tw: physical abuse, grief, mention of suicide

— deux ; two —

HENRI SAT IN STUNNED shock for the entirety of the drive to the stadium, the dull thud of his parents bodies replaying over and over again in his head. He felt as if he was going to throw up but there was nothing left in his stomach to come up, only this painful tightening and loosening in his chest that felt as if his organs were unravelling. He looked down at his hands again, expecting to see red staining the palms, but they were clean. Untouched. He was alive and his parents were dead, because of him. He imagined blood turning their skin crimson and pressed a hand to his mouth before he really did throw up in the Moriyama's car.

Ichirou hadn't ridden with him, of course. He'd pulled away in a sleek black car ahead of them and left Henri to the mercy of one of his guards, who was driving. Henri was alone in the backseat with his racquet, the only thing of his belongings besides the clothes on his back which he'd been allowed to bring along with him. He'd twisted in his seat as they pulled out of the driveway just in time to see the home he'd lived in for sixteen years go up in flames, an inferno that would draw the neighbours and police before long. It would undoubtedly be assumed Henri Sebastien Moreau had died along with his parents in that fire.

Henri was still reeling at the events of the night when the car pulled into the stadium, but luckily, the reality hadn't sunk in yet. This all still felt like an awful nightmare and meant Henri could focus on the evaluation he would be facing now like his life depended on it, because it did. His life was hanging precariously by a thread and if he couldn't impress Tetsuji Moriyama, he would be dead too. He couldn't let his parents death be in vain like that. He could break down over the loss and pain later when he could afford to. He shoved everything to the back of his mind. The discovery, their deaths. It was just Exy right now. Henri and his racquet and the hall.

Two guards followed him into the locker room he had left only an hour ago and stood just inside the door as he changed out. He needed time alone to collect himself and find his mental footing, but the guards wouldn't leave him alone. One cocked a gun at him when he asked to go to the bathroom and he silently finished changing after that. He toed into his court shoes, gave a tug of the strings of his racquet, and looked to the guards.

Tetsuji Moriyama was waiting for him at the court door. He looked younger than Henri had expected, the majority of his hair still jet black despite the severity of lines creased around his eyes. In his left hand he lent against a walking cane with an ornately carved head. He said nothing for a long few minutes, scrutinising Henri from head to toe as if he could possibly read every weakness and flaw in his frame.

"Get on the court," he ordered. "Follow my orders as I give them."

Tetsuji was not a patient or forgiving mentor, and Henri was still struggling to keep the grief threatening to engulf him at bay. He carried out every single drill Tetsuji gave him, some he already knew from Lelouche and some unfamiliar to him. Any falter or misstep earned him a barked warning from Tetsuji, and if he wasn't fast enough to respond, he received a rap across the arm or back from the walking cane. By the end of an hour, his face was not the only part of him that hurt — his whole body was throbbing from the abuse.

Yet it didn't end after an hour. Henri didn't understand what more Tetsuji could glean from his ability to play without a scrimmage and other players, but after he had run through the entire round of drills, Tetsuji gave him a rundown on every mistake he had made and sent him on the court to repeat them all. Henri could almost taste the blood in his mouth as he imagined the death waiting for him. He wasn't good enough, he could tell, from the way Tetsuji's strikes increased in number and the shortness of his words got greater. It didn't help that his body was already exhausted from a full day of training and was bearing the emotional brunt of what he'd faced.

He was going to fail.

Finally, after his entire body had been reduced to a giant bruise and Tetsuji had managed to draw blood in a particularly savage hit across his arm, he was finally called to a stop by the loud bang of the cane against the plexiglass wall. Henri had no long how long he had been pushed to play but it had to have been at least two hours, considering the length and intensity of the drills. He had no clue what ungodly hour in the morning it was but he could feel his legs giving out beneath him. He was too drained to be relieved when he was finally released to the locker room.

He stood under the hot stream of the shower, staring down at his battered body, and wondered whether this was the last shower he would ever take. He felt too bleak and hollow to feel scared about dying now. His parents were dead, his brother didn't know he existed, and he couldn't imagine a future where he lived to see tomorrow. He had played abysmally for Tetsuji, forget that he had been far from his peak condition. The Moriyamas wouldn't care about that. All they would care about was that he was another loose end that had to be removed.

He changed back with snails pace and couldn't help lingering by the mirror, even though he was keeping the Moriyamas waiting. He has his father's colouring and yet he looked more like his mother, the same slight features and high cheekbones that gave him a softer more delicate look. He could never remember seeing his older brother in person, but he had spent more than one evening glued to the television screen to catch a glimpse of him at his matches. Jean had slightly more rugged and defined features, but otherwise they were a spitting image of one another. Same dark hair and grey eyes.

Ichirou was nowhere in sight when Henri returned to the inner court, but Tetsuji stood with his two guards. He murmured something in low Japanese to the guards and they left, returning five minutes later with Ichirou. Tetsuji lowered to a deferential bow at the sight of his nephew and Henri knew better than to not follow his lead. He straightened up only when Ichirou commanded him to, and Tetsuji raised too. He nodded at the words Ichirou spoke to him.

"You played sloppily," Tetsuji said, his gaze hard as he stared at Henri. "You move too quickly and without thought, don't consider the game around you but rather the ball in your racquet, which is poor and irresponsible technique. Your footwork is passable yet basic. There is nothing polished or clean about your game."

Henri swallowed and ducked his head, waiting for a blow from the cane which would brain him and permanently knock him out. 

"And yet," Tetsuji continued, "I see it. I see the potential and raw talent which can be moulded and shaped in one as young as you are. You move fast, faster than most of the players I currently have. You react with instinct I look to hone in my recruits. You implemented the criticisms I offered decently and that can be improved with time. I believe with time you could surpass even your own brother."

Henri's eyes widened but he kept his mouth shut, not daring to believe what he was hearing.

"Very well," Ichirou said with a dismissive flick of his fingers. "For now, I shall keep you alive. Consider the terms of your life conditional. You make it to the Ravens line-up, you bring me a win at Championships this year to save the sorry mess of the team, and you make sure you're signed up to Court to pay for the rest of your life what you have cost me. Fail to pay up on these terms and I promise you your death will be immediate."

"Yes, my Lord," Henri stammered, hurrying to bow. "Thank you, my Lord. I will not fail you."

"If you dare consider failing you will not live to regret it."

Henri didn't dare raise his head until he heard the tap of footsteps that told him Ichirou had left the inner court. He almost sank to the floor at the relief that flagged through his body and had to lean against his racquet to stop himself dropping, aware he was still in the presence of Tetsuji. The relief was quickly swamped and drowned by the realisation: he was leaving France, his only home. He was being sold off to America and his life had a price tag, one that had to be paid off by the end of the year by bringing home Championships to recently disgraced Edgar Allan Ravens.

There was no escape. This was the only path left to take.

— — — —

The journey to America was an indistinguishable blur of exhaustion, confusion and grief.

He slept through the entire drive to the airport and was sleepily ushered inside on arrival, given a plane ticket and a warning to stay on track to West Virginia where he'd be picked up to go straight to Caste Evermore. Tetsuji must be joining him to America but Henri didn't see him anywhere and assumed he was taking different travel arrangements. The plane ride was nine hours, the first plane Henri had ever been on, and his alarm at being so high off the ground didn't last long. He had nothing to occupy his attention for those long hours and he spent the majority of the time warring between the anguish for his parents and fear for what was waiting ahead of him.

He managed a restless hour or so of sleep but gave up after being plagued by nightmares. He was startled awake from one of his mother begging him to save her, his father holding a gun to his head and pulling the trigger, with enough of a jolt to alarm the person sitting next to him. "You okay, son?" the woman asked, with a loud jolly American accent. "You look a little shaken up there."

Henri managed a hoarse, "Fine," before bolting out of his seat, barely managing to make it to the tiny cramped bathroom before dry heaving into the toilet. He hadn't eaten in hours and his stomach spasmed with cramps, but he barely felt it as his grief finally broke.

He collapsed to the floor and choked back silent sobs, feeling the tears stream down his face and fall on his hands. His parents weren't good people, they conned and lied and schemed, they'd killed and ended lives to make their own. But they'd done it all to protect him, to keep him safe and sheltered from the brutality of the Moriyamas. The dangers of that family was drilled into him from a young age but it had never ruined his childhood, thanks to his parents, who risked their own lives to keep him hidden. They had lost own son and kept the other as best as they could, and now they were dead, dead, because of Henri, it was all Henri's fault and he didn't think he'd ever be able to stomach the guilt.

It took him too long to put himself back together, but he was in the middle of the sky on his way to a foreign country and people were banging on the door demanding to know why he was taking so long. He had to return to his seat before someone began to question a sixteen year old boy travelling on a plane alone. He scrubbed his eyes dry, tried to get rid of the redness as much as possible, and glared at his reflection in the tiny mirror.

"Get your shit together," he told himself, in angry French.

The American woman sitting next to him kept shooting him concerned glances when he finally returned to seat and he tugged nervously at the edges of his sleeves, hoping as much skin as possible was covered. His skin was bruised all over courtesy of Tetsuji and Ichirou, and he'd rather not deal with prying eyes. The ones on his face were harder to hide but so far, no one was rude enough to question him about it.

He had no idea who was waiting for him at arrivals when he touched down in America, and he had no bags to wait for, so he followed the other passengers until he came out through the exit. He considered briefly whether it would be Tetsuji waiting for him but dismissed it. The Coach was above such things. Henri didn't have to wonder long who was collecting him. He had followed the Ravens religiously as Jean was recruited among them, so he knew every member on the line-up, particularly this one. This was only his second year with the Ravens and yet Soren Solberg had risen to the title of captain after Riko's death, taking on the unenviable position of leading a fractured and disgraced team.

Soren looked every inch the golden prince the media had labelled him. On court, he was known for his deadly precision as a starting striker and his ability to dodge the defence like it was smoke. Off court, he was fawned by fans for his bright green eyes and charming smile, the perfect image of perfection and good looks. Soren was not smiling as he strode towards Henri. He stopped before him and studied him with obvious disdain, looking unimpressed with whatever he saw. Henri must have looked a wreck; bruised face, unkempt hair, rumpled clothes. He couldn't bring himself to care how his new captain saw him.

"It's true, then," Soren said, his lip curling slightly. There was nothing friendly or favourable in his expression. "You look exactly like him. A child, maybe, but just like him."

It took Henri a moment to place who he was talking about and another to remember that, before today, he hadn't existed as far as NCAA Exy was concerned. He'd barely considered the backlash that would follow the reveal of his name to a country that had never known Jean Moreau had a younger brother supposedly following in his footsteps, who had never been mentioned before. He hoped he could at least keep his identity a secret over summer before the season began in September but he didn't think he would be quite so lucky.

"Do they all know who I am?" Henri asked, referring to the Ravens as a whole.

"No. They don't even know you're joining the team, forget what you are."

Henri blinked. "How...?"

"I don't have time for your questions now," Soren said impatiently, flicking his fingers towards baggage claim. "Where are your things?"

"I have none."

"You will die with us," Soren said scornfully, and turned away without another word.

Henri followed him and wondered how the Ravens would react to him. He didn't even know if they were recruiting any freshmen to their line-up, but the word among the media was that Riko Moriyama's death and the Ravens' fall from grace with their first ever defeat meant the team was being shaken up considerably. Many members were being cut and it seemed unlikely the Ravens wouldn't be recruiting fresh faces for the new image expected of them. They'd been destroyed by the Foxes, a team of gutter rats — it was evidently time for a change of pace.

As they stepped outside, it dawned on him he didn't even know what day it was, forget whether it was morning on evening. The sun was bleeding over the horizon but his tired eyes couldn't discern whether he was watching a sunset or sunrise.

"What time is it?" Henri asked.

Soren glanced back at him, as if irritated by the question. "Six in the morning. Thanks to you, I was shaken awake by the Coach in the middle of the night and sent to collect you with little more information than that you are Jean Moreau's brother."

There was something expectant in Soren's voice, but Henri had nothing to say to that he shrugged. His head was aching along with his body, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep, but Soren had stopped and didn't seem like he would be moving until he got answers.

"How is this possible?" he demanded. "Jean had no brother. It was never mentioned in his family records."

Henri didn't know how much Soren knew of the truth behind the Moriyamas, but he was inclined to believe it was nothing. That meant he couldn't give the truth to him and would have to string together some half-decent lie mixed in with the truth to the inevitable questions.

"It was never recorded because Jean does not know I exist," Henri said, earning a flicker of surprise across Soren's face. "He is estranged from his family. Everyone knows this. He had already left when I came along, and my parents — "

He abruptly broke off, hit with a fresh wave of grief, and gritted his teeth. My parents are dead. Those were not the words he intended to say, but those were the ones sitting on the tip of his tongue now. He could feel tears burning at the back of his eyes, more anger than sadness, but he refused to cry in front of this stranger.

"Your parents?" Soren prompted.

Henri looked away. "I'm not talking about this with you."

"I'm your captain. You have to — "

"I don't have to do anything," Henri interjected coldly. "Get the truth from someone else or wonder for the rest of your life. I won't talk about it."

Soren's jaw tightened and he looked as if he was debating whether to use violence to get what he wanted. Henri didn't care what he did. He wasn't speaking about his parents, not now, not ever.

"This insolent attitude won't stand on my court," Soren said, his voice just as cold. "You are joining the Ravens, where submission and order are the only options. It's intolerable enough that they're allowing a child — "

"I'm not a child," Henri snapped.

"Really." Soren sounded unimpressed. "You look like one. How old are you?"

Henri almost felt petty enough not to answer but Soren could find out himself either way. "Sixteen."

"Sixteen," Soren echoed, as if he himself wasn't only two years older. Admittedly the inches he had on Henri did make him look older. "How are you even allowed to enrol at Edgar Allan? You must still be in high school."

Henri had tutors in countless subjects who had been teaching him at an advanced level his whole life, always at a grade a few years older than his age. He had technically passed high school level last year and was focusing on his favoured subject at degree level, just like all other college students. He didn't feel like explaining all of this to Soren, so he simply said, "I've passed high school."

Soren didn't bother hiding his disbelief. "This is a joke. They'll send you away before you even spend one day with us."

"I hope they do," Henri said, before he could stop himself.

Soren stared at him, surprise taking the edge off his exasperation. Henri supposed no one in history had ever said that about the Edgar Allan Ravens. Bar the tragic end to the most recent Championships with the title lost to the Foxes, the Ravens were the undefeated Exy champions of the country. Their team was flawless and a formidable force to be reckoned with. To even be considered for the team was a great honour, and no matter how difficult life as a Raven was, no one ever turned it away. It was always worth it for the life of fame and seven digits waiting after graduation.

"Where did you come from?" Soren asked, almost an accusation.

"Marseille, France."

"Funny," Soren said, without even a hint of humour. Henri just gazed back to show he wasn't getting any more of an answer. "You really think you can ignore me? When they reveal your name, the whole country will be jumping on you for answers. You cannot ignore them."

"Watch me."

Soren narrowed his eyes. "I'm beginning to think I'll hate you even more than Jean, and I didn't think I'd ever hate anyone more than him."

That got Henri's attention. "You hated him?"

"Riko had an inferiority complex, but he at least left me alone," Soren said. "Jean was insufferable. Rooming with him made me suicidal."

"I'm sure he felt the same."

Soren's mouth twitched but he turned away before Henri could wonder whether it was a grimace or a smile. "Fine. Hold your tongue," he said, irritated. "The team won't tolerate this silence and they'll use whatever means they want to get answers. Don't think they'll hold back just because you're a child."

Henri gritted his teeth. "Call me a child one more time — "

"Shut up."

Henri scowled at his retreating back and stormed after him, anger clearing some of the exhaustion from his mind. Sunrise meant he had a whole day to deal with before he would be allowed to head to bed and something told him he would need all the energy he could get to face the Ravens. Maybe they'd lost their crazy captain, maybe they didn't know the truth behind his death, but they were still a cult bred for perfection that wouldn't take to an outsider well. They would take even less to an outside whose brother had deserted them for another team.

Soren's basic black car held no interest to Henri, beyond the number plate. EA for Edgar Allan, followed by SSST8. Soren Solberg, Striker, number 8. Henri couldn't drive and certainly didn't have the money for a car, but he wondered if he would have gotten his own customised number plate. He wouldn't want one. Whatever number they gave him, it was little more than a collar and price tag reminding him who he belonged to. He slid into the passenger seat and gazed out of the window as buildings and trees slid past.

"Welcome to America," Soren said, in less than a welcoming tone. He sounded as if he was promising a terrible life. "You'll be leaving soon enough."

Henri decided not to say the only way he'd be leaving this place was in a casket.