Chapter 20. Ethan
I spot Bill emptying his locker at the end of the hall, transferring fifteen years of memories into a cardboard box.
Three years ago, when I first arrived, terrified, alone, Bill was the first person who treated me like a human being instead of another troubled kid.
Now he's leaving, and something tightens in my chest at the thought of one more person walking out of my life. My eyes sting.
Since Liam, I can't think straight. Everything feels too much, and I’m on the verge of tears at all times. It’s so annoying.
I hesitate, watching Bill fold a photograph and tuck it between the pages of a book.
My lip still throbs from last week's fight with Reed, faded to a dull ache.
What hasn't faded is the memory of Liam's mouth against mine, the taste of blood, his fingers on my jaw.
I touch my split lip, I've been doing that all week, then straighten my shoulders and approach.
"Need a hand with that?" I nod toward the box.
Bill turns, his face lighting up, crow's feet deepening. He doesn't have much hair and hasn’t been eating too well lately, but he looks happy, healthy, ready for retirement. "Ethan, boy! Was hoping I'd see you before I clocked out for good."
"Couldn't let you leave without saying goodbye." I reach for a stack of paperbacks on the edge of his box. "Fifteen years is a long time."
"Too damn long in this place," he says, but there's no bitterness, just the tired satisfaction of someone who's done his time. I wonder if I'll ever be done with mine. "Retirement's going to feel strange after all these adventures."
I help him gather the rest: a coffee mug with the facility logo, a small desk plant, a pile of notepads.
We move slowly, comfortably. I don't have anywhere else to be.
Bill never rushes, never raises his voice, even when he's telling fifty kids to straighten up and get in line. I've always respected that about him.
"I can help carry this to your car," I offer when the box is full.
He nods. "Appreciate it. Got another one in the break room."
We walk together through the quiet halls.
"How's that nursing program coming along?" he asks as we cross the parking lot, gravel crunching under our feet.
"Good. Great, actually." I shift the box in my arms. "Just passed my certification exam."
"Knew you would." Genuine pride in his voice. My chest tightens again. I swallow hard. A year ago, this wouldn't have happened. I didn't feel things like this. Now I can't seem to stop.
We reach his car, an ancient blue sedan. He pops the trunk and we load the boxes. When everything's stowed, he hesitates, glancing around the parking lot before turning back to me.
"Almost forgot." His voice drops. "Got something I've been meaning to throw out."
From his jacket pocket, he pulls a small, battered device, a portable radio player, the kind with a belt clip and headphones, straight out of the nineties. Ancient but cared for, the silver surface scratched but clean.
"Been in my desk drawer for years. Helped me through many night shifts," he says, holding it out. "Thought maybe you could find a use for it. Just don't let anyone know it was me."
My eyes widen. Contraband. I don't even consider refusing. All I can think about is Liam, his face when he talks about the music he misses, how he hums under his breath constantly, how he says music is the only thing he wants from his old life.
"Does it work?" I ask, barely audible.
Bill winks, pressing it into my palm. "Fresh batteries and everything. Radio still picks up the local stations clear as day."
I stare at it. Slip it into my pocket. The small bulge barely noticeable, burning against my thigh.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it for more than the radio.
Bill claps a hand on my shoulder. "You're a good kid, Ethan. Always have been. Just wanted to give you something to remember the old man by."
"I wouldn't have forgotten you anyway."
He smiles, then grows serious. "Be careful with that thing. Don't want you getting in trouble. Don't let old Griff see you."
"I will be careful, sir."
"I'll come visit eventually. Staff says they'll invite me to every potluck. Lucky me." We both chuckle.
We say goodbye with a handshake that turns into a brief hug. I watch him climb into his car, start the engine, drive away. A small piece of my life at Aspire going with him.
Walking back toward the main building, I'm hyperaware of the radio in my pocket.
I used to be the model student, the perfect leader.
Things changed. The thought of Liam's face when I show him, the surprise, the smile that will spread across his face, something shifts in my chest. Contraband in my pocket, the memory of his kiss on my lips.
The rest of the kids file out after Griff's MMA drills nearly killed us. Sweat trickles down my neck, shirt clinging to my back.
"Mind if Liam and I stay a bit longer, sir? I want to help him with his defensive technique." Casual. Professional. Like this is purely about training.
Griff glances between us, Liam standing a careful distance away, face flushed, black hair plastered to his forehead.
"You'll clean the mats after," Griff says. Not a question. His eyes linger on my split lip, but he doesn't mention it.
"Yes, sir." I'd clean the entire gym with a toothbrush for time alone with Liam.
Griff nods, grabbing his clipboard. "Lock up when you're done. Thirty minutes, max." He tosses me the keys. I catch them one-handed. He trusts me. I worked years for that trust.
It's all on the line now. And I don’t fucking care.
The door closes behind Griff. We're alone. The radio burns in my pocket but training first. Then the reward.
"Your guard drops when you throw your right," I say, stepping onto the mats. "Let's work on that."
We face each other, barefoot, both still breathing hard from the earlier session. I mirror his stance, throw a slow punch, watch his response.
"See how you're leaving your left side open?" I step closer, adjust his position. "Keep this arm up. Tight against your ribs."
My fingers press against the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt. The heat of his skin underneath.
"Like this?" He adjusts, blue eyes focused and serious.
"Better." I circle him. "Pivot from your back foot when you throw. Whole body behind the punch."
He tries again. More precise. I watch the lines of his body, the way his muscles flex and release. The tattoo on his neck glistens with sweat, drawing my eye to the curve where neck meets shoulder.
"Good." My voice sounds off. "Again. Faster."
We work through combinations. My hands find excuses to touch him, fingers pressing into his back to correct his stance, palms along his forearms to guide a block, thumbs tracing his shoulders to adjust his guard.
When I position myself behind him to demonstrate a counter-move, my chest touches his back.
His breath catches. Our eyes lock in the wall mirror, neither of us moving away.
His skin is fever-hot under my hands, and when I step back, he leans toward me, chasing the contact.
By the time we finish, my heart is pounding. Liam stands close, breathing hard, a bead of sweat tracing the line of his jaw. I watch it fall.
I glance at the door, still closed, then scan the ceiling for cameras. There's a corner near the equipment racks that I know is a blind spot. Not by accident. Three years of observation.
"Come here," I say, moving toward it. "Want to show you something."
He follows. Curious, trusting. When we reach the blind spot, I hesitate. Nervous. Ridiculous.
"Got something for you," I say, and pull the radio from my pocket. I left it there the whole time, just for this moment.
Liam stares. Confused at first. Then his eyes widen.
"How did you…?!"
"Doesn't matter." I cut him off, not wanting to implicate Bill. "What matters is no one can know about it. If anyone finds out, we're fucked."
"I know, I know." Still staring at it like it might vanish. "Holy shit, Ethan. Holy shit!"
His fingers trace the buttons, the volume dial, the headphone jack. A battered old radio. Obsolete technology. But the way he looks at it, I might as well have handed him the keys to freedom.
"I know how much you miss music," I say quietly. "Thought this might help."
His eyes lift from the radio to my face.
Before I can speak, Liam closes the distance.
One hand clutching the radio, the other gripping the back of my neck as he presses his mouth against mine.
There’s nothing slow about this kiss. It’s all hunger and gratitude and need.
My back hits the wall as he pushes forward, body flush against mine.
I respond instantly, hands finding his waist, pulling him closer.
He tastes like salt and warmth. His free hand slides up under my shirt, and I gasp into his mouth.
My hands move to his damp hair, the other gripping his hip.
The kiss deepens. He makes a sound that shoots straight through me. I switch our positions, spinning us so his back is against the wall. His breathing quickens, eyes half-closed, my lips finding his neck.
Then I pull back. It takes everything I have.
"We can't," I whisper against his lips. "Not here."
He nods, eyes still closed, chest rising and falling. "I know."
We separate. Straighten our clothes. Try to look normal despite the flush in our cheeks. It's so hard. I almost give in and go back to him.
"Thank you," Liam says. "For this." He holds up the radio, warm from being pressed between us.
"Be careful with it," I say, glancing toward the door. "Tonight, after lights out. Under your blanket. Volume barely audible."
He nods, tucking the radio into his waistband, shirt falling to conceal it. His face is bright.
"I mean it, Liam." He looks too happy. When we're like this, we forget caution.
"Yes, Daddy, get off my back," he says, mocking, but the way he says it makes something shift inside me. I almost growl.
It takes everything to step away. We could be in real trouble, transferred, even, if anyone sees us.
But as I move to collect the cleaning supplies, I can't stop glancing at him.
The joy on his face. The way he keeps touching his waistband, reassuring himself the radio is still there. I have to look away.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths.
Jack's, deep and even, a snore every fourth exhale.
Harry's, quick and shallow, body curled toward the wall.
Miles is so quiet it's almost imperceptible, but I've learned to listen for it over the years, reassuring myself he's still here.
Liam's bunk is silent. He's awake. He usually is.
Doesn't sleep well, doesn't eat properly. I don't know how he's made it this far.
A shadow falls across my bed. The mattress dips as he sits on the edge. I turn my head, his silhouette in the darkness, moonlight is catching the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips.
"Go back to your bunk, Liam," I whisper, but I'm chuckling, and he knows I don't mean it. My body is already shifting to make room.
"Fuck no," he answers. The radio appears in his hand. "I want to share this with you."
I lift the blanket. He slides under the covers. His body warm, small, pressing close in the narrow twin bed. The scent of him fills my senses.
He untangles the headphones. Places one earbud in my ear, the other in his. His finger presses down, and for a heart-stopping moment, nothing. Then a crackle of static, so loud in the silent room I flinch. He turns the volume down fast, fingers urgent on the dial, and giggles.
A voice emerges, tiny and distant, a late-night DJ announcing a song.
Then music fills my ear. Everybody Wants to Rule the World, by Tears for Fears.
It feels like pure magic. The beat makes everything look different, and I know I'm making a core memory.
Just listening to this and looking at Liam.
His eyes closed, listening with his whole body, the same expression he has when we kiss.
I'll never forget this.
"Thank you," he mouths beneath the music.
The song changes. Something slower. I don't recognize it.
Liam shifts closer, his chest warm against my back, curled behind me.
Our heads tilt together at an awkward angle to keep the shared earbuds from pulling.
Beneath the blanket, his arm wraps around my waist, his hand finding mine, fingers lacing through.
Moonlight spills through the narrow window. Almost full. I think of Miles, counting lunar cycles, and something in my chest aches.
"I used to fall asleep to music every night," Liam whispers during a break between songs. "It's the thing I missed most. More than alcohol or weed, more than the skatepark, or freedom, even..." He chuckles. "More than McDonald's."
I chuckle too. I understand. More than I can say.
"What did you listen to?" I ask.
He smiles. "Everything. Alternative mostly. Stuff that made me feel something." He pauses, listening as a new song starts. "This one. I love this one. Parallel Universe, by Red Hot Chili Peppers."
It does feel like a parallel universe.