Chapter Eighteen NowNever #5
Aoife had ushered them in with a look that brooked no argument.
“Phones,” she’d said gently. “Take a minute. You’re not needed anywhere else right now.”
And then she’d shut the door behind them.
They were clean now. Showered. Changed into dry kit — hoodies and track pants, hair still damp at the nape of the neck. The physical exhaustion had settled deep into their bones, replacing adrenaline with something heavier and slower.
Eli sat on the edge of the table, phone in his hands, thumb hovering.
Lucas leaned back in one of the chairs, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on nothing. He felt hollowed out, like everything important had already happened and he was still waiting to be told what it meant.
Eli’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen and smiled, immediate and soft.
“Right,” he murmured. “Here we go.”
He accepted the call.
The screen filled with faces — too many to fit properly.
A living room in Auckland, already bright with morning light, and behind those faces a blur of movement and noise: people still milling, someone waving from too far back, a hand darting into frame to throw up a peace sign, laughter spilling in the background like the party hadn’t fully ended.
Mereana front and center, hair pulled back, eyes shining. Hemi just behind her, arms folded, trying and failing to look stern. Aunties with intricate facial tattoos leaned in from the edges. Cousins waved from somewhere off-camera.
“Eli!” his mum said, voice breaking immediately. “You alright, my boy?”
“I’m good,” Eli said, laughing. “I’m really good.”
“We saw you,” an auntie said teasingly. “All of it.”
Kiri shoved her way into frame, grin feral. “You owe me money. I told you.”
“She’s been shaking us all down!” A cousin called from behind her.
Eli snorted. “You never shut up, cuz.”
Lucas stayed where he was, unsure where to put himself, until Mereana’s gaze shifted.
“And you must be Lucas,” she said.
Lucas startled.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said automatically, then winced at himself.
Eli rolled his eyes. “Don’t ‘ma’am’ my mum.”
Mereana smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she said, simply. “For loving our boy.”
Lucas swallowed. “I—yes. Always.”
Hemi nodded once, solemn and approving. “You stood up,” he said. “That matters.”
Someone blew a kiss. Someone else shouted something about visiting Ireland “once the flights stop costing an arm and a leg.”
They talked for a few more minutes — about the match, about sleep, about how ridiculous the Irish weather looked on television. Laughter came easily. Pride sat unhidden.
When the call ended, the room felt quieter for it.
Eli set his phone down and exhaled, smiling to himself.
“Right,” he said. “That’s the whānau sorted.”
He looked at Lucas. “You hear anything from home?”
Lucas hesitated.
He’d been avoiding his phone. Feeling it like a weight in his pocket. He pulled it out now, screen lighting up the room.
One message.
From his father.
He opened it.
Read it once.
Then again.
His mouth went dry.
Eli watched the color drain from his face. “Luke?”
Lucas didn’t answer. He just handed the phone over.
Eli read it.
“We will pray for you and for the country to find its way back to God.”
That was it.
Just that.
Lucas let out a sound he didn’t recognize—sharp and broken—and folded forward, elbows on his knees, hands coming up to cover his face like he could hold himself together if he pressed hard enough.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why can’t you just love me?”
Eli moved immediately.
He stepped in close, pulled Lucas up and into him, arms wrapping tight, solid, sure. Lucas went willingly, forehead pressing into Eli’s chest, breath shuddering as everything finally gave way.
He cried the way people did when they were done being brave; silently at first, shoulders shaking, tears soaking into fabric. Then harder, a broken sound torn loose, grief and exhaustion and years of swallowed fear crashing together all at once.
Eli held him.
Didn’t shush or rush him.
Just anchored him there, one hand firm between his shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of his head, chin resting gently on Lucas’ hair.
“I’ve got you,” Eli murmured, over and over. “I’ve got you.”
Lucas clutched at him like a lifeline, fingers twisting in the fabric of Eli’s hoodie, breath hitching until it finally, slowly, evened out.
When the sobs eased, Eli didn’t pull away.
He waited.
Eventually, Lucas sagged fully against him, spent and emptied and safe enough to stop fighting.
“I’m sorry,” Lucas whispered hoarsely.
Eli pulled back just enough to look at him. “Don’t.”
Lucas’s eyes were red-rimmed, wrecked. “I thought—I thought maybe…”
Eli pressed his forehead to Lucas’s. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He held him again, tighter.
“You chose truth,” Eli said softly. “That’s never the wrong thing. Even when it hurts.”
Lucas closed his eyes.
Outside the room, phones buzzed. Headlines wrote themselves. The world moved on, loud and demanding.
Inside, for a few stolen minutes, there was only the quiet weight of another person holding him upright.
And that was enough.