Chapter Six Fallout
Pain woke Byrne before the sun did.
Not sharp pain. Not injury pain. This was the slow, full-skull throb of a body that had been poisoned by its own choices. A pulse behind his eyes, heavy and rhythmic. His tongue felt like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper. His stomach rolled. His spine crackled when he shifted.
He groaned and rolled onto his side—
—and froze.
Memory hit him in one violent, crystalline sweep.
Kaine’s mouth.
Kaine’s weight crashing them into the bed.
Kaine’s hand sliding under his shirt, hot and sure.
His own hands in Kaine’s hair, on his waist, dragging him closer like starvation had finally overtaken him.
Kaine—breathless, hard, whispering, I want you, you idiot, but not like this.
Byrne’s stomach dropped clean through the mattress.
“No,” he muttered into the pillow. “Christ, no.”
A glass of water, two paracetamol tablets and a purple wrapped square of chocolate sat on his nightstand.
Kaine’s doing. Of course it was.
He reached for them automatically, then stopped halfway.
Kaine was still in the room.
Somewhere.
Byrne scanned the dim space. Kaine’s bed was empty, sheets tangled, duvet half on the floor. He’d clearly been up for a while.
Byrne checked the clock.
06:42.
Training wasn’t until nine. Kaine slept later whenever he could.
He hadn’t today.
Because Byrne had grabbed him like a lifeline and then ground against him like—
He cut the thought off hard, jaw clenching.
He sat up slowly, hands pressed to his temples. His shirt collar was stretched. His hair a mess. His lips—
He touched them.
Still tender.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He drank the water in four desperate gulps, swallowed the tablets, and stumbled into the bathroom. The shower helped in the purely mechanical sense — heat loosening muscle, water washing sweat away — but it did nothing for the sickening churn in his chest.
His reflection looked exactly as wrecked as he felt. Bruise-shadowed eyes. Pallor. Guilt carved into every line.
“You absolute disaster,” he told the mirror.
After twenty minutes of pacing the tiny dorm room like a trapped animal, Byrne pulled on training gear and fled.
Anything to avoid seeing Kaine before he figured out how to look at him without imploding.
The cafeteria buzzed with morning energy — cutlery clattering, coffee hissing, voices bouncing off the high ceilings.
Byrne ducked inside like a fugitive, head down, shoulders tucked. He grabbed toast and tea and retreated to an empty corner table, posture screaming please leave me alone.
It almost worked.
“Captain! Christ, you look like shite served cold.”
Finn dropped into the seat across from him, cheerful and oblivious.
“Thanks,” Byrne croaked.
“Pub night hit you hard?”
“It appears so.”
Finn shoveled eggs into his mouth. “Where’s Kaine this morning?”
Byrne’s heart thumped once, hard.
“No idea,” he lied, curling his fingers around the mug.
Finn shrugged, already distracted by food, but the question lingered anyway — unspoken and heavy.
Why aren’t you where he is?
Byrne abandoned the tray and left before Kaine could arrive.
Film review at ten.
Byrne sat in the back row, hoodie up like armor, pretending to take notes.
He felt Kaine enter the room.
It was absurd how physical the awareness was — like a shift in pressure.
Byrne kept his gaze fixed on his screen. He could smell Kaine’s eucalyptus shampoo when he passed. Feel the heat of him as he dropped into the empty seat beside him.
Of course there was an empty seat beside him.
“You alive?” Kaine murmured.
“More or less.”
“You looked rough at breakfast.”
“You saw me?” The words slipped out before Byrne could stop them.
Kaine’s mouth ticked. “Hard to miss the captain leaving a room like it’s on fire.”
Byrne winced.
He still didn’t look at him.
“We can talk later,” Kaine said carefully. “If you want.”
The word no hovered sharp and instinctive on Byrne’s tongue.
“I just… need to think,” he said instead. “That’s all.”
Kaine exhaled slowly. “Okay. Processing.”
The lights dimmed.
Onscreen, they moved together like something inevitable — Kaine’s line, Byrne’s read, the pass threading through impossible space.
“Beautiful,” Carmody said. “That sort of connection wins matches.”
Connection.
Byrne felt Kaine beside him, still as carved stone.
He kept his eyes on the screen and his heart somewhere far away.
Training was… off.
Not disastrous. Not meltdown-worthy.
Just wrong.
Byrne’s timing slipped. His calls caught in his throat. Kaine — who had felt almost psychic with him all week — suddenly moved half a beat out of sync.
They cut opposite lines. Nearly collided twice.
“Pick a rhythm,” Darren snapped.
“Nothing wrong,” Byrne said too quickly.
Carmody blew the whistle. “Captain. Kaine. With me.”
“You were poetry earlier this week,” Carmody said. “Now you look like strangers on a first date.” Those words landed with a thud between them.
“Bad day,” Byrne said.
Kaine hesitated, then said, “That’s on me, coach. Head’s scrambled.”
The lie hit Byrne like a punch.
They ran drills. Muscle memory did what nerves couldn’t. Not perfect — but functional.
“We can’t run like this forever,” Kaine murmured afterward.
“I’m working on it,” Byrne said.
“Good,” Kaine replied, softly.
By afternoon, Byrne’s avoidance had turned gravitational.
He didn’t run from Kaine. He just… orbited wider.
When he finally returned to the dorm, Kaine was there, outside the doors, phone in hand.
“Hey,” Kaine said.
“Hey.”
Silence stretched.
“About last night—” Byrne began, then stopped, hands twisting in the hem of his hoodie.
“We don’t have to talk,” Kaine said immediately. No pressure. No expectation.
“No,” Byrne said, shaking his head. “We do. I just… need time to say it properly.”
They stood outside the dorm, the night cool and still, the sounds of camp muted around them. Kaine waited, giving him space without leaving.
Understanding clicked quietly into place in Kaine’s eyes. “Was that your first time,” he asked gently, “with a man?”
Byrne winced, then exhaled. “No.” He stared down at his trainers, jaw tight. “I don’t usually drink. There’s a reason for that.”
Kaine didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to fill the silence.
“I lose control,” Byrne continued, quieter now. “Not in a fun way. In a… say-things-I-can’t-unsay way. I’ve made a mess of things before.” A pause. Something old and sharp flickered behind his eyes, then vanished. “I don’t let myself get there anymore.”
Kaine saw it—not a confession, not a story, but the outline of one. He didn’t push.
“I’m not sorry it was you,” Byrne said, words tumbling faster now, like he was afraid of losing his nerve. “I just—” He swallowed. “I’m terrified.”
Kaine stepped closer—not enough to crowd him, just enough that Byrne felt the shift. His hand brushed Byrne’s, knuckles grazing knuckles, a quiet, accidental-on-purpose touch that lingered for half a second before settling.
“Yeah,” Kaine said softly. “I get it.”
He looked at Byrne then—really looked. Held his gaze longer than strictly necessary, eyes dark and intent, something unreadable moving behind them. Without thinking, he licked his lips, a small, unconscious tell, then seemed to realize he’d done it and stilled.
“We can go slow,” he said. “Or nowhere. On your terms.”
Byrne nodded once, breath catching. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Kaine echoed.
Night dropped over camp, quiet and ordinary, as if nothing had happened at all—except Byrne could still feel the echo of that touch, and Kaine walked away carrying the weight of the look they’d just shared.
Byrne showered late, waiting until he was sure most of the lads were finished.
Hot water hammered down his spine as he tried to unpick the knot lodged behind his sternum—not guilt, exactly, but the echo of want.
Not the first time. Not the first man. But the first time with this much hunger, this much clarity, and the knowledge that someone had seen it and hadn’t recoiled.
He dried off, pulled on sweats and a hoodie, and instead of heading back to the room, turned into the corridor. His feet carried him to the stairwell with the narrow window overlooking the dark training pitch. Cold glass. Empty field. Silence thick enough to hold him upright.
His phone was in his hand before he’d fully decided.
Maeve picked up before the second ring finished. “Lucas Byrne,” she said, switching immediately to Irish, her voice low but alert. “Tá tú suas ró-dhéanach don oíche seo. Cad atá cearr?”
You’re up far too late for this night. What’s wrong?
He leaned his shoulder into the concrete wall. “Tá mé ceart go leor,” he said—I’m fine—and knew she’d hear the lie.
“I love that lie,” she said dryly. “Try again.”
He exhaled. “Rinne mé rud amaideach,” I did something stupid.
“Stupid like you mouthed off to a coach,” she said, “or stupid like you did something with the pretty roommate?”
Silence.
Her breath hitched. “ó,” she said softly. Oh. “So it’s the second one.”
“I kissed him,” Byrne said. “Kaine.”
“And?”
“And he kissed me back.” His voice dropped. “Go han-mhór.” Very much.
Maeve made a sound halfway between a curse and a delighted gasp. “You actually did it.”
“It was drunk,” Byrne said quickly. “Messy. I grabbed him. He grabbed me. I wanted—” He broke off, heat flooding his face even alone. “I wanted everything.”
“I’m going to need more detail than that,” Maeve said without missing a beat.
He barked out a laugh despite himself. “Why?”
“Because I may know and love you,” she replied serenely, “but you’re both very attractive and I’m still a woman.”
“Christ,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Focus,” she said, gentler now. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” The word came fast and sharp. “He stopped it. Said he wanted me, but not like that. Not when I’d wake up hating myself. He was… kind.”
“Well,” Maeve said. “The bar is in hell and he still managed to clear it.”
“And today,” Byrne went on, quieter now, “he didn’t freak out. Didn’t name it. Didn’t push. Just said we could talk when I’m ready.”
A pause. Then, softer: “That scares you more than if he’d run.”
“Yes,” Byrne admitted. “If he bolted, I’d know what to do with it.”
“Of course,” she said. “You’re excellent with loss. You’ve had years of practice.”
He closed his eyes, forehead resting against the cool glass. “I don’t know how to be this version of myself and still be what everyone wants.”
“Step one,” Maeve said firmly, “stop trying to be all of them at once. Step two: stop pretending this will disappear if you behave well enough.”
“He deserves better,” Byrne said. “Than this. Than me.”
“He deserves happiness that doesn’t flinch,” Maeve replied. “And so do you. Stop acting like happiness is a finite resource reserved for braver people.”
A breath shuddered out of him.
“What if I ruin everything?”
“What if you don’t?” she countered. “What if you let yourself have one thing that isn’t punishment?”
He stared out at the empty pitch. The floodlights were dark. The lines barely visible.
“Tell me the truth,” Maeve said gently. “Are there some feelings?”
He laughed, broken and quiet. “Tá rud éigin ann.” There’s something there.
“That’s enough for now,” she said. “You don’t need to solve your entire life in one night.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” Maeve said. “But being scared doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It just means this matters.” Then, warmer, brighter: “And for the record, I’m thrilled. Deeply. Unreasonably thrilled.”
“He has good hair,” Byrne said.
“I’m aware. Twitter made sure of that.”
He smiled despite himself. “Tá grá agam duit,” he said quietly. I love you.
“And I love you,” she replied at once. “Now go back before your very patient winger made of sunshine thinks you’ve vanished.”
“He’s not sunshine.”
“Lucas.”
“…He is,” he conceded.
“Oíche mhaith, a chroí.” Good night, my heart.
“Oíche mhaith,” he echoed, and ended the call.
When Byrne returned to the room, Kaine looked up from his phone.
“You okay?”
“I will be.”
“Good.”
They settled into the dark.
“Kaine?” Byrne murmured.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“I’d rather make it better,” Kaine said. “But not worse will do.”
Byrne lay staring at the ceiling, heart loud but no longer panicked. The words replayed themselves, rearranging, shedding their sensible edges until make it better stopped sounding like reassurance and started sounding like something else entirely.
Unhelpfully, his mind supplied an image: Kaine close, hands warm and sure, that careful steadiness turning deliberate. The thought slid in sideways, unwanted and vivid, and Byrne had to clamp down on it, breath hitching despite himself.
Jesus. Get a grip.
This—this—was exactly why he didn’t drink. Why he didn’t let himself blur the lines between what was meant and what was wanted. His judgment was already softening around the edges, desire rewriting intent into invitation.
He dragged in a slow breath and forced his thoughts back into something like order.
He still didn’t know how to live with what he’d done. Didn’t know what tomorrow would look like once the adrenaline wore off and reality came knocking.
But beneath the fear, something else had taken shape. Not certainty. Not peace. Just the quiet fact of it.
He’d crossed a line he’d wanted to cross for years.
And maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t have to stand on the wrong side of it forever.
“Good night, Eli,” he whispered into the dark, the name settling warmly on his tongue before he could stop himself.
“Night, Lucas” a soft whisper echoed.