“You are a cheerleader, it’s not an entirely unfair assumption.” He drawls and rolls his eyes. “In fact you’re the head cheerleader, shouldn't that count for double or something?” He doesn’t own this roof and right now he’s desperately wishing that he did, so that this conversation could cease happening right that minute. He debates getting up and leaving, surely there must be another place on campus that he could go where he could just be by himself, but he’s exhausted physically and emotionally and it turns out that this discomfort is something he’s willing to bear at the moment.
“Is that so bad? To want to not see anyone’s damn face for an hour? They already think I’m part of the reason we almost lost last time, and now we actually lost this time.” He huffs and folds his arms across his chest, stretches his legs out in front of him. They ache and are bruised from colliding with strikers all night, running up the court to try and stop the trouble before it got as far as the goal and then running back when it got through anyways. It feels like everything hit so much deeper tonight, so much harder, like a taunt that no matter how hard he tried it would always go right to the bone. “At least up here I’m out of sight out of mind.”
He scrubs his hands over his face and exhales, tries to rub away the headache that’s forming behind his eyes. “Noah says it’s always rough to cheer when we lose like that, so for what it’s worth? I’m sorry to you guys too.”
Brayden’s clearly not happy with the statement, but Casey could care less what Brayden of all people thinks. He’s honestly kind of surprised the striker didn't come up here with the specific purpose of tearing him a new one for the hot mess that the defense is at the moment. He shrugs his shoulders and rolls his eyes without any real emotion behind it, exhales. “So far this season? All I’ve done is babysit freshmen in the backcourt--and I can’t even get them to stop pulling stunts. At least when I was there it was just about Exy. Even if it was--messed up and toxic it was something.” It’s a difficult feeling to explain, that when he was wearing an Ohio State uniform he wasn’t worried about fading away, about having no choice besides going back to Oklahoma at the end of everything. Now there’s a chance that unless something gets fixed the Foxes won’t even make championships, that he’ll go back to being nothing again.
“This the part where you call me star boy and tell me what a selfish asshole I am?” He drawls, doesn’t make eye contact and takes another pull from the bottle. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d thought it about himself--it hadn’t seemed like such a problem before, it was just what he had to do to get out of his house, get out of his life and towards something better, a survival instinct. But there’s such an emphasis on team here, and when he finds himself slipping back into that mindset it always makes him feel like maybe he doesn’t belong in the first place, like maybe he should have just stayed down after the overdose or tried harder to get back to where he was. “Or are you buying into the whole team thing after all?”
“Yeah, well I’m actually kind of glad that you’re not Grant.” He rolls his eyes when Logan cracks a joke about mistaking the two, toys with a loose thread in his jeans. “He’d make me explain why I was so angry or something, and then I’d have to explain it and it would just sound stupid.” It kind of is, Wymack clearly trusts him to be out on the court to show Jake and Glory and the other freshmen backliners the ropes, keep them from getting into trouble--but it’s starting to feel like that’s his only job. Like he’s a babysitter more than an Exy player in his own right. He takes a pull from the bottle sitting next to him and wishes that he wasn’t so resistant to getting drunk--maybe the drugs dulled that part of his brain or something, so far it’s just barely starting to feel hazy around the edges.
He’d honestly forgotten about pulling Logan out of a fight, it seems so minor compared to everything else that went down, all of the other mistakes that got made. Particularly since he had just wanted to keep the offense on the opposite side of the court, not give them any more advantages then they already had because of defensive weaknesses, it hadn’t been a decision that he’d had to spend a long time thinking about. “Oh,” He mumbles and shrugs his shoulders, finds a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Maybe he didn’t screw up as much as he’s been sitting out here thinking that he did. “Yeah, don’t mention it. Just promise you’ll return the favor, because the way things are currently going? It’s only a matter of time before someone gets a stick to the knees.” Knowing his luck as it stands, he won’t even get to do the honors, he’ll just have to hold his ground when someone else does.
“I’m one hundred percent sure you could kick my ass if that makes you feel any better.” He grins and shrugs his shoulders, feels his cheeks color just slightly. Cam is an adult in her own right, and she has her own older brother related to her by blood to watch over her, but she’s honestly the closest thing he has to an actual sister. He has sisters at home, two of them in fact, but Maddie is old enough by now to know what he did and what it did to their family, and Alex is--he doubts she would know his face if he showed up on the doorstep at this very second. He sometimes wonders what kind of people they are, but he can’t go very far down that road because he already knows what it did to him. “And it’s probably good to have a lot of people feel protective of you in a way--I mean, at least they don’t look at you like an outsider.”
“I feel like we may have been like too poor even for poor kid Halloween.” He laughs when she gets clearly excited by the idea of the holiday, tits his head thoughtfully. “I always had to stay home and make sure the meth addicts next door didn’t blow anything up or something. Though--I think I may have gone once. Maybe with my little brother’s dad.” To this day he really doesn’t understand the big deal, he feels like he’s already spent enough time in his normal life pretending to be someone that he isn’t--he doesn’t want to put any formality to it. “Joel convinced me to dress up this year though, he said something about how I deserve a proper Halloween experience. I’m kind of scared he actually wants to go trick or treating.”
“Thanks I think. I guess it’s kind of a bad thing, not having anything good to say. Everything kind of feels like a bad thing tonight.” He shrugs his shoulders and tries a small smile, but it feels all wrong and pulling and heavy. He scrubs a hand over his face and exhales, letting his hands rest on the tops of his knees as he pulls them into his chest. Having Pax up here out of everyone else makes him feel less like he has to hold himself so taught, like a wire ready to snap, and more like he can start to let some of it seep out of him. Everyone else is frustrated too, they’re together in the--absurdity of this game that they all live and die by. Pax has been frustrated for a while though, he remembers their conversation outside of the hotel in Nashville and wishes that maybe they could be spared this one.
He doesn’t really know what to say, he doesn’t want to talk about Exy anymore, he doesn’t want to keep feeling like he’s hitting that wall. He takes a pull from the bottle, idly picks at the label. It’s okay that he doesn’t know, this doesn’t feel like a situation that he has to. He can lose his focus in watching billows of steam from whatever hot drink Pax has brought with them make his teammate’s cheeks turn pinkish. “It’s times like this I wish I’d taken up a less stressful hobby, like checkers or something. Oklahoma offers many ample opportunities for farming.” He chuckles softly to himself, worries his bottom lip between his teeth gently. “At least you had the common sense to bring something warm with you--that kind of thing always has a way of--I don’t know, making you feel better.”
He doesn’t really know what to think when Jake pushes open the door, and he doesn’t respond immediately, just worries his bottom lip between his teeth. This is exactly what he didn't want to happen, he doesn't want an excuse to be mean to someone just because he’s frustrated and doesn’t know how to deal with it all the way in a clean and healthy fashion. He knows that Jake is doing what he’s doing because he desperately doesn’t want to let Casey or anyone down, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult for Casey to do his own job when half of his focus is directed at making sure his line mate isn’t falling apart next to him. He sighs and takes a long pull, and feels vaguely annoyed that he isn't fuzzy enough around the edges yet for all of this to feel--better.
“Just don't try that again okay?” He says finally, quietly on an exhale. He tries to keep any real emotion out of his voice, doesn't really feel like he could muster up anything stronger than ambivalence at this point anyway. “Unless it’s the damn Ravens or something, picking a fight like that is just gonna make them wanna score on you harder.” He pulls his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs and settles his chin on top of them. He tucks his nose into the neck of the worn out hoodie with Chicago Museum of Art written across it in big black letters, before sighing again. “I still trust you, even though I kind of think you’re a really tall pain in the ass at the moment. So, don’t--make this bigger than it needs to be. And for the love of--stop worrying about letting me down.”
“You’re from Idaho right?” He says after a while, after he decides that part of the problem is they don't know each other well enough outside of all of this. It’s hard to trust someone who’s a mystery to you. “My mom is from Montana, right on the border. I always wanted to see it, I had the crazy idea that I was gonna be a mountain climber as a kid.”
He’s kind of surprised to see Cecil up here, his roommate doubles as one of his best friends which means that Casey knows him well enough to know he’s more of a people person--someone who doesn’t like to be alone with their own thoughts like Casey does. It must mean that he’s really feeling it tonight. Selfishly Casey’s also kind of grateful though, he feels a small smile pull at the corner of his lips when the goalkeeper starts cracking jokes and settles in next to him. He rolls his eyes, but there isn’t any heat behind it. It’s a fond gesture at this point. “C’mon man, it’s me you’re talking to. I can tell when you’ve really got a pep talk locked and loaded and when you’re fronting.” He takes another long pull from the bottle and leans his head back against the wall, looks up at the sky.
He doesn’t miss home, but he misses the stars that he could always see. They felt far away, like if this life didn't work out he could always give himself back to the ether or something. Live life as stardust. Now there’s just smog. “I used to hate the smell of cigarettes,” He smiles gently, shrugs his shoulders. “They reminded me too much of one of the guys my mom used to hang around that I really hated. But-- I don’t know. Joel smokes them, it kind of reminds me of him now, more than anything. I start to miss it if I don’t see him for a while. My ex used to steal them, but that particular brand pretty much make me sick now.”
He elbows Cecil gently and laughs quietly, as if the thought of laughing about something tonight is somehow kind of absurd. “No pep talks, let’s talk about anything other than Exy. I personally think it’s a shame that we’ve been roommates all this time and we’ve never engaged in a proper game of truth or dare.”
“You not having anything peppy to say? I’m shocked.” He drawls and rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat. He’s plenty angry, but Brayden can’t do anything about it--he manages a small smile to himself when he thinks about the fact that this must be what his teammate feels like all the time, even though it’s already starting to air on the side of exhausting more than it is therapeutic. He takes another pull from the bottle when it finds its way back to his hands, swishes the amber colored liquid. Normally he would try and say something here, make another joke or give a compliment, but he just can’t tonight. He’s completely drained of love for really--anything--at this moment, and Brayden would probably prefer if he kept his mouth shut.
He offers up the bottle again and hopes that says more than he can, keeps his eyes on the city living and breathing without any care for what happened on the court today. He doesn’t know what that’s like, he’s never known, and he doesn’t want to know what that’s like in the end--but it might be nice, at least for a few minutes. To not live and die like this. He spares a glance up at Brayden who’s gaze is locked on the same horizon, smoke drifting lazily from his cigarette, before he lets it fall to the concrete underneath him and he begins tracing idle shapes with his finger. “I don’t really wish I was at Ohio State anymore, but--” He pauses, doesn’t really know why those are the words that he chooses to say. “But tonight I kind of do.”
It’s a cliche at this point--a losing effort, a bottle of something strong, the roof of Fox Tower. But it’s the best he can do tonight with residual anger buzzing in his head, and a distinct desire to not be found by any of his teammates or anyone at all for that matter. He guarantees that if he opens his mouth right now what’s going to come out of it is going to be sharp, so he’s heading this whole thing off and just keeping it shut--removing himself until tomorrow when this might not hurt so much. He wants the sounds of passing cars below him and the lights in the distance to do something--to drown out everything else and just leave him with a comfortable numbness--but instead he’s still holding himself tightly, like the next person that walks through the door to the roof is going to start a fight.
When did it get to be like this? Lately every time he takes the court it feels like throwing his body at a brick wall over and over, hoping for something to break and instead just coming away bruised and angry. It’s all the worse because there isn’t a solution in sight at the moment; he’s not anyone’s coach, he’s not a one man defensive machine, how is he supposed to right the ship when no matter how hard he fights it just keeps hitting the rocks? He takes a long pull from the bottle he has with him and exhales, runs a hand through his hair--and of course the old metal door slams. He doesn’t make an effort to move and see who it is, just leans his head against he brick wall and pulls his knees up to his chest, offers up the bottle.
“Save the pep talk, if that’s why you’re here.” He says lowly, his voice rough from disuse.
Seeing Noah approach him only adds to the overwhelming feeling of—contentment? softness? warmth? in his chest, this thing he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He wonders if this is just how people are supposed to feel on a day to day basis, like the drugs cut all his social and good feeling wires and he’s only just figuring out how these things are supposed to feel—he’s figuring out a romantic relationship on a day to day basis, and even then sometimes Joel looks at him like he’s—broken—in some way. And he has a best friend, someone that he absolutely wants to see and be around as much as he can. He gestures for Noah to sit next to him by the window and pulls his knees into his chest, takes another sip of his drink.
“Why the day after? Isn’t the point to eat it the day of?” He raises an eyebrow and rests his chin on the tops of his knees. He doesn’t really get the big deal about Halloween, maybe because he’s seen enough scary stuff that it would take a lot to frighten him, maybe because he never got to make any of the associations with it that people tend to carry with them into adulthood. For him it was just a day to keep his brothers and sisters occupied while his mom worked whatever she was doing that particular week or month, pray that none of the people they called neighbors did anything stupid. Some of the guys that passed through tried to do the dad thing and suggested trick or treating, he thinks he might have a memory of riding on his own dad’s shoulder’s in some kind of costume, but they were usually gone by the time the day came or found a way to be too busy. “I’ll never say no to a snicker’s bar though, so you can count me as a yes. You have big plans? Aren’t couples costumes a thing or something?”
@caseyhendrix asked for: our muses go on a nature hike!
Usually, Cameron liked to think she was pretty tough. She’d gone days without electricity or running water before, woken up to cockroaches on her bed, and slept through just about every drug deal gone wrong that occurred in her building. But somehow, still, she was kind of a baby about nature. She didn’t like snakes or spiders, had a really intense fear of ticks, and camping was just about her worst nightmare. When she’d seen the advertisement at her favorite local diner for a “spooky” nature trail put on by a local elementary school, she’d been a little skeptical. Something put on by kids, however, couldn’t be too bad, and she was definitely intrigued by the promises of free cookies. So she’d decided to go, and luckily for her, Casey seemed down for this particular adventure.
“Honestly, Abby and I truly could be related like people tend to assume. Our feet are literally the same size,” she mused, knocking the heels of her borrowed boots together as they waited in line for the scavenger hunt list to find all the spooky decorations and write down any wildlife they spotted. “Thank you for coming with me, by the way. This is basically the cutest idea I’ve ever read about in my life and I needed to try it.”
He learned a long time ago that looking too starry eyed at things was a really easy way to pin him as a small town kid with no real experience—but there’s so much green in Palmetto, things alive and thriving and the complete opposite of the dry brush and weeds he grew up with—it’s hard for him not to look at it sometimes like it’s from outer space and he’s seeing it for the first time. He’s not exactly an avid naturist or anything, it’s just kind of mind boggling that there’s an entire ocean within an hours drive, and he likes that. So when Cam had approached him on his walk back to Fox Tower after class, a newspaper in hand and a bright grin as she chatted about how anything made by kids was bound to be adorable and they could work on their fake scared faces, not to mention the chance to spend time in the fresh air on the hiking trails he rarely frequented, it had been a no brainer.
“I mean, there are worse people to be mistakenly related to.” He laughs and shrugs his shoulders as she relates a story about how she had to ask to borrow Abby’s hiking boots, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. She thanks him for coming with her, as if he had ever thought about doing otherwise, and he feels his face soften when he speaks. “Yeah, don’t mention it. I—I never really got a chance to be a proper older brother, or I guess I did and I kind of blew it—anyway, I like supporting kids.” He grins and elbows her gently in the shoulder, laughing. “And you. I bet you’re one of those people that gets really into Halloween—no—maybe you’re more of a Christmas person. Hard to tell.”
He doesn’t really have any memories of his own to push him one way or the other on the subject, there’s a vague memory somewhere in his brain of before his dad took off—of holding both of his parent’s hands and being dressed like a cowboy or some kind of cartoon character or something. He maybe went with Jack’s dad once or twice, maybe one of the other guys that tried to act the dad before they decided it was too much. But—people seem to feel strongly about it.
It used to be that he could say waking up after a near death experience was the strangest sensation that Casey had ever felt, second only to the feeling of walking back through the door of his home after that, the strangeness of settling in a place that–didn’t mean anything anymore. A strangeness exists in this moment–a kind of softness that he doesn’t hate as much as he would have year ago, something that he didn’t know he still had inside of him after everything that happened. The sun is just barely reaching it’s peak in the sky this morning, warm on the back of his neck and reflecting off of puddles along his jogging path, but still cold enough that he can see his breath. His heart is beating steadily in his chest in a way that feels lively, and he can’t help the small smile that curves up the corner of his lips when he purposely runs through a pile of leaves and hears them crunch underneath his feet.
He decides as he rounds the corner leading back towards the main part of campus that he should see how far this mood will take him, and he needs a warm beverage. The cafe is small, usually only frequented by humanities students and people in need of quiet but not a lack of noise, and the window seat has the best natural light that Casey’s found on the entire campus, art buildings included. He doesn’t have his sketchbook today at the end of his run when he walks in, just his own thoughts which are pleasantly at bay and his fingers wrapped around a ceramic yellow mug of something spiced.
The smile on his face is easy when someone familiar walks towards him, and he takes a sip before speaking. “Can’t keep anything a secret around here.” He laughs softly, shakes his head. “Just please tell me you’re not here to tell me Wymack moved practice up an hour or something horrible, I’m having such a good morning.”
“Y’know, the last time someone said that to me I woke up behind the worst bar in Columbus the next day.” He smiles easily and raises an eyebrow, shrugging his shoulders. He’s completely wrung out physically, but it’s not really a bad thing he supposes. It means Wymack trusted him enough to hold down the back line for as long as he did, and he really can't do any more than he could have done, and that seems like something that should be celebrated in a way. And of course Colin is right, when it mattered the most they held it together, and that definitely is something he can appreciate. “But I like to think I’m older, wiser, and all that.”
He’s trying to be better at this, at being an actual member of the team instead of someone who only appears at practices and games and in the tower sometimes. It’s not that he’s antisocial because he chooses to be, it’s just--that sense of team had been a huge reason why he had gotten into trouble in the first place. His whole life and sense of self worth had been team team team, and when he felt like he wasn’t living up to that weird imagined standard of friend, family, life it had all fallen apart. It’s not like he can just go up to his teammates now and just say “Hey, I have a hard time trusting anyone but myself anymore.” But he’s trying, this is trying. Just a couple of drinks with Colin. He can build on that.
“C’mon, I’m pretty sure Wymack just doesn't give me a roommate sometimes cause he knows I just go straight to Joel’s room.” He gestures to the door and then his teammate.
The key to his room isn’t even actually a key, it’s a card. He feels kind of stupid for expecting something else, maybe something that had a weight in his hand, matched the weight that lives somewhere between his shoulder blades. Instead he’s left with something innocuous--but something that’s a key nonetheless. He’s never had a key of his own, he’s never had anything worth stealing, but it’s his now. That feels like--something.
He realizes that he’s been staring at the door too long pontificating on having his own space for the first time in his life, and that’s confirmed when a figure stumbles out of a door a couple down from his own and they make eye contact. He’s a deer and the boy is a green eyed truck heading towards him, and he just wants to get out of the road--he moves to put his key into the lock but he’s too late. The boy leans against the wall, close enough that if Casey were still back at home people would have whispered as they walked past, and at this distance Casey can see that his tan skin is covered in freckles. He doesn’t know what to do with that information.
“You’re on the team right?” The boy has a smile that’s more of a half smirk, like he knows something that his conversational partner doesn’t, like he’s waiting for everyone to catch up to him. His eyes flash bright, and where Casey is from green like that is just a dream on warm nights. “Everyone in this hall is, what am I saying. I’m Oliver Catalan, just started my second year.”
“Casey. Hendrix. Casey Hendrix. I’m a freshman.” He nods and finally gets his door open, which Catalan takes as an invitation to enter and sprawl on the bed closest to the door. He moves like he’s pouring himself into the room, easy long limbs and warm casual chatter filling the empty spaces that Casey has never even dreamed of having, of filling himself. He looks up at Casey finally and does that half smirk smile thing again, and he has to turn away from it to put his bag on his desk, to not have it directed at him. He kind of wishes he was alone, that it wasn’t so apparent that all he has is tucked in that bag, but Oliver seems interested in more than that. “I think I heard Gina talking about you, something about how now that you were here we were gonna get into the big three.”
He doesn’t know what to do with the fact that the captain has apparently been talking about him, but he finds that he’s more interested in what Oliver might have to say about that statement. There’s nothing in his tone to imply that he believes it or doesn’t believe it, he just keeps his voice even. Casey turns back around and shrugs his shoulders, straightens his spine just enough so that he’s standing at his full height while still looking casual. He doesn't respond, the less he has to say about himself the more successful he’s going to be. The more distance he can create, until eventually he just--forgets. Plenty of professional athletes send money home, and never think about it again. Oliver does what Casey, in the couple of minutes they’ve known each other suspects he always does, and fills the silence himself. “So hotshot, where are you even from? What high school did you play at?”
“Um, Seattle. Just outside. Xavier Prep.” He bites down hard on his bottom lip and shrugs his shoulders again. Something flashes in his new teammate’s eyes, like a flash of sunlight through the branches of a tree, but if he thinks Casey is lying he decides to move past it, and starts taking about the last year’s summer practices, and how close they had come to winning the championship.
He tries to sleep, but he can't stop thinking about Oliver, about the way that the team already seems to be put together in a way that doesn’t include him--but as Gina had told him at the team dinner earlier that night, Coach normally makes freshmen practice for a year before he even thinks about putting them on the court, but he’s making an exception for you. And I’m letting him, because I’ve seen your film. You’re the real deal Hendrix.
The court is safe and more importantly it’s abandoned when he arrives, leaving him to his own thoughts--or attempts to rid himself of his thoughts. He throws the ball against the glass in a steady rhythm, feels the tension between his shoulder blades start to bleed out. He knows Exy, he knows that he’s good at it, he trusts it above everything else in his life. He just has to keep trusting it, keep throwing his whole body into it, and everything else just won’t matter. He catches the ball again and turns his shoulders to hurl it at the opposite wall, but is stopped by Oliver’s form leaning against it. He feels heat radiating from his cheeks, and grips his racquet tighter. “Oh, hey. How long have you been standing there?”
“Not very long.” He shrugs his shoulders, drawing Casey’s attention to a tattoo of roses curling into the muscle of his bicep. He had been wearing sleeves before, but now he’s wearing a maroon tank top with the words OHIO STATE EXY blazoned in white. “I was lifting in the other room, thought I’d see who else had a terrible sleeping schedule.” He strolls forward and takes the ball, bounces it against the floor. He catches it each time without looking, and Casey’s not surprised that he’s good at playing striker with hands like those. “Can I ask you something Hendrix?”
Casey nods his head, leans against the wall behind him. Oliver tosses the ball to him and keeps his gaze steady, gestures for Casey to throw it back. “Where are you from, really?” He misses the ball when it comes back at him, and he scrambles after it eagerly. “How did you know?” He murmurs, and gets to his feet.
“My parents are both lawyers, being able to tell if someone is lying was like--lesson one in my house.” Oliver laughs and this time he actually smiles, and it feels like Casey is watching something rare, something that he should--make note of. He doesn’t think Oliver Catalan let’s himself laugh like that very often. “C’mon, if we’re gonna be teammates, you should be able to trust me. It’s not--it’s not a big deal.”
Casey exhales and closes his eyes for a half a second, curls his fingers into the palm of his hands. He opens them again and bites down on his bottom lip. “I’m from Oklahoma. Like, the backwoods. Please don’t tell anyone else okay?”
“Cool.” Oliver shrugs, bounces the ball high into the air and smiles. “Wanna play one on one?”
