The grass of the Upperhill Academy athletic field had become a stage for a humiliation so layered and complex that Joel felt he was being crushed under the weight of it. Frank had stood up, transitioning from a source of solid, warm comfort back into the poised, untouchable Assistant School President. But Joel remained anchored to the damp earth. He felt small—microscopic—as the wind off Lake swept across the open expanse, chilling the salt-tracks on his cheeks.
He kept his face buried in his palms. The darkness behind his eyelids was the only place he felt safe. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the curve of James's smirk. Every time he breathed, he tasted the lingering, bitter irony of that dare.
He could hear them.
Frank's presence was a steady, grounding hum to his left. James's presence was a sharp, ozone-scented static to his right. Joel felt like a fault line between two tectonic plates.
"James," Frank's voice broke the silence. It wasn't the voice he used in meetings; it was stripped of its professional veneer, replaced by a low, vibrating warning. "He's not okay. Look at him."
Joel's stomach twisted. Don't look at me, he pleaded silently.
Being "not okay" was a private burden he had carried for years, but hearing it spoken aloud by the Vice President made it feel like a public verdict. He pressed his heels into the dirt, trying to pull his knees even tighter against his chest, wishing he could fold into a single point of nothingness.
James's response was a cold blade of indifference. "He's fine. He's just breathing air, Frank. It's a field, not an emergency room."
The cruelty in James's tone wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It was the flat, bored tone of someone discussing a broken piece of equipment. Joel felt a fresh tear escape the corner of his eye, hot and treacherous, soaking into the fabric of his sleeves.
Frank didn't back down. Joel could hear the shift in his weight, the rustle of his expensive blazer as he likely squared his shoulders. "Joel," Frank said, his voice dropping to a register meant only for the boy on the ground. "Come on. Let's stand up. The ground is freezing, and the bell is going to ring. You can't stay here."
Joel felt the air shift as Frank reached down. He could almost feel the phantom warmth of Frank's hand about to steady him, to pull him back. He wanted to take it. He desperately wanted to be led away from this spot.
"Don't."
The word hit the air like a gunshot.
James stepped forward, his shadow suddenly eclipsing the small patch of light Joel could see through the gaps in his fingers.
"Don't help him," James commanded, his voice vibrating with a sudden, sharp authority. "He's not disabled, Frank. He has legs. He can use them."
Joel flinched, his shoulders shaking with a silent, broken sob. The word disabled stung, but it was the implication—that he was seeking attention, that he was being pathetic on purpose—that cut the deepest.
He wasn't trying to be a martyr; he was simply a boy whose internal compass had been shattered, leaving him spinning in the dark.
"Go to the student council room," James continued, his tone shifting back to that terrifying, casual calm. "We have the budget meeting at ten. Start organizing the files for the spring gala. Now."
A heavy, suffocating silence followed. Joel held his breath, praying Frank would refuse. He needed the anchor. He needed the boy who wiped his tears to stay.
But Upperhill was built on a foundation of power, and James Thorn sat at the very top of that pyramid. Frank was his right hand, his strategist, his shadow.
"…Are you sure?" Frank asked, the hesitation thick in his throat.
"Yes," James snapped. "Go. I'll make sure he gets to class."
The sound of Frank's footsteps retreating was the loneliest sound Joel had ever heard. Scuff. Scuff. Scuff. The rhythm of safety walking away. Joel felt the vacuum return, sucking the warmth out of the air until it was just him and the boy who had ruined his life.
The wind picked up, whistling through the chain-link fence.
"Stop crying."
James was standing directly over him now. Joel could smell him—that expensive, clean scent of citrus and power. It felt like a physical invasion.
"I said stop crying," James repeated, the patience vanishing from his voice. "And stand up. You're making a scene, and there's no one left to watch it."
Joel shook his head. He couldn't find his voice. It was buried under layers of shame and cold. He stayed curled in his ball, a small, mixed-race boy who just wanted to be invisible again.
James exhaled a long, frustrated sigh. "If you don't stand up," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous velvet, "I'll drag you to class myself. And I don't think you want that video going around, do you?"
The threat worked. Joel's fingers trembled, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. But his muscles wouldn't obey. He was paralyzed by the sheer proximity of the person who had both kissed him and crushed him.
James didn't wait.
In one swift, terrifying motion, James reached down. His hands were large and impossibly strong. He slipped them under Joel's arms and hoisted him upward.
Joel let out a sharp, strangled gasp as he was lifted off the damp grass. His feet dangled for a second before his instincts took over, and his hands flew out to stabilize himself. They landed on the lapels of James's blazer, clutching the high-quality wool as if it were a lifeline.
He was being held. James had him pinned against his chest, lifting him as if Joel were made of nothing but feathers and secrets. The height difference was jarring; Joel felt small, fragile, and utterly at James's mercy.
James looked down at him, his face inches away. For a second, the mask of the arrogant president slipped, and he just looked… surprised.
"You're really light," James muttered, his eyes raking over Joel's pale, tear-streaked face. "Do you even eat?"
Joel's heart was racing so fast he thought he might actually have a heart attack. He could feel the solid muscle of James's chest beneath his palms, the heat of his breath, the terrifying reality of his strength.
"Is this what you wanted?" James whispered, his voice curling around Joel's ear. "Princess treatment? Did you stay on the ground hoping I'd carry you?"
The cruelty burned. Joel's face went from pale to a deep, agonizing crimson. "N-no," he choked out.
He forced himself to look up.
Their gazes locked.
Up close, James's eyes weren't just brown; they were amber, flecked with gold and a strange, dark intensity that Joel couldn't name. James's pupils dilated. His grip on Joel's waist tightened, then suddenly, his fingers twitched. It was as if he'd been burned by the contact.
James's expression flickered—a flash of something that looked like panic, or perhaps disgust at his own reaction. His hands opened abruptly.
"Ah—!" Joel cried out as the support vanished.
He fell.
He wasn't ready for the sudden loss of gravity. He hit the grass hard, his hip taking the brunt of the impact. A sharp, white-hot spike of pain shot through his side, making his vision swim. He collapsed back onto the damp earth, his breath knocked out of him in a ragged wheeze.
The world spun. Gray sky. Green grass. The silhouette of a boy who looked like a god but acted like a demon.
Joel lay there, gasping, his hands clutching the grass. His side throbbed with a dull, heavy ache. He felt broken. Literally and figuratively.
James stood over him, smoothing out his blazer as if nothing had happened. His face was a mask of cold stone once more.
"Go to class," James said, his voice flat and final.
Joel didn't move. The pain in his side made every shallow breath an ordeal. He just stared up at James with wide, watery eyes, looking for a reason—any reason—why this was happening to him.
James's eyes darkened, a flicker of something predatory returning to his gaze. He leaned down, his shadow stretching over Joel like a shroud.
"Get up, Joel," James whispered, his voice laced with a promise that made Joel's blood run cold. "Go to class now. Before I think of a punishment for you for wasting my time."
James turned and walked away, his stride long and confident.