DYNASTY DECAPITATED

 "Welcome to the end of eras, ice has melted back to life. Done my time and served my sentence, dress me up and watch me die." Leo Duarte. 22. Striker. Junior.  

[leodxarte]

striker-brayden‌:

“What part of that was lovey dovey?” Brayden tries to argue, words muffled by the pillow that landed on his face. He shoves it off before sprawling out on the bed, letting out a contented sigh. For him, that was borderline mushy. He’s still so used to keeping everything to himself, even his feelings for his boyfriend. There’s nothing to hide though, pictures of them with their tongues shoved down each other’s throats were plastered all over FoxWatch a few days after they got together, so there’s no point in pretending he’s too cool to be in love or whatever. 

Still, he’s not sure if he’ll ever get over that fear of letting his emotions show, of having too much hope and letting himself have things. Brayden spent so many years alone. He pushed his family away to the point where he just came in and out of his home like a ghost, spending the majority of his time underneath the bleachers or wandering around Pasadena. He never thought he’d have any of this–a coach who for some reason believes in him, a boyfriend, or friends like Leo where he can do shit like this with. It scares him still, like one wrong move and he’ll be eighteen and lost all over again. 

Brayden snorts as he lazily looks over at Leo, noticing that he doesn’t deny it, just kind of talks his way around it. “I’m pretty sure if you dumped her you would be dead, not here drinking with me,” He points out. Brayden doesn’t make a habit of talking to Sasha more than she has to, mostly because he’s seen her throw herself in enough fights to steer him away,, but also because the few times they do talk, she reminds him how gross she thinks he is. How Leo ended up with her, he has no fucking clue. He can’t imagine her in a girlfriend role, going on dates and calling him pet names. 

“It’s okay, man. You don’t gotta lie to me. I’m already helping you drink away your sorrows,” He gives Leo a sarcastic grin, mostly joking. If he did get dumped, he doesn’t seem too heartbroken over it–unless that’s the reason he isn’t downstairs with the party.

“You know what you did,” he sniffs, but it’s mostly for show. He likes the gossip: likes knowing who’s getting together and who’s breaking up—(and yes, likes to narrate his teammates’ exploits if they’re involving the team by having them on the team’s bus)—but he doesn’t take it much more seriously than that. His own relationships are flings more than anything else, and if they last longer than that it’s more out of convenience than any kind of seriousness. 

He knows that his teammates aren’t necessarily the same way, that Brayden and Arlo are probably like gay swans who have mated for life, but for the most part it’s their business. 

And, honestly, it’s boring. He’d be way more invested if they were fighting all the time, breaking up and then making up. 

It’s funny, then, that he and Sasha are ending their own not-relationship without all of that drama. But in drama like that there’s always a winner and a loser, and when both of them had agreed to put on a public spectacle to save face, that didn’t seem quite fair. So, instead, they’re fizzling out. And they’re doing a good job of it: if their teammates are wondering, then the next step is the more public rumor mill. 

“Nah, she’s not as bad as all that,” he protests. He’s not sure why: he’s sure that Sasha loves her maneater reputation—even moreso now that he knows what else she’s deflecting from—but he still wants people to believe that they’re broken up without damage to his person. And, well, she’d been a good fake girlfriend. And they’re friends, so he feels like he’s sticking up for her, her ability to be a good real girlfriend to someone else.  “And we’re friends, still. So it’s, like, mutual.”

He feels antsy now. Maybe it’s the lying. But he rolls to his feet, extricating himself from the blankets with the bottle still clutched in his hand. He spares a glance for his discarded shirt, before deciding it’s more trouble than it’s worth, and holds out his hand to Brayden instead. “We done feeling sorry for ourselves? Because there’s a party out there.”

[leodxarte]

alvstvn‌:

It’s not that she’s intimidated by anyone on the team; god, she had to get over that quickly when she first began playing Exy. But she’s cautious all the same with not giving pieces of herself too quickly. They’ve been used against her, and the world is a cruel teacher when it continues to take and take and take.

But she has to try; in all her therapy sessions, it comes down to a choice to try, even if she’d rather let the world take over again. It’s what has worked best for her, really, choosing to take a step, choosing to withdraw from the bad influences, choosing to continue this life of Exy to find — something. And it was a choice to try this craft in the middle of the airport, exposed before her teammates. These were the consequences — or rather, the circumstances — prompted by a choice, and if there’s judgement, then she will have to decide how to respond, and how to accept whatever is thrown at her.

So she lifts her head and holds Leo’s gaze, trying for a smile. For now, it feels genuine enough. “I am kind of surprised too, that they didn’t throw this out,” she says as she twirls the hook. It’s awkward though, the weight of the handle too much for the motion, and she’s soon awkwardly fumbling with it. Settling it in her lap, she continues with, “I think because it’s small enough, and, I guess, not too pointy? I took a chance because they usually allow crotchet hooks onboard, and so…..I guess latch hooks are fine as well.”

Clearing her throat, she held up the canvas for Leo. “So I loop yarn through these holes with the hook, and match the color of the yarn to the designs. Kind of just — making a mini rug? Saw it online and thought to give it a shot, you know?”

Honestly, when it comes down to it, Leo doesn’t have very many hobbies. Exy is enough of one, with how much time they spend on it. And, outside of it, there’s enough to fill his time. Classes. Parties. Friends. If anything, people are his hobby, he’s never had much interest in something he can do quietly and alone—quiet and alone aren’t really his style. 

But it doesn’t really surprise him that it’s Alis’. Not that they’re all that close, but maybe it’s just a goalkeeper thing. It’s a solitary position, when it comes down to it. Strikers play in pairs, so do backliners, and the dealers are sandwiched in between, halfway between both roles. Goalkeepers are steady, because they have to be. Their last line of defense.

Leo doesn’t think he could do it. He’d wanted to play striker because it was flashy: the most popular players are the ones that score the big goals. When it comes down to it, strikers are the ones that win games—you can’t win if you don’t score. But he also has a partner, holding him up. If they don’t score, if they don’t win, it’s not all on him. When a goalkeeper lets in a goal, it’s not all their fault—there are the backliners in front of them, everyone else on the court that could have taken possession, kept it, put the ball as far away from the goal as they could—but they often get all the blame, anyway. 

Leo doesn’t think he could handle that. 

“What’s the design?” He asks, leaning closer across the aisle to peer at it, blocking more of the path through the seats—not that he cares. And then, because this seems like the one distraction available, so he’s committing to it: “Can I do one? One—loop thing?”

[leodxarte]

rollinsgrant‌:

For all of Grant’s practice, he isn’t as loose as Leo is in front of the cameras. Grant sits straight up, spine stiff, too serious and stern in his answers. He calls it professionalism, especially now, in the final months of his fifth year. When it comes to the draft, it isn’t only about how he plays. There are politics to Exy, like anything else. The draft will be about who he is—if they think he’ll be a good fit, if they think his status as a Fox means he’s too damaged to play with any other team. Wymack putting him in front of the cameras tonight feels calculated, and Grant’s thankful for that. The more positive exposure Grant can get, the better. 

Those cameras turn back to Grant, as if on cue, and he waits expectantly for the question. How does it feel to be back on the court? That’s easy. The second half is more complicated but it’s hardly unexpected. Grant’s history with Illinois is messy and public. Grant’s life is public. Most days, he’s made his peace with that: as long as the focus is on Exy more than anything else. 

“Absolutely,” Grant says, with a nod. “It was a mild MCL injury—not enough to keep me out of the game for long, but as you saw, I needed some time off to be safe. I’m grateful to be back tonight, especially for such an important match, and I’m looking forward to playing in the next death match and beyond,” he finishes, staking his claim on both the semi-finals and the pros. Injury or no, he isn’t finished yet. 

How does he feel though, now that he’s here in Illinois? Grant’s not sure he knows the answer himself. It’s been a long time since this was home—longer than he’s been a Fox even. Throughout all the custody battles and the foster homes, the seemingly endless back and forths between foster placements and their own cramped apartment, he thought of home as his mom. Once she gave up, once he became part of the system for good? He’s hated Freeport since then. Hated all of Illinois, even. Palmetto is his home now.  

His mom wasn’t here tonight, obviously, and Grant didn’t expect to see her. He’s been in the  public eye again since his freshmen year, and she hasn’t once contacted him. He used to be angry about that. He used to think it was her responsibility, because she was the one who stopped fighting for him in the first place. After looking last year though, he’s got her address too—turns out she wasn’t that hard to find either. Turns out it’s harder to reach out than he’d thought, especially when he can say his focus has to be Exy, that the past is only a distraction in his final year. Maybe he understands her silence a bit more, despite the fact that they haven’t spoken since he was a teenager. After all, who are they to one another now? What would either of them say?

Grant expected to feel differently about Illinois, if he’s honest. He’s spent the past week preparing himself, obsessing over the idea of playing again in Chicago, obsessing over what it would mean to win or lose here. He expected tonight to bring up more than it has. But this was an away game, like any other. Illinois is a place like any other. He’s done what he wanted, all those years ago: he’s severed all ties and found somewhere new to build a legacy. That thought is more bittersweet than he’d realized.

“It’s great to be back in Chicago as a Class I player,” Grant says, because that’s the expected answer. “Growing up nearby, I used to dream about this. The reality is even better.” Someone in the background scribbles furiously in their notes, and Grant wishes he could read it. Instead, he’ll have to wait for the headlines.

“Speaking of injuries, tonight we saw Sasha Hart-Ashby pulled from the court after a particularly intense hit,” another reporter says. “Leo, you’ve been open about your connection with Sasha in the past—do you have any updates on her condition? Will she be back in the next game?” 

Last time Leo was in front of the press, the Foxes had just made it into the Championships. And Leo had sat on another dais, looked out into another room filled with cameras—and he’d smiled for the crowd, and he’d put on a show. Sold them on a lie: that he and Sasha were together. Something to take their attention off of Sasha’s messy past, her tears at her sister’s grave; something to take their attention off of Leo, his disappointing play and the injury that had sidelined him when he should’ve been on the court, should’ve been proving himself. 

He knows what he’s supposed to do now. They’d planted the seeds of their breakup, quietly tapering off their joint social media presence, spending less time together in the Foxes’ more public parties, and now all that’s left to do is confirm it. 

It had seemed simple, at first. But there’s the fact that, somehow in the process of all this, Sasha has become one of his closest friends on the team, one of the people that he wants to hang out with at parties, in airports, on campus. 

And then—tonight, seeing her take a shoulder to the head, seeing her down on the court. Earlier this season, it had been Leo who had been injured: but he’d kept his dignity on the court, walked off under his own power, knowing that something was wrong with his hand inside of his glove, but hiding it on the bench and keeping what was left of his dignity for the cameras. They all take their chances, knowing anyone who plays Exy is going to get hurt eventually—but head injuries always seem like some of the worst to witness.

It had been hard to watch tonight. 

“I mean, obviously, it was a bad hit. You all saw it. But I’ll leave it up to Wymack, if he wants to make a statement on her status,” he says, and that’s the easy part. What comes next, he isn’t sure. He can’t be unaffected. That’s his teammate, that’s his friend. But what he’s supposed to be doing is creating distance. Letting this fake thing between them fizzle out, now that it’s served its purpose. He’s just not sure, right now, if he can.

“It’s hard to watch anyone get injured,” he says, and stops. Starts again. “It’s even harder when it’s someone on your team. Sasha and I—um, we’re not really connected, not anymore, but like anyone else on the team, I’m wishing for her speedy recovery.” 

And there’s one plus side to all this: seeing the assembled seem to struggle between their urge to chase down gossip about the Foxes’ private life, and to do their jobs as serious sports reporters. The latter seems to win out, at least immediately, as the microphone is passed and the attention is on Grant again: “Grant, you’re going to meet the Blue Demons again for the death match. What do you think your team has to work on for your next meeting, and do you expect it to be an especially intense game? The injury to Sasha wasn’t the only on the court tonight, so it seems like there’s potential for bad blood on both sides.”

[leodxarte]

sashahartashby‌:

Sasha thought he meant for this to be a silly guessing game, but now she sees there’s more to it. He wants more of an investigation, and she doesn’t know how to feel about that. She was banking on the fact that Leo would never guess Raleigh based on what he already knew, but if he actually starts digging then this might actually become real. They’ve been careful enough that she’s pretty sure he couldn’t find out based on what’s currently out there, but they’re not as private as they used to be. Sasha spent so much of the party at Leo’s mansion beside her at the pool. 

If she backs down now though, she’ll look weak–she’ll be a coward, and that doesn’t sit well with her. Besides, she can be careful. Maybe, she doesn’t have the best track record of keeping big parts of her life out of the public, but as a teenager she wasn’t trying very hard to hide her clubbing activities, and the crash couldn’t be kept quiet no matter how much money Irina threw at the media. That doesn’t mean she can’t win this little game. 

“Fine,” Sasha replies as she rests her hands on her hips, giving him her best imposing look. “You want Nancy Drew? I’ll give you Nancy Drew. And now I have the advantage of eliminating one person off my list,” She points out with a playful smirk. 

“Should we make it even more interesting? First person to guess correctly wins something?” Sasha adds. For two rich kids, the satisfaction of winning should be enough, but she always liked higher stakes. 

“You’re only saying that because you know you’re probably gonna win,” he complains. But it’s mostly for show: he likes high stakes, he likes playing games. Mostly, he likes to win them, but it’s not like he can’t stand to lose—especially if this is just between them. It’d be hard for Sasha to make his humiliation too public, or too overt, when she’d stand to lose more than he would if someone just asked: So, what bet did you lose?  

And that’s why he’s going to lose, probably. He isn’t hiding. He’s just—being careful. Taking his time. Playing, as he said to Sasha, a long game. He’s never minded his conquests being public: he wants people to see him as desirable, as a heartbreaker, just another part of that Leo Duarte mythos. His flings were usually fierce and fast and, when they ended, it was clear that he wasn’t too torn up about it. That it wasn’t like he was rejected, or anything.  Maybe he’s just worried, now, that it wouldn’t be like that. That he still could be. 

But if that changes, all bets are off. For all that he’s been trying it out, subtle isn’t really part of his playbook. 

“Name your terms. Here are mine: if I figure it out, then you have to come visit me in Vegas this summer.” With the Championships, it’s been easy to push to the back of his mind. What comes after. The summer. Being home again had made it feel more immediate: reminded him of how much he had avoided going home since the summer, how it can be tolerable when someone else is there but unbearable when he’s alone. Sasha had saved him from that once: over Christmas, with their ruse, when he went home with her. Maybe he can make her do it again. 

And maybe he’s stacking the deck. Setting the tone. If he isn’t going too hard on her, with his terms, then maybe she’ll return the favor.

[leodxarte]

graysonsharpe‌:

Las Vegas has its reputation, but so does Leo—he’s the life of the party, ever sociable and charming in ways Grayson can’t be. It isn’t surprising to hear he was raised into that. It is surprising that Leo shares more though: something more honest than Grayson expected. Leo doesn’t simply say nightclubs, he says strippers and drugs. It leaves Grayson free to read between the lines, to assume that everyone being too fucked up to care about Leo meant Leo’s dad didn’t either.

He doesn’t want that to strike a cord. Because Leo’s right; their childhoods were vastly different. For one, Leo’s dad is dead. Grayson’s is alive and well. And far from the description of Leo’s father, Grayson’s dad is quiet. He’s distant. He’s left Grayson wondering where they stand, whether he’s forgiven or forgotten, if either of those is possible. Grayson’s never left his room to find himself lost in glitter and chaos, but he has walked out to his dad quietly drunk, his house silent, his dad refusing to look him in the eye. By now, Grayson has an entire secret life in Palmetto, complete with a partner—and his dad’s never even asked. 

They’ve always done that with one another though. Don’t ask; don’t tell. It didn’t matter how many questions Grayson had before. It does now. 

“Honestly? That sounds screwed up,” Grayson says, useless and blunt, even when Leo tries to laugh it off. Grayson’s been the keeper of Leo’s secret nicotine habit for a while now, but this is different. It’s Leo’s past, and Grayson knows just how fragile that can feel. God knows he’s picked enough fights over his own. It must be worse for Leo, when he’s speaking of someone who’s only a memory now.

Still, Grayson can’t bring himself to agree when Leo calls it good practice. Maybe Grayson’s too sensitive tonight to talk about childhoods. He goes straight into bitter. 

Grayson blows out a mouthful of smoke, shrugs when Leo throws the gauntlet back to him. “Come on, it’s not like I grew up in the 1800s. I helped out on the weekends. Breaks. Whatever.” He could leave it there, but Grayson’s entire personal history is public record anyway. He’s given press duties about it. He doesn’t need to pretend it’s a secret now. “But yeah, it was different. Mostly people cared too much about what I did,” he says. “There’s not a lot of gossip in Dubois, but they had me,” he says, and for once he isn’t sure who the sharp note in his tone is intended for—himself or Dubois or First Degree. Maybe all of the above. “Then again, not a lot of seven-year-olds get charged with murder,” he quips, even though the police called it an unfortunate tragedy, an accident, anything but murder. “So maybe I can’t blame them for being interested.”

It’s easy to think of Grayson just as his teammate, his smoking buddy, Jen’s boyfriend. It’s not that he forgets about Grayson’s mom, it’s just that he tries not to think about it. He doesn’t like to think about things that are unpleasant, or uncomfortable. And he doesn’t like to think about death. 

They’ve both been shaped by it. Leo was young, too, when he saw it. In this very house, peeking from the second floor landing downstairs, seeing the blood splattered on the wall, pooling on the floorboards, his father holding the gun. Unlike Grayson, it wasn’t Leo’s fault. Unlike Grayson, no one knows about it. This house might have felt like the whole world, but it wasn’t. The only people who knew were Leo and his father, whichever of his father’s more unsavory friends he’d called to help him with the cleanup, to help him cover his tracks.

He wonders what Grayson would say if he told him. That sounds screwed up, maybe. But it’s not like Leo’s going to. 

Sometimes, he wonders if he’ll ever say it out loud. It feels impossible now, it feels impossible here, in this house where it happened, where his father is seeped into every inch. It’s not like they ever talked about it. It hung, silent, between them. Leo’s father knew what he did; Leo’s father knew that he saw. It changed his father; it changed everything. 

Confiding in Grayson, Grayson acknowledging it, even in a small way, had felt good. A small burden lifted off of his shoulders. But that was a small secret, and it was hardly a secret at all, when his high school parties were the stuff of legend, his own imitation of all of those other ones he’d seen. Anything more would be a bridge too far, would be too much. He can’t let his father go enough for it to not feel like a betrayal: his biggest secret, the one he built their lives around keeping.

“That sounds screwed up, too,” he says back, stealing Grayson’s words with a slight grin, though there isn’t much humor in it. “So maybe it’s not that different, if home kinda sucks either way.”

[leodxarte]

striker-brayden‌:

Brayden isn’t blushing, he tells himself. It’s just hot in this room, and it’s making his face all hot. As Leo bursts into laughter, he fights back his own, shoulders shaking as he purses his lips. But he feels lighter than he did only a few minutes ago, the vodka probably has a lot do with that, so he gives up the act quick and a low chuckle escapes his lips, which grows into a full body laugh. Tears of laughter spring to his eyes and before he can wipe them away, they roll down his cheeks. 

“Whatever, it’ll still be true tomorrow,” He relents with a feigned nonchalant shrug, wiping at his cheeks with his hoodie sleeves. Maybe, he won’t be as vocal about it when he’s sober, but it’s not like he’s ever going to disagree when someone declares that shirtless guys are hot. 

He rolls his eyes and kicks Leo in retaliation. It’s starting to feel like he’s at a sleepover, and they’re giggling over cute boys. Not that he’d know from experience, but he’s seen enough TV to get the gist. He feels good though—the weight of press duty and Championships temporarily lifted from his shoulders, so he doesn’t fight it. For once, he just plays along.

“Yeah, pantsless dudes,” He agrees with a solemn nod. Like this is a very serious conversation. “Naked dudes. My naked dude…” He trails off before shaking his head. He definitely shouldn’t go that far. Especially when said naked dude isn’t even in the room. 

“Oh. Speaking of naked dudes,” Brayden remembers suddenly, and pushes himself up to his elbows so he can look down at Leo. “Where the fuck is Sasha? Did she dump you or something?”

“Fucking gross,” he whines, reaching above his head for a pillow and throwing it at Brayden. “If you’re gonna turn your horny talk into, like, lovey-dovey, heart-horny shit, I’m fucking outta here.”

He doesn’t move though, except to snag the bottle back and take another swallow—dramatic, because of course he is, like Brayden is driving him to drink with his heart-eyes. He’s never been one for sentiment—even with Sasha, when the point was to be as public as possible, he couldn’t bring himself to post the kind of nauseating shit that some couples did. 

No one would have believed it from him. No one would have believed it from Sasha, either. And it’s going to make their breakup easier to swallow, too, less embarrassing for both of them. They never pretended to be each others’ forever.

He’s supposed to be good at lying and now, here he is, tempted to blurt out the truth to every person who’s even halfway nice to him. He’d lasted all of two seconds trying to lie to Jen, but they’d just seemed so confused. And he’s talked around it with Louis, unsure if he thinks that Leo and Sasha weren’t that serious or if he just didn’t care. 

Sasha would probably eviscerate him if he widened that circle of trust any farther. 

But it doesn’t feel great. He and Brayden have been honest with each other tonight, and Leo had bared a part of himself that’s much deeper than his fake relationship with Sasha Hart-Ashby—but he made a promise to her, and he’s trying to be the kind of person that can keep it. “Okay, first off,” he says with a sniff, throwing himself into the lie. “You think so little of me? I’m wounded. Maybe I dumped her ass.”

[akira-sxto]

Location: Parking Lot Date: March 29 Time: 9:32 p.m. (OPEN)

Akira isn’t ashamed to admit that when the Foxes converged on him on the court…he’d cried. He’d hugged anyone who would let him throw his arms around them and then he hugged them all again. Screw the game. They could lose tonight and Akira wouldn’t care an ounce. They were going to the death match. They’d made it. The Foxes were going places. And the Foxes did lose but…Akira didn’t care. Barely even noticed the scores as they walked off the court, sticks on their shoulders. They’d made it. He felt weak in the knees just knowing it.

It’s a struggle to separate himself from the mass of celebrating Foxes and Vixens in the locker room, but he hurts and, if he’s being honest with himself, he needs a moment to himself. Needs a moment to breathe, to tell himself that this is real. That it isn’t a dream. And the warm water on his shoulders feels fantastic. He lingers there, water running down his body, head resting against the wet wall. Thinking of everything and nothing all at once. He plays the game over and over in his head, reliving the rush of scoring  over and over again. By the time he gets out of the shower the rush hasn’t faded. His hair is damp when he gets dressed and walks back out into the fray, gathering his gear and heading out to the bus to drop it off. 

He shoves it in the storage compartment and spends a little bit of time with Wymack by the bus. They don’t talk much, Wymack never does, but he puts his hand on Akira’s shoulder as he turns to leave and smiles at him an Akira’s heart soars. He’s on cloud nine as he leaves, headed for the nearest person he can find. He doesn’t even care who it is as he slides up next to them, still riding high. “I still can’t believe that we made it. It’s like…like I’m going to wake up and it’s all just a…dream. You know?” Akira fidgets, shifting from one foot to another and shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “You’re going to the party, right?” He smiles. “Come with me?”

[leodxarte]

When Akira scored the go-ahead goal, the one that would send them into the death mach, Leo was on the court. For a second, he hadn’t realized that it had gone in: he’d been focused on his backliner mark, on trying to get some space around him in case the goalkeeper blocked Akira’s shot and Leo needed to be ready to pick up the rebound—but there was no rebound, because then the goal was lighting up red, because Akira had scored, and they were moving on. 

Everything after that felt like a blur. The last moments on the court didn’t matter, even when the Blue Demons scored again, like they were trying to rub it in, trying to psych them out ahead of their rematch. He only felt like he came back to himself again when he was sitting in front of the press with Grant, and even then it had been a struggle to hold it together, to show only the right amount of joy, the amount he could bear showing, beat letting the world see. 

But now that’s over with, and the rest of the night is theirs. The Blue Demons and their fans are going home disappointed; the Bruins, in a hotel somewhere paid for by the ERC, even moreso, having been forced to watch their season end surrounded by cameras and fans. 

They don’t matter anymore. Whatever happens after this belongs to them—and, even though he usually prefers a crowd, he wants it to stay that way. The Foxes and the Vixens, insular and close, celebrating this together and with no one else around, because no one else can really know what it means. Not to them. 

“Do I ever miss a party?” He says to Akira, who seems to mirror all of Leo’s restless elation, the joy that feels almost like disbelief—not that he didn’t think they could make it here, but that even in his wildest dreams he didn’t think it could feel so good. He bumps his shoulder against Akira’s, feels his grin ready to split his face in two. “That was a sick goal, man. Fucking sick.”

[rollinsgrant]

Location: Chicago, IL Date: March 29 Time: Post-game—press duty (closed to @leodxarte​)

Grant won’t say it doesn’t matter that they lost. It does. He’s competitive enough that any loss gets under his skin, especially when there were scouts in the stands to see it happen. But they’re still moving forward—and that matters more. They aren’t out of the running yet, and that’s so all encompassing, so goddamn important, that Grant still feels good as he faces down the press. Triumphant, despite everything. 

It isn’t just the Championships. Playing in a game tonight felt like coming home, so much more than simply being back in the state he was born in ever could. If there was any ever doubt that Exy was it for him, the past few weeks without it would’ve changed his mind.

He settles down in his chair beside Leo, looking out at the chaotic press of equipment and bodies before them. Grant’s disdain for the media is bred through years of unpleasant interactions with them, but there’s something to be said for the way everyone turns towards Grant and Leo right now. He doesn’t normally feel powerful in front of the cameras and microphones, but there’s no other word for it right now.  

At the beginning of Grant’s career, no one took the Foxes seriously. No one took him seriously. Now, there’s only one game between them and the semi-finals. He stood in front of the press at the first game of the season, all the way back in August, and he’s still here now. The Foxes are still here, when so many others have already flamed out and lost their footing in the Championships. Now, the same news outlets that would’ve gladly ignored or insulted them before are forced to report on the Foxes time and time again. Grant’s smile is practiced and calm, trained through over a decade of media exposure, but inside he’s viciously smug.

“First off, welcome back to Captain Rollins,”  the first reporter says. “Let’s talk about the obvious shakeup tonight. Your team lost both games, but you’ve still managed to qualify for the next death match. That’s almost unprecedented. How does that feel?”

“Well, I’m looking forward to playing the Blue Demons again,” Grant says, taking the first answer. “Other than that, I’m obviously thrilled to be moving forward. Would I have preferred to win tonight? Of course I would. But the Championships aren’t over yet.”

The reporter nods. “What about you, Leo? Any thoughts on how tonight went?”

[leodxarte]

The room is packed tonight. More reporters, more cameras than he’s ever seen. Tonight, they’d had the entire league’s attention: no other games to be a distraction, the biggest stage they’ve seen so far. They could have lost—one less point and it would’ve been a tie, and they probably would’ve lost the tiebreaker. Their season would’ve been over, and Leo would have been sitting in front of a room full of wolves, ready to lap up every moment of their defeat.

It feels unbelievable, every time they just scrape by—but, in the end, it doesn’t fucking matter. They could say that the Foxes barely qualified for the Championships, but Exy doesn’t care about barely. A win is a win, whether you win by one point or ten, in regulation of in overtime. They can say tonight that the Foxes barely made it to the final death match before the semi-finals, but when they face the Blue Demons again in two weeks, they’ll be on even footing. 

“The third round is a trip,” he says with a laugh, running his hand through his sweaty hair, sparing a thought for how messed up it probably looks for the cameras. With the celebration in the locker room, he hadn’t had time to fix it before coming out here with Grant. Next to him, Grant is smooth, polished—and Leo knows he has to be, their serious captain, probably all-too-aware of the scouts watching, like this is an audition he could fail. Leo’s a little bit looser, more likely to joke with the cameras. But he can get away with that, he’s not under the same pressure. He’s not a fifth year, and he’s never believed that Exy is his future. 

“Obviously, we’ve never been here before, but—you really have to adjust your strategy, change the way you play the game. Yeah, if this round was based on wins, we wouldn’t be moving forward—but, if this round was based on wins, we would’ve approached our two games differently, so who knows what would have happened.”     

Another reporter takes the mic, and attention in the room swivels again to Grant. Leo mostly expects it to stay there. “Grant, can you tell us more about your injury? You missed the game against the Bruins, and it looked like you might not come back for this one. How does it feel to be back, and for it to be in your home state?”

[alvstvn]

location: airport ( after first delay ) date: march 29th open

Alis opts to sit while others begin milling around. The news of the delay leaves her heart racing; they’ll have enough time before the game despite it, but the what ifs linger, a precursor to familiar spiraling. And she’s not keen to becoming paralyzed by her own nerves, not in the middle of the airport. 

There’s nothing any of them can do about the delay. She can’t change the circumstances as much as she wishes she had the power to do so. All she can do is wait, and try to pass each agonizing second by remaining busy.

And where this would cue mounds of homework, she, for once, completed her work earlier in the week. Instead, she reaches into her carry-on, drawing out materials for the sudden curiosity that gripped her attention over the last few weeks. Latch hook rugs appear —- a little messy, but there’s a certain charm to the method. She didn’t quite expect to be so hooked, but she’s been watching different videos for so long, she finally convinced herself to purchase a few mini canvases. And the fox designs on each are not only adorable, but absolutely fitting.

She didn’t pack the boatload of yarn that arrived with the kits, but she brought along two colors to use along the way. And lucky her, security didn’t confiscate the hooks, so she doesn’t have to painstakingly use her fingers to loop the short pieces of yarn through the squares. She figures she’s got about an hour or two’s worth of something, be it fun or something distracting.

But right as she starts, that nagging sense of being watched causes her pause. “You can join in if you want,” she says without looking up. There’s hesitance and a hint of strain wrapped in her words; she doesn’t wish to see the gaze of someone judging her for this craft, even if that may not be the case. She can handle a few jabs — nobody stayed on the team for long if they couldn’t —- but she’d rather avoid immediately seeing who’s teasing her for this. “I have enough materials for two if you want something to do.”

[leodxarte]

Once the delay was announced, Leo pulled his hat down over his eyes, put on his sunglasses inside, no matter how douchey it made him look, and tried to take a nap. But it hasn’t been working: the gate is busy, people with delayed flights with nowhere to go, their stress and unhappiness really messy with his overall vibes; his legs are stretched out in front of him, trying to get comfortable as he slumps down in his seat, and people keep bumping into them as they move up and down the aisle. 

And, well, maybe he was never going to nap anyway: they have a date with destiny, yet another game with their season on the line, and they’re fucking late. 

Mostly, though, he just not sure if he wants to talk to anyone. He’s nervous, he’s pretty sure they’re all nervous, and he thinks that maybe if he can just close his eyes and pretend not to be, then he can keep it together, keep himself from spiraling. He’s gotten better with the pressure, with how many elimination games they’ve played this season, but he knows how bad he can get. He doesn’t want anyone to see it on his face, like that’ll make it even more real. 

There’s a boarding call, and he cracks his eyes open over the top of his sunglasses—but nope, it’s just another flight. Before he can close them again, he sees Alis across from him—and she looks up, seeing him seeing her. 

He has no idea what she’s doing with all that yarn, but it’s enough of a distraction for him to latch onto. It’s better than the nap that’s stubbornly eluding him. “What the hell is that?” He asks, nodding to the hook in her hand as he twists his snapback around on his head, pushes his sunglasses up and away from his eyes. “They let you fly with that thing? It looks like some kind of—medieval torture device.”

[weltenwellen]

Anais Nin, Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin, 1939-1947

[leodxarte]

sashahartashby‌:

Leo’s suggestion is tempting but dangerous. Letting Leo know the truth won’t only expose Sasha, but Raleigh as well, and neither of them are out. Then again, he has no reason to suspect Raleigh. They don’t make a habit of hanging out in public, and so far all their party trysts haven’t been caught by prying eyes. If she’s lucky, he’ll also assume hers is a Fox.  

It’s her need to be in the know that leads her to agree. She hates not knowing things, especially when this actually has something to do with her. Besides, if he somehow does guess correct, it’s not like she took a blood oath. She can always lie. “I say yes,” She gives him a coy grin before falling silent while deep in thought.

Her first guess would be Jen, but they’re dating Grayson, and she can’t see Leo wasting his time pining away or ending their arrangement over someone he can’t have. She mentally eliminates all the Foxes she knows are in a relationship, and decides to go for proximity first. It’s easy to hook up with a roommate if the others are out of the room, and out of the three, Emmett seems the most likely. He’s generally upbeat and seems up for anything Leo could potentially throw at him. 

If she thinks about standard romantic tropes though, then maybe he fell for someone who keeps him grounded–opposites attract and all that. She decides to go for her first choice though, since they didn’t put a cap on guesses. “Emmett?” Sasha asks. 

“You can’t just—process of elimination it,” he protests. “Where’s the fun in that?” The Foxes have plenty of secrets in their pasts, but with all the time they spend together—and with Foxwatch breathing down their necks—it doesn’t seem like there’s much about their presents they can keep buried for long. 

Though, of course, there are exceptions to that. Leo and Sasha are one: that their relationship was fake, and that they might have real ones tucked away. 

But Leo likes the idea of playing detective: of digging through old posts on Foxwatch for clues, of paying attention to Sasha at parties to see who she talks to, who she sneaks off with. And maybe he likes the idea of Sasha doing the same to him—if something about what he’s doing with Louis feels like a game, then maybe he can pretend that it doesn’t feel like something new and unknown.

He doesn’t know why she agrees, but she does, and that’s what matters. He hadn’t really thought she’d refuse—they mesh pretty well; they help each other out. Leo already knows what’s really important here, what Sasha hasn’t told anyone else. And even if the person she’s interested in is similarly on the down low, Sasha already knows that Leo, at least, can be trusted. By her, at least. 

“Let’s, like—Nancy Drew this shit. Come back to me when you think you’ve really figured it out.” He smiles, wide and charming, still trying to sell it. “But I’ll give you a freebie: it’s not Emmett.”

[leodxarte]

no2granger‌:

Louis thinks that maybe this feels more complicated than it is because he isnt that good with people. He’s good at keeping to himself, to keeping a distance, and he used to like things that way because it was easier. If he wasn’t involved with people then he didn’t get involved in their lives, their drama; he found it hard enough dealing with himself most of the time. He used to be better at this, he was naturally pulled to social situations before things went downhill for him in high school. Being the centre of attention wasn’t his idea of a good time anymore.

And he knows that Leo is right. This isn’t worth his time and obsessing over it isn’t worth his energy. She’s one weird person that Louis doesn’t really know and doesn’t care about, he never has to associate with her again if he so chooses and that feels like an appealling option.

He let his hand rest comfortably on Leo’s leg and looked at his own knuckles for a moment; still not fully healed from fighting Joe on the court. If Louis could have anything in the world, it would be a week without anything going wrong.

“She doesn’t know shit if she thinks that’s how you get laid,” Louis sighed. He raised his eyebrow at Leo, who seemed to be enjoying this. “What I’m saying is you have a better track record than she does, so far,” he said. “Or maybe I’m the one with the real game. I’ve gotta be doing something right if I’m getting so much attention.”

“Yeah, you’re hot as shit,” he says, easily. Whether he means them or not, whether it’s just flattery or something more, Leo finds it easy to give out compliments, honeyed words to keep people around, keep them coming back for more. It’s even easier with Louis: Leo thinks about the long sleeves that he never gave enough thought to before, but now can’t keep himself from noticing; he thinks about the look on Louis’ face when he first took his shirt off in front of him, let him see—and he thinks that, maybe, Louis could do with hearing it. And he wants Louis to hear it from him. 

Louis’ hand is warm on his leg, his knuckles still looking ragged. Worse than Leo’s, even though his fight wasn’t as long ago. But his was an Exy fight: the fists were real and so was the blood, but it was partly for show, a flash of blows on the court—when the Rebel was down on the court and the referees came to break it up, Leo went easily. What Louis did was something else, and Leo doesn’t know exactly what. There’s so much, still, that he doesn’t know about Louis.

He wants to ask, but he’s not sure exactly how. He wants to put his hand over Louis’ hand, but he doesn’t do that either. 

Instead, he just continues in the same teasing vein: “But sitting there and looking hot until someone tries to kiss you isn’t game, so I don’t know if I can give you that.” He grins, and he puts the full force of his charm into it, the grin he grins when there’s something he wants and he knows it can help him get it, as he leans back on his chair and folds his arms behind his head. “I guess you’ll just have to convince me somehow.” 

[leodxarte]

striker-brayden‌:

Brayden lets out an exasperated sigh and rolls his eyes as Leo tosses his shirt in his direction, ducking out the way just in time so it soars over his head and lands on the ground. It’s not like Brayden is a prude, pretty fucking far from it, but for some reason he’s always been pretty weird when it comes to his own self-image. Most of it has to do with the trackmarks he tries so hard to hide, but he’s never really considered himself an attractive guy–just average. Plain. Definitely not worthy of Arlo’s attention or showing off like Leo is. 

“No,” Brayden grumbles in response, snatching the bottle back and taking a long pull. “I have zero problems with shirtless dudes. In fact, I love shirtless dudes,” He adds defensively before pausing with a confused look on his face. Well, he definitely didn’t mean to say that aloud. It was a slightly drunken attempt to prove he’s not “delicate” that went a direction he didn’t mean for it to. Now, all he needs is for Arlo to walk in right now, laying in bed with a shirtless Leo and rambling about his love for shirtless men. 

He feels overdressed in his jeans and hoodie, but he’s not nearly drunk enough to do anything about that, so he hands the bottle back to Leo and lets his tired eyes fall shut, despite his determination to keep them open earlier. “Anyway,” He clears his throat awkwardly, “Don’t quote me on that.” 

As uncomfortable as the subject makes him, he feels better than he did a few minutes ago while talking about the Ravens. It’s nice to hide away in Leo’s room while the party goes on downstairs, giving himself a second to breathe. He wishes he was in the mood to celebrate. This year he learned that actually going to these parties isn’t half bad, even if sometimes it means he has to wear a spandex cat costume. 

There’s a split-second of silence. On one side of it is the Ravens, is that bond that he and Brayden have always shared by never acknowledged until tonight. On the other side of it is—Brayden, professing his love for shirtless dudes. 

And—fuck whatever came before, everything that could weigh Leo down until he drowned, if he gave into it. Because he’s not going to give into it. The Ravens took years from his life: the soul-crushing time at Castle Evermore, that felt like an eternity but was barely even over a month, but all the time that came after, too. The year he barely remembered, the blur of cities and faces as he ran and ran again. The year he remembered all too well, alone in Vegas with his father in the ground. Even the year in San Diego, because it was one more year away from Class I. A year that he was finding his way back to himself, sure, but still falling farther behind. 

But all of that was, like, fifteen seconds ago. Now he’s fucking laughing, the ceiling above him seeming to blur with the force of it as he clutches at his bare sides and lets it roll through him. 

“Oh, you better believe I’m going to quote you on that,” he says, once it’s died down enough for him to have breath to speak. He picks his head up off of the bed, makes a show of wiping the corners of his eyes in Brayden’s direction. “I’m never going to let you live it down.”

And then, because he can’t resist, he reaches out with one foot and jabs it into Brayden’s thigh, punctuating his teasing words: “Come on, talk dirty to me. Tell me more about shirtless dudes, Brayden. Tell me about pantsless dudes.”

[leodxarte]

graysonsharpe‌:

“Property damage is different,” Grayson says, as he pulls the pack of cigarettes out from his jacket pocket. “It’s your statue anyway. Does it count if you’re breaking your own shit?” He takes a cigarette for himself, lights it with practiced ease, and offers both the pack and the lighter to Leo next. That, too, is a practiced motion. 

The setting is new though. This is hardly the roof of Fox tower. Leo’s balcony gives him yet another impressive view of the city, sparkling with all the glitz and glam he’ll forever associate with Vegas now, and Grayson won’t pretend he isn’t impressed. It’s a strange kind of bedazzled though, because he can’t decide if he actually likes it or if it just overwhelms him. 

They’ve come here as celebrities, as champions, but Grayson can’t imagine most of the people down there care about the Foxes, whether they win or lose. Las Vegas has it’s own concerns. In some ways, that must be a relief, especially when compared to the suffocating smallness of Dubois. At the same time though, Vegas has a reputation. Underneath the sparkle, it’s supposed to be sand and greed, hedonism and loss. 

“So you grew up here,” he says, carefully. Grayson nods out towards the city sprawled below them, rather than to the house behind them. Being a Fox means most of them don’t ask about their lives before Palmetto, but he’s not going to ask Leo about that closed bedroom or his father’s death. He’s curious about the city itself. 

Or, if he is curious about Leo himself too, Grayson at least knows it’s better to ask in a roundabout way. Leo is one of Jen’s closest friends though. By now, Grayson considers Leo one of his friends too. They’re here together, after all, when Leo should be out dazzling his guests, the centerpiece of his own party while Grayson still sticks to the edges. If that friendship is based around sharing cigarettes and talking shit, Grayson’s perfectly fine with that—but he’s also losing his grip on what it means to keep all his relationships as superficial as he once wanted. “What was that like? The Strip doesn’t exactly seem kid-friendly.”

He leans against the railing, takes the pack from Grayson. Here, smoking feels less like breaking a promise to himself. He’d spent enough days and nights in just this spot, alone and looking out over the city with a cigarette, wondering what happened next—not even thinking that it would be Exy, would be the Foxes. 

He snorts, and it comes out in a puff of smoke. “My dad owned nightclubs,” he says, though that doesn’t quite feel big enough. His dad owned nightclubs, and he rubbed shoulders with celebrities and with mobsters. His dad owned nightclubs, but the parties came back here, too, lines of cocaine snorted off of the tables that Leo ate breakfast on. He couldn’t be kept separate from it. Especially not when he wanted to be a part of it so desperately: he wanted his father’s attention, and the only way to get that seemed to be to enter his father’s world, to grow up too fast. “Nothing about my childhood was kid-friendly.”

Everything his father had is his, now. Or, at least, it was. With the help of lawyers and accountants, he’s sold so much of it off. He didn’t want his father’s empire, when he knew that his father never thought he was worthy of it. He didn’t want his father’s empire, when it might come with his father’s enemies, too. There are still some places with the Duarte name on the deed, but they’re investments, little more. He doesn’t have much to do with them. When he’s at Palmetto, he can pretend that he’s just another college student. Maybe, when he graduates, he can take a more active role—but that doesn’t feel like something he wants to do, just one of the only options he can think of, because Exy doesn’t seem like one. 

“My dad had parties here all the time,” he explains. “Like—strippers, every drug you could name, the works. And, like, I was probably supposed to stay in my room, but if I didn’t, everyone was too fucked up to care.” He doesn’t know why he’s talking. He knows it makes him look pathetic: like everything he is now is nothing more than what he was back then, what he’s always been—just a little boy playing dress-up in his father’s clothes, his father’s life. But it all looks so fucking different to him now, and maybe he wants someone else to see it. He hadn’t thought he was young then, because he didn’t want to be, but he was. And if he bragged about it to all the kids at school he wanted to impress, they didn’t think it was fucked up, because it wasn’t like they knew any better, either, because they were as young and as in denial about it and as stupid as he was. 

He lets out a breath that sounds a little bit like a laugh but doesn’t feel like one, lifts the cigarette to his mouth. Feels a little bad, like he cornered Grayson and started unloading all of this bullshit he didn’t ask for onto him, just because he was unlucky enough to wander into his father’s room, unlucky enough for Leo to like him enough to do it. “It was good practice, or whatever,” he says, and makes an effort—(though it feels like a losing one)—at what he’s so good at: deflecting. “Pretty different from Wyoming, I’m guessing. They ever hear of child labor laws there? Or were you just working the fields morning and night?” 

[recklessrebelnova]

[leodxarte]

sashahartashby‌:

“Perfect,” Sasha nods, lips quirking in amusement, “Sounds like every celebrity divorce statement ever.” Either everyone in Hollywood has very mutual and amicable breakups or a good publicist, and she knows it’s the second. She tries not to think about the statement that was released after her father died, how formal, cold and rehearsed it sounded. Hollywood is completely manufactured, and she plays right into it.

She always preferred it that way, letting the world see what she chooses to show them–this volatile girl on the court, who walks away from fights with a victorious grin on her face. Growing up in this lifestyle, and specifically being raised by Irina, led her to treat her “friends” more like part of the media than people to actually confide in. Leo was one of the first she allowed to see a glimpse of her real self, and she doesn’t exactly know why other than out of solidarity, but she hopes she doesn’t regret it. 

“The long game,” Sasha repeats, tilting her head in interest. She can’t help but wonder what that’s like for Leo. With her and Raleigh, it started out as a game, but it doesn’t feel like one anymore. She doesn’t know what they’re doing actually, which is new for her, considering everything with her is usually so calculated. 

“I’m disappointed. I was hoping to see you be all lovey dovey with some, rough around the edges Fox,” She says playfully. She can’t even begin to picture who Leo set his eyes on, it could be just a random student, but she’s definitely curious.

The Foxes may have lost tonight, but Leo feels more content than he expected. They’re not out of the Championships, they have another game to rack up enough points to move on. And—some of the desperation that he’d felt to begin this season, to do something, to prove himself, feels like it’s lifted off his shoulders. He still has a long way to go, he knows, but he feels like he’s on his way.

And he has Sasha to thank for part of that. They both did each other a favor, gave the press something to focus that wasn’t Sasha’s sister, or Leo’s broken hand and spotty performance on the court. Their fiction did the job that they needed it to do, and now there’s just the aftermath, the way they can keep the press hanging on, waiting to see any glimpses of acrimony between them—or a resurgent romance. And it’s fun. He loves when the press is talking about him, when he feels like he’s in control of what they’re saying, like they’re eating up an image he works so hard to portray. 

Sasha’s fishing, waiting for Leo to confirm that it’s a Fox, and Leo can’t blame her. It does give him an idea, though:

“You wanna have a little fun?” He asks, grinning. “No clues, no hints, and we’ll see which one of us figures out who the other one’s interested in first.” 

He knows he’s at a disadvantage in his own game, that Sasha has more at stake than Leo does when it comes to keeping her real romantic entanglements on the down low. Leo isn’t trying to keep secrets, he’s just trying to be—careful. He’s usually flashy, but he doesn’t like to be embarrassed. He doesn’t want to start flaunting this before he’s sure that there’s something to flaunt. But it’s a game he wouldn’t mind losing, because it’s all in good fun, just between them. “What do you say?” 

[leodxarte]

jackfuckingmonday‌:

“Good call, my karma sucks.” Jack grinned, though there wasn’t much humour in the expression. Leo didn’t have much right to judge them for complaining, not when he’d been out the entire game. Skipping a practice, or more accurately just talking about it, wasn’t much in comparison. 

But maybe it was their fault for the reputation they’d set up for themselves, all sharp edges and not much room for explanation. The benefit of the doubt that their friends back in high school had always had the favour of never seemed to come as easily to them. If someone were to assume they didn’t have a reason, it would be because they never offered one. 

If Jack said they wanted out of the city because they felt like they couldn’t breathe here, Wymack would make them go to Betsy. If Jack said nothing, they’d be sitting out the next game. Fuck.

“No,” they sighed, leaning against the side of the bed of the truck. “Despite my better judgement, I’ll be running laps with everyone else tomorrow morning. I’m not dumb enough to let the team down.”

There’s a part of him, under his devil-may-care attitude, that’s always eager to please. It’s why he’d been drawn to Exy at first: he liked the rules, he liked the structure. He liked that he could tell when he won or lost. It had felt simple—and if, somewhere along the way, he’d lost that, he’s trying hard to get it back. 

He feels like he’s coming close, now: scoring goals in the Championships to make up for all the ones he hadn’t scored during the regular season; winning a fight against the Rebels, to make up for the one he lost against the Ravens, making a statement that he wasn’t an easy target, that he couldn’t be pushed around. 

Even with the loss, he can’t quite bring himself to regret fighting. It hadn’t cost them their last game, and there’s no guarantee that it cost them this one. The Foxes could have just as easily lost with him on the court. Does he wish that he had been out there? Yes, but that’s how the game was played. And it’s not like Leo made a habit of racking up cards. He wasn’t a fighter, as his first bout against the Ravens could attest.

“It’s gonna suck,” he says, putting some incongruous cheerfulness into his tone, already letting bygones be bygones. He isn’t Grant, or Claudia, and if Jack’s going to be at practice tomorrow with the rest of them, then anything more isn’t his job. “You planning on going somewhere?” He asks, nodding towards the truck Jack’s leaning against, so different from Leo’s sleek sportscar parked a few rows over. “I could keep you company, if you’re looking to make a cigarette run.”