#feat. sophie dlamini

[jessicagreer]

It wasn't a rarity to spend time with him. He was the father of the church, her lifelong friend, university partner, but it was a rarity to spend time like this. Without the pressure of the collar around his neck, the world of the bible tugging him into position. Or the eyes of the town trailing them if they walked together. His life was for the Church: and as much as he tried, he couldn't make his sermon's shorter (even if she'd begged once or twice.) And no, that wasn't a joke. It was fact, and Jessica Greer always dealt with fact, unless it came to her faith. Over the years, her faith had become somewhat skewed based on the life choices she'd made, but her repentance had always been a big part of her relationship with God. Parents of Irish Catholic heritage had meant that she'd spent all her life under the watchful eye of the almighty.

And while she liked to think she was a well-rounded Catholic, she was pretty sure that her lord and saviour might have a different set of words that he'd use. Even as they strolled side by side, the weight of Daniel was in her arms. An unwed, single mother. What a sin she'd brought to her church, and yet, there wasn't a single thing she'd change — but it was often a battle. Nothing was ever that easy. She didn't hold animosity for the life Adam — father Matthews (Although she only called him that in company) had decided to lead. There were some things that were bigger than her, but when her eyes cascaded down to the boy that half of her, and half of Adam, she did wonder sometimes how anything could be bigger than him. Selfish thoughts, she knew, and it was why she never voiced them. Some conversations would remain between her and god for all of eternity.

And it would stay that way.

Adam's running snapped Jessica out of her momentary trance. A beautiful sight, indeed. She knew days like this were limited. A smile breaking out, teeth and all — she wished she could capture it on an old disposable camera. Freeze time, just for a while longer. One day Daniel would start asking questions, bigger ones that she was sure she knew how to answer without lying. And that sin, well, she'd committed enough to land her downstairs. But if there was one thing Jessica did fear about the afterlife? It was that she wouldn't be with Adam. They crafted the story well. A small place like St. Mary's Wells. Nothing stayed quiet for long. Rumours flew about his 'father'. Still, some whispered, assuming the worst of her, even if they smiled when she walked past. Their idea of what Daniel's father was like was imaginary, just as much as he was.

Because the real one was there all along, illuminated by the light of God.

Once home, the day went quickly, as it always did with a child of that age. Adam's departure had seen a wave over her shoulder, because being a mother was a full-time job in itself — and then she had a real one on top of that. The Belmont School for Girls was a beautiful place to work, and something she thoroughly enjoyed, but my goodness, was it hard work?

Seven dresses, two pairs of heels and four coats later: she was ready. Thankful that Daniel would be in the hands of the family meant that she could fully relax — the only people who knew the truth. And that was what tonight was about. In the car, the rolling sound of tires against tarmac and gravel had her wondering what it would be like to step back in time. Sometimes, she forgot what it was like to not be a mother. Especially now that she sat next to Adam — who she spent a lot of time with, in a confined space...she wished for things that she shouldn't, that she often felt...and her attempt to squash it was futile as it flourished in her chest, as she began gnawing at her bottom lip, centering herself with a quick prayer to forgive her trespasses.

Her thoughts were unclean.

Her palms sweat the whole way, like a girl on a first date. But she reminded herself that this was not the path that he had chosen, as she did every day. His path led him to the righteous, to healing. So when they stepped into the Grove, falling into old patterns, former selves, she found herself pretending that all was right. Even if their distance spoke volumes, even if she graved his affections more than anything else.

To see everyone was a blessing. Conversations of old and new. Even if her gaze was spent on Adam for most of the night, laughing at every word, and hanging on like she was a teenager in secondary school. Her old friends had so many stories that it was hard to keep up, all so successful. There hadn't been a chance of it being any different. Everyone had been destined for greatness, even...she wouldn't think of her name as she slid a small smile to Harry before returning to the conversation.

Jessica found herself outside, some time later, with the rest. A giggle on her lips, she felt lighter than she had in a long time. Always together in some kind of group, as she joked lightly with Will and Katya about nothing of importance — until she found herself snapped to the present.

Like a cold slap back to reality. Sinners, all of them. It was a shock they hadn't been smite down yet for their actions. And each one came flooding back as Harry spoke.

Jessica watched, as she often did from a distance: and while she might've been airy and light, just like a flower...sometimes she wilted under pressure. Not academically, no, never. But socially? More than she cared to let on. She often said people shouldn't let her sunny disposition fool them. Which was more often than not brushed off: a laugh there, or a joke here. But all it took was one look towards Harry, and she could feel it unravel as if it was taking root inside of her. The loss of hope, or faith, maybe even kind, was disastrous for one's soul. Her hands shook, eyes darting around her friends.

Lord have mercy on his soul.

His outburst echoed to the old guilt that she'd long thought about. They'd all be a part of it. All to blame.

The Harry she'd known at Rose, this charming, quick-witted man who had always been the life of their life since they'd vowed their secret oaths, was now but a whisper of his former self. It'd slipped past her at the beginning of the night, the entanglement of guilt staring her square in the face — had she been blind or ignored it completely? Preoccupied with their own lives, their own plight. How could they, friends who'd known each other for so many years, have not seen what was directly in front of them? It didn't help when her eye caught Adams, a mirror of her own, concern etched into her delicate features as they furrowed and unfurrowed.

Her pang of longing for Adam — she couldn't even begin to imagine how Harry's must've felt. Jessica always tried to keep her emotions...controlled. Happiness had long been one of the things that she knew weren't going to be like the fairytales she span in the church. There were nights where she wanted nothing more than Adam to offer her something...but once again, selfish thoughts like that were sinful. Did that mean she didn't still long for fleeting touches, or...longer ones? She knew he'd offered all that he could, but she still...with a sigh, she finished her drink in one fell swoop.

Jessica was unsure how to respond to such unbridled pain. All-consuming.

"He needs to go to confession," Jessica said under her breath.

It all happened so fast, the conversation, the group dispersing as Jessica found herself nodding. A man who didn't want to be found wouldn't be. It was a heavy thought, and one that weighed on her mind on the journey back. In the dark, passing street lights every few meters, she allowed herself to look at his features. Shadows painting pictures on his skin. Adam had originally offered to drive Harry home. Jessica had felt a surge at the time, almost ready to jump into action if Adam asked but — but she knew he wouldn't. Adam's presence was a comfort, whether it was religious or not: his steady hand, that all too familiar calm saved lives. Not physically like a doctor, but with his words and faith. But she that faith meant another evening apart from each other, another night where they couldn't be the family they longed to be.

Once upon a time, Jessica had hoped Adam would never have to carry such burdens that his innocence would remain unscathed for as long as possible. But life came for them all, eventually. "I'm worried about him, I mean..." she blew out a long breath. "Everyone else...it looks like they have someone." Even if their paths had diverged as they'd grown, there had always been pairs.

And Harry didn't have his anymore. What would Abigail think of them for how long they'd left him unchecked? Before they'd bothered to check in. "I should call on him tomorrow, after work. Just to check in." and as she placed her forehead against the window, no longer able to watch Adam's face as the night passed by in a blur — she prayed.

Prayed for Harry, for her friends, and for forgiveness.

Sometimes, though, not all prayers could be answered.

The string unwound slowly as Adam walked back, Jessica by his side, their son cradled in her arms. "Are you ready, Daniel?" he asked. Their nearly three-year-old son looked up, curiosity and amusement flickering in his eyes. Each time he looked at Daniel and Jessica, the familiar choke of his collar tightened, a relentless reminder of his self-imposed penance. The ache to openly embrace them both gnawed at him, but he knew such desires were beyond his reach. What he had done could not go unpunished. He had forfeited the family, the wife, and the children he had always yearned for, fully aware that his actions had irrevocably stolen those same dreams from someone else. A friend.

Ahead, the priest—sans collar today—smiled and broke into a run. His laughter rang through the air as the kite they had crafted together, painted in Daniel's chosen colours of "red like fast, father," caught the wind and soared. The fabric danced against the breeze, and for a fleeting moment, Adam felt a sense of freedom as pure as the kite’s. But kites were never truly free, were they? He glanced down at his hands, the string taut and the spool of wire unraveling, only granting the illusion of freedom. He was time to get back.

Once back at Jessica's, Adam slipped out the back door, promising to return as soon as her parents arrived to watch over Daniel. At home, he changed out of his grass-stained pants, the remnants of their afternoon in the hemlock grove—a hidden sanctuary away from the town's scrutiny. He then took the Parish car, a stark reminder of his dual existence, and drove back to pick up Jessica. They were the last to arrive at the Grove, where their old friends had already gathered.

They squeezed into the same side of the booth, and Adam, for a moment, struggled with the urge to let his hand fall naturally on Jessica’s leg. The old, forbidden intimacy tempted him, but he knew better. Instead, he clenched his hands into a tight ball on the table, feeling the weight of nostalgia turn against him tonight. It was all too difficult now that he was here, slipping back into old routines without the collar to remind him of his vows.

As the night wore on, Adam found it surprisingly effortless to shed his priestly mantle, joking and reminiscing about old pranks. It was almost too easy to forget his constraints, the rules that kept his body from pressing too close to Jessica's. By the time everyone drifted out to join the others on the patio, Adam felt like a reflection of his past self, unburdened by the collar that usually anchored him. His hand found Jessica's wrist, holding her back just long enough to retrieve a piece of sea salt—a remnant from earlier when his enthusiasm had tipped the shaker over. "Snow salt," he said with a mischievous grin.

But Harry's words shattered the fragile mirage. Concern etched itself deeply onto Adam's face as he listened, his own guilt clawing its way back to the surface, gnawing at him from the inside out. He knew they'd turn to him first, expecting some sage advice, hoping he could talk Harry down from the not-so-metaphorical ledge he'd just climbed onto. But Adam understood Harry. Religion had never resonated with him, and if there was one lesson Adam had learned since pressing his face to cold tile and lying prostrate before God, it was that people who aren't religious don't want religion thrust upon them. It doesn't help; it only fuels their anger.

So, he waited, watching as Harry poured out his soul in a raw confession, needing no booth for his catharsis. When it seemed Harry had finally exhausted himself, Adam stepped forward. "I'll drive you home," he said quietly, placing a steady hand on Harry's shoulder. "This isn't the place to talk about these things. Not now." He knew the futility in waiting for the right time, a moment that always seemed to stretch endlessly into the future, never fully arriving for any of them.

He turned, offering his own goodbyes to everyone else, accepting that the night had come to an end. Glancing over at Jessica, he realized in the flurry of farewells that Harry had slipped away. There was no time to search for him; he needed to get Jessica back to St. Mary's before her mother started to worry. "Come on," he urged gently, "we're not going to find him. He doesn't want to be found." As they made their way out, Adam couldn't help but wonder if this was for the best, if some things were meant to remain unresolved.

[katyavinogradov]

Silk sheets brushed against freshly waxed legs, sunlight pouring through the chiffon curtains blowing gently in the wind. Usually, when the sun was just rising, her floor-to-ceiling windows towered high, the sky painted different colours every single day. However, this morning, the smell of burnt coffee awoke her, cramming its way up her nose. The clambering sound of metal in the kitchen was jarring, as she squinted away the sleep that had found a home in the corner of her eyes.

It only took a moment to orient herself before she remembered exactly where she was.

Pushing thin sheets off her toned, naked body, she was quick to collect her clothes that were littered around the room in various places. She never stayed over; it was against the damn rules. Aware that whatever sound was coming from the kitchen was a man preparing her breakfast. And she...no, didn't want to stay. A check of her watch told her it was seven a.m, which meant Jason would have to leave for work soon.

The excuse was enough, she thought, yanking last night’s dress up her slender frame, trying to detangle her white blonde hair in any way that she could. A smudge of black mascara lay embedded beneath her lower lid, a reminder of how she’d ended up here. Again. 

Katya had plans later, important ones, and that meant she needed to get home and begin the routine of scrubbing off the night before from her body. Slowly, step by step, as light as a mouse, she tiptoed down the stairs. But her luck had run out.

"Oh, you're up," Jason called, two plates in hand, causing her to jump with a squeal.

Just like a fucking mouse. “Fucking hell, Pizda.” Katya muttered under her breath. The smell had her stomach rumbling. She was hungry. Famished even. But there were some rules she just wasn't meant to break. Not to live the lifestyle that she had. She forced a smile, trying to ignore the pang of hunger that was currently waging war on her stomach. “I didn’t want to disturb you. I have, you know, busy day ahead,” edging closer to the door. It didn’t take her long to see the disappointment pooling in those doe-like orbs. 

Jason’s eyes searched hers, almost as if he was begging for a different answer. Not today, my friend. “I made breakfast. Thought we could enjoy it together before we both head out.”

“I appreciate it, really. But I have to go. Early meeting,” the lie rolled off her tongue so smoothly, it should’ve almost been sickening, inching towards the exit again.

“Alright. Okay, yeah. Maybe next time.” Jason said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Maybe,” she echoed, knowing full well there wouldn’t be a next time. Not if she could help it.

Katya Vinogradov slipped out the door in South Kensington to the usual manic London streets, the cool morning air slapping her face with a whip. British weather was never one to assume: it was as bipolar as half the people in this damn city. It didn’t take long for her Uber to arrive before she was heading home. 

The city streets blurred into a piece of art that transfixed her gaze.

It’d be the same routine as always: shower, workout, lunch, promo on her Instagram—there was a new nightclub opening up downtown. Owned by the other place she worked at from time to time, kind of. But the promo did good for her business, and for that, she was thankful. Much to her father’s chagrin. He wanted complete control over the content she posted, and for the most part, he could veto anything if he truly wished to do so.

The joys of being a Russian Diplomat’s daughter. 

The arrival home had her relaxing a fraction. Not long before, she was downing coffee and smoking a cigarette out the window as she tapped away. Three calls, five appointments pencilled in for the week and she was napping: this was how her days went. Leisurly. Not always this relaxed, of course, but none the less.

Anything to stay in England, anything not to go back to Russia.

Some time later, makeup perfected, dress in place and her hair swept back: she was ready to go. In all honesty, she'd been so busy all day she hadn't allowed herself much time to think about what was to occur within the next hour. To be in a room of people who'd seen her at her strongest, and wondered, if they knew what she did now, how they'd react. But it was a tightly kept secret, only her clients and her intermin manager knew anything about her said business. And it'd stay that way.

Black stillettos echoed against smooth pavement, pushing out of the car, eyes slowly trcing up at the front of the Grove. Beautiful, as it always was: she came here more than she would ever feel the need t tell them. Especially Xavier. The itch for a smoke tugged, however, she swallowed it down.

Once inside, it became a whirlwind of conversation, old faces reinvoking memories of a past that felt oh so long ago. When had they last all been in a room together? Well, almost all. As adults, their schedules had never aligned as they had when they'd been members of The Rose.

The moment she walked inside, her phone buzzed, once, then twice...thrice. Annoyingly so, because her phone was meant to be diverted. There was momentary panic, had one of her clients seen her here? Katya pushed it down, especially when he friends came into sight.

One second it was calm, and the next -- it was what it always had been. Hugs, laughter, family. It'd been so long since that lonely had been chased away, not numbed by alcohol to feel something. The way Katya smiled, though, told a story of a girl who was enjoying her socialite lifestyle. The photos she posted on her instagram did exactly what she needed them to, and showed her life.

Her digital one.

"It's good to see you."

By the time the conversation had began to quiten, excitment relaxing somewhat, she found her way to the bathroom. In all honesty, it was a moment of peace. Until she felt Xavier's presence. Watched him, observed, turning, watching, a small smile tugging on the corner of her lip, a difference to a usually stoic and harsh expression she wore.

In, out. She didn't dawdle, ever. However, her exit had her running back in to the man who'd been on her mind since she arrived. Like seeing a ghost, except this one didn't haunt her. It was a comfort, like an old dream. A moment alone, to talk, before the rest came gallivanting in as they always did. She peaked a glance to where the rest had congrigated and nodded.

"I think that's the best idea you've had thus far, Penaud." knocking her head towards the doors. "I haven't had chance to question you myself, yet." the russian twang always heavier when she was playful. Although dialled up when she needed to work.

She didn't wait for a response, as she turned on her heel, with a flash of a smile over her shoulder. Just as she would've done in the halls of The Rose all those years ago. "Quick, we might be late to class." something they might've said to each other once upon a time, when their worst fears was scoring bad on a test they'd crammed for. Oh to be twenty again.

Katya soon took down the steps, a smoke already between her fingers as the flame came to life, the end burning from orange to red. The clamour of a smaller group of middle aged couples coming huddled together as they joked and boistered. When they'd been young adults, they had always been the loudest, but always the most fun to be around.

"Your cigarettes look like they're about to fall apart. Want one of these? I thought you were rich, what's with the homeless boy act -- this is pathetic. Crushed cigarettes, Ridikulos" the final word slipping out from her mother tongue, but a smile crept in, unable to stop it. "You look good, Xavier."

The rugby pitch stretched out like a battlefield under the waning afternoon sun, its green expanse dotted with the moving forms of high school players engaged in the rough dance of the game. Xavier stood at the sidelines, his frame sturdy but subtly bowed by the years and the burdens he carried. His eyes, sharp yet softened by time, tracked every pass, every tackle, his body subtly tensed as if ready to spring into action, even though his playing days were far behind him.

His fingers, traced the familiar contours of scar tissue around his knee. It was an unconscious habit, a physical manifestation of the memories that flickered behind his eyes. The scar was a memento of a different time, a different life—seventeen minutes into his professional debut, a cruel twist of fate had ended his career. An ACL tear, they called it in English. A simple term for something that shattered dreams and left scars, both seen and unseen.

On the bench beside him, a well-worn copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh lay open, its pages creased and edges yellowed. He had been reading it during setup, lost in the familiar yet ancient world. The epic resonated with him; the ancient battles, the war cries, the honour—these were themes that had initially drawn him to the game, much like the tales that had captivated him in childhood. After setting aside the sticks used in duels with his sister, he discovered in rugby a new outlet for his adventurous spirit.

"Hold the line, boys! Keep pushing!" Xavier's voice, still laced with his French accent, boomed across the field. He was not just a coach but a mentor, a warrior still fighting, albeit through his players. The sounds of the game—the thud of bodies colliding, the scrape of cleats against turf—were a symphony of strength and strategy. He called out plays, his mind a tactical map, his body almost moving with the players as if the game were an extension of himself.

As his assistant blew the final whistle, signalling the end of practice, Xavier called the boys to hit the showers and instructed Marcus to ensure they did. He then gathered his belongings and embarked on the familiar forty-minute drive back to London. The journey was a mix of movement and reflection, the car's engine humming softly as he changed gears and let his thoughts wander. The day's physical and emotional efforts culminated in a persistent ache in his knee, a reminder of the injury that had been his constant companion for nearly a decade now.

He arrived home to a clean, modern apartment, its minimalist design starkly contrasted by his collection of medieval art and weaponry. The warmth of the space stood against the chill that had begun to seep into his bones. The cold in London felt different from the winters he remembered in France—deeper, clinging to his very marrow. Shedding his coat, he made his way to the bathroom.

In the shower, steam enveloped Xavier, yet the persistent ache in his knee persisted. He stood there, allowing the water to cascade over his body, while his thoughts drifted to the past and the friends he was about to reunite with. Would they hold it against him for not keeping in touch? He had stayed close with Adam and Jessica, but that was largely due to their proximity and shared faith. He hoped not.

Despite the season, he dressed in layers, choosing a coat more out of habit than necessity. The pain in his knee flared up again, prompting a mental note to take another pill. He swallowed it dry and then stared at his reflection in the mirror, watching as the pain dulled, allowing him to gather himself and walk out the door.

The Grove was a familiar haunt, a place that echoed with the laughter and camaraderie of old friends. Xavier arrived to find Harry and Katya mingling outside, his face lighting up at the sight of them. The customary cheek kisses were exchanged, a cultural gesture as ingrained in him as the verses of the French anthem. Then Don appeared, pulling him into a hearty embrace that made Xavier's smile grow broader.

He withdrew his attention after Don shifted his focus to Will, and it was then that Xavier noticed a woman nearby struggling to light her cigarette. He paused, offering a steady hand and a lighter, a small act that elicited a grateful smile from her. Returning to his friends, he brushed off their playful teasing about his attire. "London never agrees with me," he chuckled, his accent blending softly between French and English. "Now, let's go find the others." Assuming they were at the bar, he figured he would have been there earlier if he had arrived sooner.

Inside The Grove, warmth enveloped Xavier, a stark contrast to the cold outside. He spotted Orson and Charlotte at the bar and pulled them into hugs, their familiar presence comforting. Glancing at his watch, he expected the booth he reserved to be ready by now. "I'll get the first round," he offered, his voice reflecting the confidence of someone accustomed to such gestures.

Leaning over the bar, his rugby-honed muscles effortlessly lifted a round of ales. The weight was negligible compared to weights he'd lifted with his boys earlier, and he navigated through the bustling crowd with practiced ease, delivering the drinks to the table where Jessica and Adam had joined the group. Respecting the priest's collar, he extended a hand first, a gesture from his Catholic upbringing. He greeted Jessica warmly in their customary Burgundy manner before settling into the spare chair at the now-full booth.

The banter flowed easily, a reminder of simpler times before life's trials had weighed so heavily. It was easy to lose himself in the camaraderie, momentarily forgetting the reality of his physical limitations and the pressing need of his bladder.

"The Church pays for the next round."

Excusing himself, Xavier headed to the bathroom, the ache in his knee intensifying with each step. Inside, he relieved himself and then leaned against the sink, the pain demanding his attention. Fumbling for his pills, frustration washed over him as they slipped from his shaky hands into the sink, disappearing down the drain.

"Putain," he muttered, anger coursing through him as he hurled the empty bottle across the tiled room. There was no label to call anyone to his attention. He was going to have to to call his supplier again. With that concern on his mind, he stepped out of the bathroom and accidentally collided with Katya in the narrow hallway. His apology was swift and automatic, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady her. After ensuring she regained her balance, he ran his hand through his hair and adjusted his sleeves around his elbows, seeking any sense of composure that had recently left him.

Considering a momentary escape, a thought crossed his mind. With a hint of a smile, he pulled a cigarette packet from his pants, waving the crushed packet teasingly in front of Katya's face. "Time for a breather?" he asked, the irony not lost on him as he sought a moment of quiet, a brief escape from the weight of the pain digging into his knee.

[williamhamstead]

The hangover was fucking rife. Stepping onto the street in Westminster, a place he spent more time than any of these days. He might've been what some referred to as a philanthropist for local communities (which, of course, aided with tax evasion — but who was counting) and save for his boyfriend, whom he adored very much, a known playboy in his younger years. Some would assume that reputation would've gone away as the years went on and he'd re-settled, but unfortunately, some things stuck.

Tugging a smoke from his pocket, Bernie, the head of security, giving him a light nod as he watched the end turn orange, taking a long drag. He was admiring his work, his legacy: all of theirs. Time had been kind, given the circumstances they'd all found themselves in some years ago. It didn't take him long, his mind falling into the age old play of memory lane. One's that both comforted and haunted him in the same breath. Last night, he'd drank himself into a stupor, the after party at the Briar Rose getting a little wilder than usual: maybe it was things going on at home, or maybe...just maybe it was to do with the meeting that was arranged tonight.

Crushing the smoke beneath his boot, he checked his watch: a couple of hours to get things under wraps before he left the place in the new manager's hands, which he never fucking liked. But his staff liked him, and for that, he was grateful. He ran a smooth business, and for that, he had his father to thank.

That, of course, would’ve been easier if they’d been on speaking terms for the last…nine years? It must’ve been that long since he’d broken the news. The dead air, the suffocating surrounding him, as a profound silence followed. It would’ve been enough to hollow most men, but in reality, it’d only ever pushed William to do the exact opposite of what his parents would want. Externally, he appeared shy, reserved…some even went as far as to say he was an observatory guy, thoughtful, even. In all honesty, he’d simply mastered looking interested while he thought about anything fucking else. 

The bar was quiet tonight, but it never stayed that way. 

The door was on a constant revolver, feeling himself zoning out as he polished a glass that was in his hand. After he'd finished the books, supplied those...he needed to supply and finalised the close with Emily (Who seemed okay enough), he found himself wondering about one man in particular.

An old friend, someone he thought of often...lips pursing in concentration. However, William’s eye caught something, as it did most nights when he was here. He’d placed them there when he initially brought the place: homage to a life he knew he’d always long for. If people looked close enough, a squint of an eye and an intellectual mind just might see it…it started off with subtle hints, small, hinting towards the tale of Persephone. Woven throughout the bar’s design, immaculate, and pomegranate motifs—symbolising Persephone’s bond to the underworld, forever and always just as his friends would be. Almost…frozen in time—those motifs engraved on the edges of the drink menus. A feature for the room was the large, ornate clock on the far wall, permanently set to six months forward, alluding to the myth of Persephone’s six months in the underworld and six months above.

"Do you want the good news, or the bad?" Yuri, a Russian exchange student who was currently studying at the Rose, asked. William never usually allowed students to work here: insurance was a fucking ball ache. But it'd been a favour: a prospect they'd called him. This place was part of the eyes and ears of those who'd graduated, connections still just as important out of the university as they were in.

"Just give me the bad first. The good can soothe whatever ball ache is about to come my way." Will groaned, a heavy hand wiping down the length of his face, because there was no way he was missing tonight.

"Elise called out sick," Yuri grunted. "You'll never guess where she was last night."

A louder groan erupted from between his lips. "Does that girl ever make it in after drinks at Carnival Records?"

"There has to be a first for everything." Yuri snorted, that dry Russian twang causing Will's face to light up for a flash of a second. Katya. He often reminded Will of his old friend, and how everyone seemed so far away these days. Maybe that was what eased his annoyance, soothed it like a mother's hand.

Because he'd see them soon enough. "Tell her one more time and she's fired."

"You said that last time..." Yuri called over his shoulder, as he took the glass from Will's hand, flashing a joking, weary smile. He was a softie when it came to his staff, some more than others. Elise had been one of his first hires, and while she was pushing the barrier — he was loyal. As he always had been.

And for some, one group in particular, that would never change.

"What's the good news? And, Yuri, it better be fucking good." he was agonising now for a double rum and coke, stealing a glance at his watch. He needed to go. His lips flashing wider than he believes he'd smiled in a long time. "Second thoughts, tell me the good news tomorrow..." the drink all but forgotten about as he made his way out of the bar.

It didn't take long for the Uber to take him to the grove.

Pushing through the doors, he was thankful to grab a drink before he heard her voice. Katya somewhere behind Will. Turning, he didn't waste any time. Walking straight towards Katya, ready to sweep her up and bear hug her until he heard that all too familiar laugh. Only steps away, passing Xavier, Harry and Sophie: that white blonde hair in sight. But there was only one person could've stopped him mid step.

Only one face.

The ghost of something still lingered, whether that was friendship or a sense of fraught tension: he wasn't sure. Will wasn't sure he'd ever fully know anymore. Will’s breath caught, a whisper of what once was—or might have been. The world around them blurred, a distant hum pounding in his ears. Will’s very being echoed memories which he'd since spent a long time trying to make sure they remained buried, deep beneath the soil and the dirt. Just like...

“Hey, Don,” Will spoke with such effortless ease, he could've been described as almost passive, but even he couldn't stop that grin. Donaghy was here. "Mate, where the hell is your wife? Tell me you didn't leave her at home." Teasing, playful, as he moved past Katya to offer his hand. A shake.

So masculine, so unlike them. Turning to face Xavier over his shoulder, he took a moment to give him a once over. "I knew you'd come dressed like that."

In the solitary dimness of the tennis court, it was just him and the rhythmic thwack of ball against gut as he volleyed back and forth with the machine. His next decisive match loomed on the weekend against Medvedev, the Russian famed for his punishing baseline rallies. Don, a fellow baseline sitter, braced for a marathon duel. Sweat poured down his face as he manoeuvred across the court, lost in his rhythm until his father’s arrival broke his concentration. He missed the next ball, then another, as his father critiqued his serve, only to be distracted by his phone, preoccupied with his dual roles as manager and coach.

The ball machine, detecting the lack of returned shots, shut itself off, and the sudden silence pressed down on Don as he moved to his bag and began packing up. He was running late and knew he should probably reach out to Charlotte to inform her. But she was so accustomed to his delays that he anticipated the same resigned "No problem," though he suspected it was anything but. The weight of the evening settled on his shoulders as he contemplated the gathering ahead. Some faces were familiar from fleeting interactions before matches, a few well-wishers who received Wimbledon passes from him when he could manage it. But his mind was predominantly occupied with thoughts of Will.

Will had been his closest friend since their days at Rose University. The two had narrowly missed an Olympic berth, and to this day, Don suspected that there had been some unfair play on the other end. He could still remember Will’s sun-kissed shoulders, his sea-sprayed hair, and the way his laugh echoed through the mischief of a misplaced order that almost sent Don overboard. Not that Will would have allowed it to happen; Don closed his eyes and recalled the firm grip on his polo, yanking him back to the safety of his Dubarrys flat against the deck. "We've got the court for another hour," his father's voice broke through his thoughts. "I told you, I've got a dinner," Don replied, determined not to argue this time. He had already put in the work, getting up early to make sure he was prepared. Thankfully, his father got distracted by another call, giving Don the perfect opportunity to slip away to the showers.

The hot water brought welcome relief to his aching muscles as he let it cascade down his back, bracing against the tiled wall for support with one hand. His thoughts drifted to Charlotte, where they rightfully belonged. Reflecting on his intentional spaciness, he acknowledged these bouts were familiar, despite his belief that once he was good, he would remain so for the rest of his life. How naive. Running his hand through his hair, he pushed water through and the sweat out, while his other hand swept down his body, and wrapped around himself.

Perhaps it would be wise to sort this out now, especially since today was already showing signs of distraction and a lack of focus, possibly leading to another mistake. Yet, as the hot water streamed down, memories of sun-kissed shoulders, sea-sprayed hair, and soft lips once again flooded his mind, causing an unwanted and faster reaction than he had intended or desired.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He shut off the shower, taking a moment to steady his breathing before he turned around and reached for his towel. The only sounds left were the drip of water from the shower-head and the tiles underfoot. He really was going to be late.

With the sweat of the day washed away, Don changed into something more fitting for the evening and climbed into his car, setting his course for The Grove. The drive took longer than either he or, he was sure, Charlotte would have preferred, but such was the inevitable price of navigating London traffic. When he finally arrived, he handed his keys to the valet. Now outside of The Grove, he felt a surge of warmth and a flutter of nervous anticipation for what lay ahead.

As Don made his way through the bustling entrance, his eyes caught sight of Katya and Xavier first. Despite the time that had separated them, he felt an immediate wave of familiarity and affection. With a broad grin, he approached, looping his arms around their shoulders, "Bonjour!" he exclaimed, his voice full of warmth as he planted a friendly kiss on Xavier's cheek. "Privet, Katya," he added, greeting her with a similar kiss on the cheek. As he stepped back, his gaze swept past Sophie and Harry until it finally rested on Will. In that fleeting moment, the bustling noise of the crowd faded into insignificance. Seeing his old friend standing there, as if no time had passed between them, left his voice slightly hoarse as he greeted him with a simple "Hey."