Title: Lax Games

Author: Sparkle Itamashii

Notes: This... was never meant to be a chaptered story. Five years later my brain said Hey, remember that one time you wrote that story you never meant to write more of? And I said yeah... and my brain said SURPRISE I THOUGHT OF MORE. Oh well.


Lax Games: Chapter Two


The bruises along his chest had finished darkening two nights previous, angry purple edged with green and yellow. He had watched as the nurse pressed and prodded, had held still for the x-ray that had shown a broken rib and another bruised. There would be no lacrosse for him for a few weeks at least; almost the rest of the season. Anger had flushed through him so thoroughly while they wrapped his injuries that he'd barely heard their advice and couldn't have named the pain medication they gave him. He hoped Mitchell had given number 7 hell on the field after he left.

Groaning, he eased back on his bed and pulled his feet up. The doctor's note had kept him out of school for the day, but he had not been idle. He'd been stretching and testing the pain in his chest, practicing in the backyard, figuring out how to breathe shallowly enough to keep the pain at bay but deep enough to allow him to run. He was determined to convince the coach he could still play, determined to show up to practice as soon as possible.

But testing his limitations had taken its toll, and what he wanted now was a nap; a sixteen hour nap until he had to get up for classes in the morning. If he just closed his eyes and imagined he could breathe without it feeling like someone had rammed his chest through with an iron construction rod, maybe it would come true.

The clanging chime of his doorbell woke him an hour later, dragging his consciousness back to the light. Groaning, he started to sit, gasped at the lance of pain that shot through his body and forced him to lay back down. He controlled his breathing and waited for the fire to ebb as he listened to voices downstairs. His mom had come home; had probably even opened the door to check on him. The other voice was low and deep, words undistinguishable. He knew who it was.

When silence politely fell, Nicholas closed his eyes and relaxed his face and body, hoping to appear asleep. Perhaps he would just leave if he thought he was asleep. Whatever business it was, it could be left until later. Of course, he wouldn't leave it. He wasn't the sort to let Nicholas sleep, no matter what had happened. The gentle tap on the door was not followed by a wait for an invitation; the door simply swung open.

"I know you're not asleep," he said, casually leaning against the doorframe.

"What do you want, Miller," Nicholas growled, turning his head to look.

A book wrapped in sheets of paper dropped unceremoniously onto his desk, already in disarray. "What do I want?" Miller asked with not just a hint of irritation. "I brought you your homework, dick. You could say thanks."

Eyes rolled. "Yes, thank you. Homework is what I want to do while injured."

Miller sighed, and grabbed the black wheely chair docked at the desk, spinning it around so he could sit in it backward. "Whatever. Next time you can be swamped when you get back. When are you coming back, by the way? What did the docs say?"

"Apparently there's a bruise on my chest," Nicholas replied, sarcasm clinging thickly to the words as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed to face his friend. "X-ray says one cracked, one bruised rib. Nothing bad, they said the crack's tiny and should heal in a few weeks. I can go back to school tomorrow."

"Coach won't let you play with it," Miller said flatly, reading the determination in the other boy's eyes. "And if he would, Hathaway won't."

"It's the coach's call," he said firmly, staring. "Not his."

Silence fell, but it was not the easy sort. Miller glared intently at Nicholas, boring his disapproval into his friend's skull. Nicholas stared straight back, unwavering. It was Miller who broke first with a shake of his head and a surrender eyeroll. He fixed his gaze on Nothing In Particular at the end of his friend's bed, unable to look him in the eyes.

"I don't know why you let him," he said softly. "You should just tell him no."

Nicholas sighed, had hoped that these particular wounds could go a conversation without being reopened. "It wouldn't matter," he intoned, as though he had said the words so many times they came automatically. "He wouldn't listen."

"There's a term for that," Miller said hotly, brows furrowing in anger. "Not a good one. There are people you can tell. There are people I should have told by now."

"Tell whoever you want," he said blithely. "I'll say you're lying."

Jaw clenched, Miller closed his eyes, shook his head once. He hated this argument. "He's a total douchebag, Nick, and he doesn't deserve your protection. He's not doing it because he likes you. He's doing it because he can. He's got half a dozen girls ready to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants to do it... And if you think he isn't messing around with them, you're an idiot. And," he continued when Nick opened his mouth. "That's what you should be doing too."

"Messing around with half a dozen girls?" Nicholas queried, anger edging his tone.

"Yeah!" Miller replied, looking up then and catching his friend's gaze. "You could have anyone you wanted, anyone, and yet you choose... whatever is going on with him. Do you even know what's going on with him?"

Nicholas broke eye contact. "There's nothing going on with Mitchell, Jacob."

"Yeah, that was a whole lot of not going on in the locker room Saturday," Miller agreed sarcastically. At Nick's stony look, he sighed. "Look, we've known each other since we were six. I've watched you take a lot of falls. I don't want to see this one."

"Then don't watch." No inflection, simple statement. Jacob frowned and shook his head, clambering to his feet.

"Fine. You do what you want." He replaced the desk chair slowly, wheeling it around to dock neatly against the desk. "And when he gets bored and washes his hands of this, come find me. I won't even say I told you so."

Silence, but Jacob could feel eyes on his back as he reached for the door. He didn't look back as he left the room, didn't look up as he clicked the door shut behind himself. For a moment he stood in the hall, listening to Nicholas' mom in the kitchen downstairs, part of him waiting to see if Nick would get up and open the door to say something... anything. Nothing.

He left without saying goodbye to Nicholas' mother, closed the front door almost silently. The air was crisp but warm with the afternoon sun, and he stood on the front porch for a few minutes just letting his muscles relax, letting his mind clear. His house wasn't far, and no one was home to miss him. Even if his parents had been, they'd assume he was still over talking to his best friend. He should have been.

The sidewalk was warm under his shoes as he started for home with that thought in mind. There were a lot of things he should have been. He should have been more observant. He should have been more protective. He should have been more angry. He should have... he sighed, ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair. Something about hindsight, he reminded himself. It was too late now.

It had been too late for a while, if he was being honest. It was too late a month ago, when he'd first stumbled upon Nicholas and Mick in the locker room. Mitchell had his best friend backed up to a wall of lockers, hands flat against the doors on either side of his friend's head, their faces so close. He hadn't heard them whispering when he entered, had thought the room was empty.

That first time, they'd startled apart- or at least, Nicholas had. Mitchell had only looked smug, stared straight at Miller as Nick ducked out from under his hands, stammered something about having something to do at home. As sick as he felt, Miller had managed to ask his captain what that was about. Mitchell, in typical Mitchell fashion, had casually rolled his shoulder.

"Checking up on him," he'd excused, but Miller hadn't missed the flicker of fear in his tone. "He missed that pass at practice. I wanted to be sure he would pay attention better next time."

"Bullshit," Miller had told him. "That's bullshit and you know it. Leave him alone."

"Or you'll what?" Hathaway asked pointedly. "You'll tell on me? Let me know how that goes for Johnson. I'm sure the boys would love knowing he plays for the other team."

"Did he tell you that?" Miller demanded hotly, taking a step forward. Hathaway did not flinch, did not back down. "That's bullshit too, and if you tell anyone otherwise, I will personally skin you." He'd meant it, and although Hathaway was no slight guy, Miller knew who would win in a fight.

"Tough words, Miller," Hathaway sneered, skirting neatly around him and grabbing his gear from one of the benches. "I won't tell if you don't."

That had been the only time either of the addressed the situation. Miller had found them in the locker room more than once since then, though it was only yesterday he'd actually seen them kiss. He could have interrupted them sooner, maybe should have, but he'd been frozen, staring. Nicholas hadn't been resistant at all, hadn't pulled away, hadn't protested.

And Mitchell? Jacob cursed under his breath; he'd never seen the captain be so gentle.

He didn't like it.

He'd known, for years now, that Nicholas wasn't into girls. It was ok, and when Nicholas had finally screwed up the courage to tell him, he'd said as much. Nicholas didn't mention it again after that, had not sought attention from anyone during the course of high school. Maybe that is what had given him away to Mitchell. Maybe someone else had figured it out. Maybe Nicholas had told him himself... Jacob had never asked. Even if he'd known how, he wouldn't have. It was not his business.

What was his business is why Mitchell had taken a sudden and severe interest. Mitchell, who was well known for his escapades with the girls in school. There was nothing he enjoyed more than leading them on, teasing them, making them chase him until they were crazy, and then enjoying the resulting fling. And it was always a fling. In the almost four years they'd known Mitchell, he'd never had a girlfriend for more than a couple weeks.

Was it a joke? Was it something new to pass the time? Was he simply enjoying the power he held over Nicholas, and accidentally over Miller?

Or perhaps worse, was he actually interested?

Miller turned up the walk to his house, head aching. He wanted the best for his friend. If Mick was interested, it wouldn't be the best. Mick was an asshole, and Nicholas should know better. He did know better, Miller knew he did, but he let him anyway, and that was the part that killed Jacob- the pointed, purposeful ignorance. He turned the knob, pressed open the glass paned front door, and stepped inside.

Trekking upstairs, he powered on his radio and flopped onto his bed, ignoring the book and papers on his desk, identical to the ones he'd delivered to Nicholas. Neither of them would do the report, he knew. Nicholas would lay in bed scowling, angry that Miller had challenged him. Until Liz called to wish him good night, Jacob would probably lay in bed, mind wrapping tighter and tighter around the notion of just how deep a grave he would let his friend dig before he tried to help.

Pretty deep, he decided, closing his eyes. Pretty goddamn deep.