Tiago
The reality slaps me, everything goes black in the very same moment.
Yannik's not scared of me.
She's scared of what she can do to me.
I'm running out of air, but my lungs are numb. All I can do is try to hide my butterflies, but it'll do nothing, because she already saw them.
I finally manage to take a breath, ripped and shallow, but the air only rasps my throat, bringing me back to the moment where her eyes are still locked on where my butterflies are.
I can feel the burning in my eyes as I tilt my head back, trying my best to focus on anything but this.
I want to disappear. Or travel back in time.
I want to go past this room, or not to search for Yannik at all. I want to go back into the tattoo studio and make a full sleeve blackout.
But more than that, I want to go back in years and snatch the blade from my fingers.
"I'm sorry, Tiago."
It's the first time I hear her voice shaking.
"Don't do that," I force myself to speak, my voice just as shaky as hers, cracking under the weight of the lump in my throat. "Don't act like you know everything about it. You have no idea."
"I'm sorry," repeats Yannik. My vision is starting to blur.
"Stop," I beg.
I can't stand her like that. Pitiful.
She's not like that. She teases me, steps over the line every time I draw one.
She never looks at me with guilt in her eyes.
I don't dare look at her when the tears sting my eyes. My hands are rubbing my forearms so hard it sparkles a hope that the scars will go away, disappear under my touch.
But I know they won't.
They're engraved on my skin just as on my mind.
Then I hear Yannik take several steps away.
"Don't leave!" I ask, the words coming out as a desperate plea. "Please don't leave. Not now, please..."
I lower my head just for a moment. Feeling the tears streaming down my face is so pathetic I want to look away again.
Yannik turns the lock, ready to leave.
"But I can't stay..."
Her whisper is soaked in pain, her eyes glimmering with something I'm not used to seeing in them.
"I'm sorry, Tiago, I really am..."
She shuts the door behind her, leaving me alone with my own demons.
And I sob, because it's the only thing I can do, rubbing my face to get rid of any evidence of my weakness.
But the tears keep stinging my eyes, rushing down my cheeks no matter how hard I try to get rid of them.
I clench my teeth as hard as I can, my nails digging into my forearms.
Into my butterflies that could never fly.
***
The smell, the taste, the feeling of cigarettes is better when soaked in pain.
Maybe that's why I keep crawling back to them as my last resortâfor the fifth year now. Since I was fourteen, I've always kept a pack in a secret spot.
I used to keep a lot of things in that secret spot.
Until Mum found it and got so frightened she told Dad.
He beat the shit out of me that day. Then he spent a whole week camping near Lake Lanier, paying off his rage at the shooting range where he once taught me to shoot. Mum spent that week locked in the bedroom, and every time I walked past her door, I could hear her crying.
Then Dad finally came back.
Therapy. Long, useless talks with my parents every night. Their constant fights when they thought I wasn't around.
A long, tense trip to Alabama to get tattooed at sixteen.
And now they're hereâmy butterflies. All across my forearms, down to my hands.
I really thought they'd make it stop, but the soft, caressing pain from the needle wasn't soothing enough.
I take another drag from the cigarette between my fingers, my eyes scanning every inch of my skin as I admire the butterflies engraved on it.
Then I see a mark between two of them, slightly higher than my wrist.
Still fresh. No wonder Yannik saw it.
I remember Dad seeing it too. Shortly after the fight at West Highâthe worst scandal the school ever had.
I wanted pain. He gave me more of it.
I had already turned eighteen by then, standing in front of the best tattoo studio of Atlanta with my whole face and body aching, covered in bruises, my brow and lip busted.
I remember his voice in my head, screaming out the word I've been hearing since I was eight.
The word he never stopped saying since he came back from Iraq and started those hard, abusive training sessions.
Hopeless.
I see it on my fingers as I keep the cigarette between my lips.
It didn't hurtâat least, not physically. Getting my nipples pierced was way worse than getting my fingers tattooed.
What hurts the most is seeing it on my skin, knowing that it's nothing more than an attempt to hide the scar I have way deeper.
Somewhere in my heart.
I hope it's her when I hear footsteps breaking the silence. I brace myself, waiting to hear my nickname, said so casually as if nothing happened.
Or maybe my full name. Now, I'd be grateful to hear it out loud, though it echoes through my butterflies every time I do.
Because I know only one person who calls me Santiago.
In the memory of the private who saved Dad in Afghanistan.
And yet, he still had the guts to go to Iraq years later, come back alive, and bring home nothing but distress.
"Sweet."
Not her voice. But it still sends goosebumps down my back.
Cooper's face is neutral, his eyebrows slightly knitted as he slowly walks toward me.
I don't move. The cigarette stays pressed against my lips as I look at him, ready for whatever comes next.
He can fight me. He can snatch the cigarette out of my hand and punch me as hard as he wants. He can bruise me, knock me out, break my bones.
Right now, I'm ready for it.
I won't fight back, won't try to cover myself.
Just take the anger he's bearing and transform it into pain.
Nobody else will see my scars if all my skin is painted in bruises.
My body tenses, but Cooper doesn't make any move to fight. His face is peaceful as he lightly kicks my leg, forcing me to make space for him on the window bench.
He doesn't ask when he reaches for my pack of cigarettes, taking one along with my lighter.
"I thought you didn't smoke," I say, my voice hoarse as the smoke leaves my lungs.
Cooper shrugs, lighting up the end of the cigarette he just stole from me. He tries to say something, but chokes on his first puff, loud cough filling the locker room.
He's vulnerable. Right now, he's vulnerable, and he knows itâas well as he knows I won't do anything about it.
"Don't take it that fast," I say, unable to hold back a chuckle. Is this his first time trying a cigarette? "Inhale like you're taking a deep breath, but don't rush."
Cooper glares at me, but once his breath is steady again, he brings the cigarette to his lips.
My eyes follow his movements as he takes a drag.
"That's right. Nice and slow..."
I watch the smoke leave his lungs as he exhales, and I almost feel it myselfâthe rush of adrenaline that comes with opening the gates to something that can take your pain.
Or, at least, numb it.
Like a painkillerânot treating the cause, just removing the symptoms.
"Tastes like shit," grumbles Cooper, making me snicker. "Fuck, I can't believe we both got ditched by the same girl."
Oh. Right. I was so focused on hoping to get beaten up that I forgot about the beef I had with Cooper.
"Yeah..." I stretch out, my mind already replaying the memories from Friday night.
I want to tell him everything about Yannik, but I can't find the words for it. It all merges into one tangled mess of lust and recklessness. I can't help but remember every moment I shared with herâfrom the day I mistook our lockers to the night just a few days ago.
I still can't believe she saw them.
And I still can't believe she left.
It was her right to do soâshe doesn't owe me anything, no bond, no labelâbut I hoped she'd stay.
I needed her to stay. So, so bad.
"Listen, mate, me and Yannikâthere was nothing going on there." I try to make my tone as convincing as possible, trying to make Cooper believe me. Or at least consider my point.
"I know."
His smirk is for me, but his eyes are outside, following the birds.
He takes another drag of the cigarette, leaving me speechless as I try to contrast his words with the jealous fight he started at the party.
"That's why you're going to talk to her," Cooper says, his voice calm but firm.
"Talk toâ" I hope I'm not getting this right. "Yannik?"
But he nods.
"I don't care what you do to make her give me a second chance, but you will."
Shit. I was just starting to think he wasn't an asshole after all.
"What makes you think I'll do it?" I curl my lip.
Cooper smirks, and all I want to do is wipe that stupid look off his face.
"Because it'd be a pity if you didn't make it to the first game becauseâ" he pouts, dragging out the moment like he's faking coming up with an idea, "let's say, I found weed in your locker."
"What the fuck is your problem, Cooper?" I groan, glaring at him as he chuckles.
My whole body tenses.
Not from pain this timeâfrom anger.
"I don't buy the bullshit you're selling me," his smirk fades into something meaner, sharper. "Skipping periods, smoking on school grounds, threatening the captainâ"
I freeze.
I don't even need to ask what he's talking about. I already know.
I swore I wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
"You're walking on thin ice, Jones," he says smoothly. "Don't make me break it."
"Screw you, Cooper," I spit, biting down on the cigarette filter.
He knows I won't snap. That's why he takes his sweet time with one last drag before dousing his cigarette against the wall.
"You're on my territory, so follow my damn rules," his voice hardens as he pushes off the window bench. "Be smart and talk to her... If you still want to be on the team, of course."
And just like that, he's gone.
He leaves before I can come up with a response decent enough to flip him off without turning this into a fight.
"Fuck," I lean my head back, closing my eyes as I feel the cigarette smoldering against my fingers. "Fuck, fuck, fuckâ"
I try to analyze his demand, word by word. Pick apart every small detail. Try to come up with a way to make Cooper shut up and never speak to me again.
But nothing comes.
And the butterflies on my arms start to ache at the thought of her in his arms.
Shit. It was easier when it was both her and the team.
Now, it's her or the team.
And I can't be without them both.