’t really listen, but Wymack’s grip on his shoulder is assurance enough. He giggles still as he wipes his face with his injured hand, uncaring about the bloody mess he’s just smeared on his cheek, and spits down into the black water thrashing below him. He misses Jean. He always wants what he can’t have.
“That’s it.” Wymack approves, and Kevin realizes his breathing is slowing. He’s not crying anymore, or laughing, or thinking about how easily he could slip right now- he’s just so, so tired, and Wymack’s car is probably warmer than the ledge of this bridge. He wants to sleep. The thought settles in his head, foggy and cold- he’s too scared to kill himself today, no matter how badly he wants to.
Like father, like son, he supposes.
Wymack is quiet as Kevin catches his breath, and for a long moment nothing happens. Kevin breathes, his hand bleeds, the breeze wipes tears from his cheeks. Apparently, Kevin’s thoughts are plain on his face, because the coach draws his arm back and lets him have his space for a minute before speaking next.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. It’s cold as shit out here.” Wymack straightens, and his eyes meet Kevin’s for the first time all night. They’re a strange reflection, kind, but filled with the tired sadness Kevin only ever sees in his mirror and Jean’s eyes. He offers Kevin his hand, rugged from hard work but soft to the touch- and in all its wrinkles and calluses he sees the years Wymack almost didn’t have. He thinks about the water, about his socks dangling over the edge, about the view from halfway down. He thinks about Jean sitting alone at the Nest. He thinks about the number tattooed on his cheek, the bones splintered through the skin of his hand, his racquet on the court floor, Riko's furious gaze.
Kevin steps forward, and the rush of his socked foot slipping down off the ledge has his body screaming even when he realizes he's still not falling. Wymack's hand is tight around the back of his neck, and before Kevin even registers what he's done Wymack yanks him upwards and hoists him back over the railing. Kevin shouts as his left hand untangles from his shirt, stinging, and he doesn't feel the blood hitting his legs as the white-hot pain takes over and he's fucking crying again, as Wymack practically wrestles him to the sidewalk. Distantly, he knows he's fighting it, his good hand and bad hand alike shoving at the coach's chest and face, but it's useless now, and his hands weakly settle on Wymack's shoulder as he sobs, loud and ashamed and tired, and instead of holding him down now Wymack is just holding him as he wets his shirt with far too many tears for a member of the Perfect Court.
He stays like that for what feels like hours, and could have been- he's exhausted his lungs by the time the sun starts to rise. Wymack slowly releases him as he hiccups, wiping his face and staring at the ground, and gets up, taking Kevin up with him. It feels a little silly, being held by someone at his big age, but he can't find the strength to complain or even care as his father carries him in his arms to his car, still parked on the side of the highway with the driver's door slightly ajar.
Wymack lays him in the backseat, wordless but still comforting as he pats Kevin's head before heading to the driver's seat and starting the engine, but his concern is misplaced. Nothing he could do or say would soothe the ache tearing Kevin's chest apart.
It doesn't matter where Wymack takes him anymore. There's nowhere he could go to that would feel like home.