Chapter Thirty-Five Kion #4
“They hunt me, the Styrja,” he continues, shrugging, but his shoulders are tense even though his eyes are bloodshot and bleary.
óríon shoves the old Polaroid back into his pocket.
Then, slowly, he pushes up the short fabric covering his left biceps, tapping his sleeve of tattoos.
Hidden—and hardly visible—in the swirls of ink is a bony and long-snouted fish that Kion has never noticed before: a sturgeon, hidden behind intricate black designs, peering out at him with dark eyes.
óríon yanks his sleeve back down as his teammates’ faces, including Kion’s, grow stricken.
“I think that they will kill me eventually. I hide in plain sight, though, and it makes it harder for them to do it. Carriwitchet, this fame, protects me.” A bitter, sharp smile twists his thin lips.
“And so if this sport dies, so do I. It is a funny thing, no?”
“No,” Knox says sharply. His word cuts through the air like a knife, and his golden-beige skin is unusually pallid. “That’s not funny. None of that was funny.”
óríon’s smile turns taunting and sharp. “You have no sense of humor. It is sad.”
“Fuck you,” snaps Knox angrily. óríon slurs something rude in return, but the vodka has finally gone to the man’s head, and he slumps in his chair before he and Knox can start one of their squabbles.
Drunk, Magnússon’s usually cold face is suddenly naked and exposed. Kion sees shame there, and loneliness.
It’s the bloody loneliness he can’t stand.
He’s felt enough of it in his life to understand how deeply it bites.
And fuck, he wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
He remembers óríon shielding him years ago, stepping before him to take the scrutiny off his vacant expression after Knox had startled him, never mentioning it later except with a nod the next morning. A nod that said he wasn’t alone.
Maybe—maybe now’s the time he does the same.
It takes a few tries to clear his throat. “I,” he rasps, and óríon blearily turns to him, a glimmer of something like hope on his face, “I—I’ve—”
Underneath the table, Taissa’s hand squeezes his gently, and it’s like he’s inked a Strength glyph onto his skin.
“I’ve been lying to you all,” Kion makes himself choke out, “for years.”
Confusion etches a line between Isla’s brows. Knox frowns, shaking his head.
He’s risking everything. They’ll hate him after this—but óríon had the right idea. They could die tomorrow. Kion’s not sure he wants to be buried with this secret. It would be his regret. Making him linger on as a ghost, maybe a will-o’-the-wisp, unable to move on to whatever’s meant to come next.
“My parents aren’t booksellers. I didn’t grow up in Battersea. I didn’t have a last name until I gave myself one.” He’s squeezing Taissa’s hand so tightly that it must hurt, but she doesn’t so much as flinch. “I grew up in an orphanage in Croydon. It was called the Waywardly Home.”
It comes out in pieces, small jagged ones, like the ones that compose him.
After so long, it hardly feels real, telling them all of this.
Telling them about how he was cornered, beaten, exorcised.
He watches as their faces change, but the pity he once feared doesn’t grate as much as he expected it to.
It’s only when he comes to the fire that he stops talking, faltering, unable to get it out.
Although Taissa doesn’t know, she squeezes his hand in reassurance. It’s like she’s silently saying, Later. You can tell them whatever it is later.
And maybe Kion is a coward, because he falls silent, that final secret churning inside of him. But speaking about it means facing it, and he doesn’t want to just yet.
“Morgana,” whispers Isla, staring at him. Heartbreak is etched across her face. “You were so little. You didn’t deserve any of that. Both of you.” Her voice breaks on the final word as she looks between him and óríon.
“Give me their names,” demands Knox, half rising from his seat like he means to take a midnight train back to England. He shakes a fist righteously. “And preferably also their addresses—”
óríon jerks him back down. Even drunk, Magnússon is as strong as an ox.
“I will strangle them with my bare hands,” signs Mahina, her face promising violence as she brings her hands before her, miming a good throttle.
“Me, too,” growls the usually soft-spoken Adriel.
Kion swallows hard. He’s completely bared his throat to them—but they’re not attacking him, and they’re not running away.
No. The NCL Stymphs stay at the table, seated—except for Knox, who’s struggling against óríon’s hold with murder in his eyes. They surround him, quiet and somber, yeah, with maybe some pity, but without any disgust or anger at what he’s hidden from them.
Almost like she’s read his mind, Bronte says, “If you think we’ll leave you in the dirt because you were frightened of baring your wounds to us, you’re dumber than I thought, Cap.
” She smiles slightly at him. It wobbles.
“You’re everything to this team. Maybe we don’t tell you that enough.
That we love you. Even when you shout at us—”
“—mostly me,” grumbles Knox, finally sitting back down. “You mostly shout at me.”
“—and make us run drills until Tanaka literally falls down, we love you.”
Love. Taissa leans into him as Kion blinks rapidly. Fuck. Trust Rihowl to make him want to bawl like a child. The others nod, and óríon meets his eye. Somehow, his bloodshot gaze is suddenly steady despite all he’s drunk. It’s ruddy impressive, honestly.