Just Like This (Albin Academy)

by Cole McCade

  “You tucked your thumb inside, didn’t you? Good way to break it.” And with Drew fucking watching because Damon didn’t give a shit what that asshole thought, Damon slipped his hand down between them and caught Rian’s unbruised hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing tight. “I’d prefer if you didn’t make a goddamned habit out of punching people, but if you’re gonna do it, don’t break your own fucking fingers, Ri.” He answered Rian’s startled, flushed look with a grin, tossing his head toward the Jeep. “C’mon. We’ll get you patched up at my place. If Walden sees you like this, he’s gonna shit bricks.”

  * * *

  By the time they made it back to Damon’s suite, Rian’s knuckles were quite swollen—and hurting like hell, throbbing as angrily as the red color they had turned.

  He sat on the footrest of the recliner while Damon perched on the coffee table, and tried to hold still while Damon gently wiped witch hazel over his knuckles. It stung, and the only thing that made it a little better was how carefully Damon cradled his hand in that broad palm, his thumb swiping softly along the side of Rian’s hand in soothing, repetitive strokes while he worked carefully to clean the little cracks of blood out of Rian’s knuckles, eyes lowered and his handsome face set in lines of distracted concentration.

  After a few moments, though, Damon murmured, “Nice bluff about the photos.”

  Rian smiled slightly. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Hadley had—ooh, ow.” He hissed, flinching but trying to hold still as Damon hit a particularly deep split in his knuckles, pain stinging raw and burning.

  He hadn’t meant to hit that distasteful, slimy man that hard. Or at all.

  He’d just—just—oh, he’d been so angry.

  How dare he treat a child that way?

  Damon’s lips quirked; his grip on Rian’s hand firmed, holding him in place. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said softly. “Clocked him pretty good, though. I’d be surprised you’re so strong, but I’ve felt your nails in my back. Got one hell of a grip on you.”

  Rian sucked in a breath, his stomach bottoming out. “Damon!”

  White teeth flashed as Damon grinned. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  Damon set the pink-stained cotton swabs aside on the coffee table and rummaged into his little first aid kit, coming up with a roll of adhesive bandage tape, but as he lifted his head, dark brown eyes flashed warm at Rian, brimming with unspoken laughter. “Not in the slightest.”

  “Terrible,” Rian huffed, but even to him it felt like he was saying...something else. But as Damon began to carefully wrap his knuckles, one at a time, Rian bit his lip, sobering. “Damon...what do we do now?”

  “Report that bastard, for one,” Damon growled, taping off one finger smoothly and ripping the end of the tape cleanly off before starting the next one. “But I say we talk to Chris. There’s still a lot of questions I want answered.”

  “Like what he needed the money for so badly,” Rian said. “And why he felt like he couldn’t turn to anyone here, if he needed help. If we’re falling short here, if we’re failing in some way that the boys don’t feel safe coming to us, I...we need to know that, don’t we? All of us. Including Walden.”

  “Fuck yes.” Emphatic, firm, and Rian flushed with warmth; it just...he needed to know Damon was on his side in this. “But finding out why might answer that. If he’s got some kind of problem, like drugs or drinking...”

  “Chris, though? And since his preliminary screens came back clean...”

  “...yeah. I don’t know.” Damon sighed, shaking his head as he finished with Rian’s last finger, then covered his hand with Damon’s own, capturing his palm and fingers between the warmth of Damon’s hands and looking at him with a frank, thoughtful gaze. “Kids catastrophize things. Could be something as easy as needing a little spending money to hang out with his friends. He never does seem to spend as much as the others. And somehow needing a little money for the movies got out of control, and he didn’t know how to get out.”

  “Only one way to find out. And this time, now that we know what’s going on, we might be able to get him to actually answer us.” Rian curled his fingers, squeezing Damon’s hand, then withdrew. “But first...”

  “First...? Because I can think of a few things we need to do after.”

  Rian paused. “Ah...? Like...like what...?”

  “Like finish that conversation we were having in the car.” Damon smirked, arrogant and so breathtakingly sensual that Rian nearly choked. “I’m not letting you get away from me that easy, Ri.”

  “O-oh.” Rian swallowed. “I...yes. That. But I do still need to, um...to do something else, and can you not get me so terribly tongue-tied beforehand?”

  “Sure.” Damon grinned unrepentantly. “So what you gonna do?”

  “This.”

  While Damon watched him with an inquisitive quirk of his brow, Rian fished into his pocket until he came up with his phone. His own smile felt a little too vengeful as he tapped in the number for the local police department, then lifted the phone to his ear and waited for the line to pick up.

  And the moment he heard that polite greeting, his smile widened to something that felt downright carnivorous, running the edges of his tongue over his teeth as he said, “Yes, Omen PD? I’d like to report a local business in violation of Massachusetts child labor laws.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Damon had to admit...

  Rian was damned sexy when he was pissed at someone other than him.

  But they were quiet, as they headed to the infirmary.

  Hand in hand.

  Silent and moving in tandem, as if somehow they’d fallen out of discord with each other, their cacophony blending together into a quiet and unspoken harmony that made such things seem simple and easy and absolutely natural.

  And it was hard to make himself let go, as they stopped outside of the infirmary door. With everyone either in their rooms or in the cafeteria, the hallways almost carried a cathedral quiet with them, the light of evening purple as it fell across the floorboards in grid patterns. They reached the infirmary just as Nurse Hadley was stepping out and pulling the door quietly closed behind her, her shoulder bag slung over her arm.

  As they stopped, she gave them an oddly keen look, frowning. “He’s very tired,” she said without preamble. “And Nurse Flanaghan just took over shift. Can’t it wait until morning?”

  Damon shook his head. “I don’t think it can. We just got back from Hank’s Roadhouse.”

  She scoffed, her upper lip curling. “That swill barn. What were you doing out there? You don’t smell like a dead raccoon.”

  “No, but that’s where Chris has been earning his bruises,” Rian said, a melancholy edge to his voice. “He’s been working illegally as a bouncer. Sneaking off campus, out all night, missing sleep to keep up with his homework.”

  “And it’s better if we find out why sooner than later,” Damon added.

  Nurse Hadley’s eyes widened, before her jaw set in hard, unforgiving lines. “That bastard. It’s that Gordon Drew fellow, isn’t it? I’ve a mind to—”

  With a tired smile, Rian held up his hand, wiggling fingers wrapped in bandage tape. “I already did.”

  The nurse let out an exasperated sigh, but her voice softened as she glanced back at the closed door. “Be gentle with him. But do what you need to do.”

  “We’ll get it handled, ma’am,” Damon promised. “And we won’t let this happen to him anymore.”

  She locked eyes with him as if holding him to that, then nodded, hefting her bag. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  She turned to walk briskly away down the hall. Rian looked after her, then called hesitantly, “Goodnight...?”

  “Hey.” Damon brushed his fingers to Rian’s wrist. “C’mon.”

  He pushed the infirmary door open quietly, pe
ering in; off to one side, at the desk, Nurse Flanaghan looked up, eyeing Damon before offering a clipped nod and looking back down at the stack of medical records on his desk, pen poised in his hand. Damon shifted his gaze to the bed opposite the door, where Chris slouched against the pillows, looking at his phone with his face rather drawn and tired, pale in the light of the small clip lamp on his headboard, an air of morose despondency hanging over him.

  That despondency didn’t dissipate as he looked up and locked eyes with Damon and Rian; he blanched, before forcing an entirely unconvincing smile. “Hey...you guys come see me more than my friends.”

  “Got more reasons to worry than your friends,” Damon said, stepping inside and holding the door for Rian before nudging it closed. “How’re you feeling?”

  Chris shrugged listlessly. “Bored, I guess. Like, if you guys want me to sleep, I could do that in my room. I’m fine.”

  Rian nodded toward the IV in Chris’s arm. “That says you’re not.”

  “Just need a little water.” Chris smiled but lowered his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna try to bust out of the big house.”

  “That’s good,” Damon said. “Considering you’ve been doing that a little too much this semester.”

  Chris jerked; panic briefly flashed in his eyes, before an expression of puzzlement settled over his face on a second’s delay, the movement of his lips wooden. “What?”

  Damon and Rian exchanged glances, before Damon stepped away from the door and dragged over a spare chair from the desk, settling it next to Chris’s bed. While Rian sank to sit on the edge of the mattress, Damon leaned forward and rested his elbows on his spread thighs, clasping his hands together and watching Chris steadily.

  “I’m going to be straight with you,” Damon said. “We just came back from Hank’s Roadhouse. We know what you’ve been doing.”

  Chris whimpered in the back of his throat, shaking his head, eyes darting to Rian. “What? I haven’t been—I didn’t—”

  “Chris.” Rian leaned toward him, a gentle hand resting on his knee over the blankets. “It’s okay. Look, that jerk just fired you for missing work and we already reported him to the police for child exploitation, so you’ve got nothing to lose. Just...tell us the truth. Tell us what’s been going on. We’re not upset with you. Only worried.”

  A few more breaths passed as Chris tried to hold that frozen expression of artificial confusion.

  Then any attempt at dissembling fell away, and Chris sank back against the bed, dropping his phone limply in his lap. For just one moment, one moment, he tried to steel his face into a smile, and it broke Damon’s heart watching Chris attempt to hold back his emotions, his upset, when he was just a fucking kid and he shouldn’t feel like he had to keep himself bottled up like that.

  Then Chris broke.

  And he let out a deep sound that turned into a rasping sob, curling forward and pressing his hand over his face as if he could hide, the lamplight shining off the tears beading on his lashes, caught in the shadows of his fingers.

  “I’m s-s-sorry,” he croaked out, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry...”

  “Shh, shh.” Damon leaned forward to grip Chris’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “It’s okay. Let it all out.”

  “We’re here,” Rian murmured, reaching across Chris’s body to touch the back of the hand resting loose on the bed, arm stretched out with the IV needle still in his inner elbow. “You’re going to be all right, Chris. I promise.”

  “But I’m not!” Chris sniffled and straggled his words in glottal half-syllables, gulping to get them out. “I’m g-gonna...gonna...lose...my scholarship and I don’t wanna but I don’t wanna play football, but if...i-if I don’t I can’t...can’t go to school here and my p-parents are gonna be upset...”

  Damon blinked, his own breaths catching.

  Chris didn’t want to play football...?

  That didn’t matter. Damon tightened his grip on Chris’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “Just take a few deep breaths. Tell us when you’re ready. What does football have to do with you working at that bar, kiddo?”

  Chris sniffled hard, struggling bravely with big draughts of air, rubbing the heel of his palm against his eye and looking at them both warily, miserably. “I...my parents...can’t afford for me to go here without the scholarship,” he mumbled, voice slurring a little with the thickness of tears; he flushed, hunching shamefacedly. “Don’t tell my friends. They...they wouldn’t know what it’s like. I guess my parents used to be like theirs, but...stuff went bad when I was like, ten or so and they’ve just...kinda been acting like nothing’s wrong and we still have money, but we don’t. But they’d get really embarrassed if their friends knew we’re broke, so... I had to come here.” He bit his lip. “And...and it means a lot to my dad, too. Tradition and that kind of shi—stuff.”

  “So you were trying to find a way to pay for it yourself,” Damon finished, dawning horror leaving a sick feeling in his gut. “So you wouldn’t need your football scholarship. Because you didn’t want to play.”

  Chris smiled weakly, hurt flickering in his eyes. “M’sorry, Coach Louis. I mean...the team’s great, it’s just...it’s not my thing, you know?”

  “Hey. I’m not mad at you. Not at all.” Damon squeezed Chris’s shoulder again. “You shouldn’t have to do something you don’t want to do. You can quit the team, but you’re still one of my kids. And that means I’m gonna take care of you.”

  That was what this meant to him, he realized.

  Because he did see his boys, his team, as his family.

  And part of being family was letting them go their own way if they needed to, instead of boxing them in where they didn’t want to be and didn’t belong. He thought, in their own way, his adopted parents had done the same for him. Loved him—but knew him well enough to let him find his own way, and decide for himself what he wanted to pursue.

  A past he might never be able to recover...

  ...or the future he could build here and now.

  And he thought he knew what he wanted, as he looked down the length of the bed at Rian—who was watching Chris with clear concern flickering in his eyes, hazel dark and warm.

  “Chris?” Rian asked. “Is that why your parents won’t answer our calls? Are they afraid it’s about tuition costs?”

  Chris winced. “Probably,” he said. “Like...if they ignore it and no one tells them the money’s gone, they can’t kick me out, right?”

  Damon groaned, dragging his free hand over his face. “...rich people have a fucked up way of handling things. Ignoring problems just doesn’t make them go away. You can’t just pretend it’s not there and hope it fixes itself.”

  Then again...was he any better?

  Pretending these building feelings inside him weren’t there. This thing that seemed to have been born inside him the moment he and Rian had crashed together, made up of all the messes and tangles they created together, and maybe the moment they’d smashed into each other they’d left fragmented pieces of themselves embedded inside each other.

  And Damon had been trying to ignore it; trying to pretend it wasn’t there, and as long as he looked away from it—looked away from Rian—it would go away.

  But he wasn’t looking away from Rian now.

  In fact, he couldn’t seem to stop watching him.

  And once Chris was settled, and safe...

  He and Rian needed to talk.

  * * *

  Rian lingered on Damon for long moments; there was something about him right now, something that made Rian feel like...like...

  Like he was part of a family.

  This warm, safe bubble of comfort and familiarity, enveloping all three of them in something quiet and strange that helped to ease the raw emotions filling the room from wall to wall.

  But after holding those dark brown eyes, his heart swelli
ng at the promise in them, Rian returned his gaze to Chris, squeezing his hand. “Chris...you know what went wrong here, don’t you?”

  Chris winced, his mouth pinching at the corners as he gave Rian a hangdog look. “I...broke the law...?”

  “You did, but we didn’t report your name to the police.” Rian held his index finger to his lips and winked, before offering a small smile. “I’m talking about trying to handle this yourself. You should have come to an adult—a counselor, one of your teachers, anyone. Sometimes when you’re in trouble, you can’t carry it all on your own. Especially when you’ve been hurting yourself, and...” Rian shook his head. He didn’t want to tell Chris this, but... “...it wouldn’t have helped. What Mr. Drew was paying you wouldn’t have covered even a fraction of tuition here.”

  Chris sucked in a breath, his face crumpling again. “Wh-what...?”

  Oh... Chris. Rian shook his head; he could see where Chris was coming from, when once, long ago, Rian had been just as sheltered—just as unaware of the way the world worked, the cost of things, anything other than the ivory tower fantasy world his parents had kept him in.

  That was why he’d left.

  How he’d ended up here.

  And he was glad he had.

  “Don’t your parents know about the financial aid options for the school?” he asked softly.

  Chris froze, interrupted right before he’d looked about to break down again. He sniffled. “There’s...financial aid?”

  “Yeah,” Damon interjected. “There’s loans, grants...alumnus stuff, too. Hell, Mr. Iseya, the guidance counselor, graduated from here on an alumnus grant ’cause his dad had Walden’s job like, for decades. There are ways around stuff. So if you still wanna go here, you can make it work without having to hurt yourself.”