— quarante-quatre ; forty four —

ON THE COURT, the rafters rose in alternating red and black seating on all sides, the floodlights in full glare beaming down on every inch of the court. Balls were scattered in all directions but when Henri went to left his racquet to scoop one up, he couldn't lift the head from the floor. The handle felt heavy and unwieldy in his hands. Henri twisted the racquet over between his hands and frowned at the way it dragged in his fingers, refusing to co-operate. It was the same racquet he always used, the deep net for carrying and black handle striped with red, but it felt entirely unfamiliar.

"Well?" an angry voice demanded. "Don't waste my time."

He looked up to see the master waiting at half court line with his cane in hand. It gleamed like polished wood under the bright lights. To one side, Jean stood watching him with silent judgement and to the other, his father. The resemblance was uncanny when they stood next to each other. Henri knew they were all waiting for the same thing, that failure was unacceptable, and he gritted his teeth as he struggled to swing the racquet up. Only it wasn't a racquet, it was gun, and he wasn't on court. He was in the narrow hospital bed as the doctor told him he would never walk again, her face a careful mask of sympathy. Tubes streaked out from his arms and had been shoved under skin with long needles.

"No," Henri tried to say, but his voice wouldn't work. He made to stand up but chains wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, his torso, shackling him to the bed. He yanked against the restraints and gasped at the sharp pain it sent bolting up his limbs. "No! Let me go!"

The chains burned as they snaked slowly across his skin, binding tighter and working their way up towards his throat. Henri thrashed against them in a desperate panic and that's when he saw it — the gun. It sat on the bedside table, just out of reach.

"All you have to do is shoot me," the doctor said, except it wasn't the doctor anymore, it was his mother. She spoke to him in Abby's voice but her grey were cold and empty. "Go on, Henri. Pick up the gun. Pick up the gun and shoot me in the head."

"No, I...I can't, I can't — "

"You can't?" His mother smiled and rested a hand on his head even as he yanked desperately in an attempt to get out of his bindings. The cold metal bit into his skin and he watched blood streaming from the cuts. His mother gripped slim fingers in his hair and twisted hard enough to make his gasp. "Or you won't?"

"Please," Henri whispered, his voice cracking. "Please help me."

"Oh, I will," she said, and picked up the gun. His blood was soaking the bed now, dripping off and puddling on the floor. She pressed the gun against his forehead. "You should've listened to me when you had the chance."

Henri bolted upright to the loud crack of a gunshot so fast that he hit his head on the headboard. The starburst of pain only momentarily distracted him from the rapid tightening of his chest, the way his throat was closing up, the horrible beating of his heart pounding bruises into his chest. He curled his fingers desperately in his sheets as his ragged breathing filled the room. He knew what was happening, knew it as he felt his whole body trembling and panic tying painful knots into his stomach. He knew it was another panic attack but he couldn't do this. He couldn't do this without Soren and the thought of facing it alone only kickstarted the terror squeezing his lungs so tight he couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe, he really couldn't breathe this time, each gasping attempt at a breath choking off into a sob as it dawned on him he was going to die this time. Soren wasn't here to get him through it and he was going to die.

Henri flinched at a hand on his arm but then a voice was saying soothingly, "Hey, shhh, it's okay, you're going to be okay," and he thought for a wild moment it was Soren, but then he forced open the eyes he'd squeezed shut and saw it was Abby. He hadn't heard her come in but she was there, one arm wrapped around his shoulder and squeezing him so tightly he could feel how hard he was shaking against her. He wanted to open his mouth to say something but it was all he could do to force every breath through his clenched teeth, each one shallow and too fast to draw in enough oxygen. He felt so dizzy that his vision was fuzzing black at the edges.

"You need to breath, Henri," Abby said gently. "I know it's hard, but everything will feel easier if you can get your breathing under control. Just breathe in, then out — "

"I...can't," Henri said miserably, tasting blood in his mouth. He'd bitten his tongue hard enough to make it bleed. "I don't...I don't know how — "

Abby rubbed his shoulder. "You're going to be okay, I promise. This will pass."

The sharp sting in his mouth distracted him enough to suck in his first proper breath and he dug his nails into his palms, needing the bite of pain to take the edge of the panic. He felt like another person, a person a world away from all of this, the pain and fear and lightheaded nausea all happening to someone else. It felt like hours, weeks, before he could finally breathe in and then out with some semblance of control, his too fast heart finally slowing down a little as he managed to catch his breathe. He was still shaking even after the worst of it had passed and he had to close his eyes against the final wave of dizziness that washed over him.

"Sorry," Henri mumbled, too exhausted to pull away when Abby drew him closer to her. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, Henri. Please don't apologise." She dan comforting fingers through his hair and he wanted to bat her away, because he was so sweaty and his hair must have been drenched in it, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything more than submit to her fussing. "You poor thing. How long have you been having them?"

"Not that long."

He didn't realise his hands were still clenched into tight fists until Abby carefully unwrapped them. He flexed his fingers, sore from tensing so hard, and stared at his palms. He'd left bloody half moon crescents in them from where he'd dug his nails in so hard. He barely saw it, forget feel it — he still felt strangely disconnected from himself even as he watched himself press a finger against the marks, pressing down with a morbidly detached sense of curiosity.

"Henri," Abby said, in a voice that suggested she'd said his name a few times. She caught his hands and pulled them away from each other despite the faint smears of blood. "Was it a bad dream?"

Henri didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded.

"Okay." Abby was still stroking his hair and he imagined, for a moment, that it was his mother. That she was still alive to hold him like this. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Henri bit his lip, still feeling like his body wasn't his own, and shook his head. Reliving it would only make it worse.

Abby had nothing more to say and they sat there for a while in silence, the room still dark and faint light spilling in to the room where the sun was beginning to rise. He wanted to apologise again, for taking up space in her house and waking her up like this and putting her under obligation to look after some kid she didn't even know and wasn't on her team, but he was too mentally drained to do anything more than let Abby offer silent support. His body came back to him in bits and pieces, first the stinging in his mouth then the scratches on his hands and finally the dull aching of his head, where he'd knocked it. He took a deep shuddering breath and finally straightened up.

Abby looked concerned. "Henri?"

"I'm okay. I'm fine," he said, and stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I just need to clear my head. Going for a run. A walk," he corrected, seeing Abby was about to protest. He couldn't be inside anymore. He couldn't sit in this room, staring at moonlight striping across the wall, thinking about his parents and the Moriyamas and swallowing against the horrible dread that he could lose control like that again, and next time, there would be no coming back from the edge. He needed to shake off the lingering feeling that his body wasn't his own, that his mind was some separate divorced entity that wasn't entirely his own either.

"You can't. It's five in the morning," Abby said, "and it's the middle of winter. It'll be freezing outside."

"I'll take a jacket."

"Henri," she began, with dawning disbelief that he was entirely serious, but he didn't let her finish.

"I'll be back soon," he said, backing out of the room before she could try stopping him. He snatched Soren's jacket off the door hook on his way out. "Don't wait up for me."

Outside, it was more bitterly cold than Henri had thought possible. In France, his home close to the coast experienced seasons mildly, the temperatures barely dropping below the tens in winter and rarely above the thirties in summer. The ice in the South Carolina was as cold as Henri had ever experienced in weather and he was shivering before he'd even reached the end of the garden. He let the chill sink through his skin into his bones, revelled in it, even as he began to lose feeling in his fingers and nose. It was a reminder that he existed, that he could feel such a brutal cold as it knifed through his clothes. He didn't even realise the path his feet were taking until he was outside the Foxhole Court until he saw the first rays of sun glancing off the blinding white walls.

As if by instinct, he tapped in the code to allow him through the gates and the doors, letting himself into the locker room. Jack's gear fit him as well as it had three days ago when he'd first loaned it out to him. He didn't realise his chest was so tight until a little of that knot loosened with a racquet in his hands, his breathing finally coming easier as he dragged a bucket of balls and cones out to court. He didnt even spare himself ten minutes to warm up — he scooped up a ball, heaving it down the court to slam against a fixed point between the goal lines, and another was following less than a second later. The shots kept coming, Henri swinging and firing with relentless speed, aiming for that exact same spot each time.

He didn't know how long he practiced the drill to hone in on his aim. All he knew was he was throwing as much force into every throw he could, wanting to feel the ache of his muscles being pulled taut, needing to feel the burn of his fingers as he flexed them right around the racquet. Sweat prickled his hairline, soaking his hair and trickling down his back, yet he still kept at it. When the bucket was emptied, he collected all the balls and set out cones, firing with faultless precision at the same spot to knock the cones on a rebound. He didn't slow even when his breathing was so shallow he could barely taste around the metallic tang in his mouth and his arms gave the twinges that warned him he'd gone too far, that he was blowing them out.

He'd been playing with the Foxes for three days now, stepping it up and pushing himself a little harder each day. Wymack and Abby both warned him not to jeopardise his recovery and he'd listened. Now, he craved that exhausted ache that came from pushing his body to it's limits. He needed to know that this was his body, that blood rushing through his ears was pumped by his heart and every tensing of muscle beneath flesh was controlled by him. He kept at it, pushing harder and longer and with desperation, until that detached sense of impersonalisation was a distant remnant. He was aware of every nerve ending, every drop of sweat dripping into his blurring vision, of his arms trembling as he went to pick up another ball.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" a voice called.

Henri twisted his head to see Jack, leaning against the wall in inner court. He could barely hear him over the uncontrollable pounding of his heart echoing in his ears. He went to scoop up the ball where it had rolled a few feet away but his arms, already trembling from exertion, gave out before he could lift the racquet. It clattered from fingers he could barely feel. Henri flexed them against the pain and went to pick up the racquet. His second attempt was even less successful and he didn't even manage to lift the racquet before his arms spasmed. As if that had been the final straw to how long his willpower could hold his body together, he slumped down to his knees.

"Because there are easier ways," Jack said, having come on court where it was clear flying balls would no longer be an issue. He stood in front of Henri and stared down at him with assessing blue eyes. "To kill yourself, I mean."

Henri couldn't have replied even if he wanted to. He was breathing so hard he could feel his muscles twisting with each breathe, his lungs struggling to keep up. It felt good. It felt impossibly good, after so long weak and debilitated in a hospital bed, to be able to push his body to those limits and have it meet his demands. It was even worth the dizziness that swept across him, briefly, and the rise of nausea he had to shove down. A quick glance at the clock told him he'd been on here for nearly three hours straight. He knew if he could train with that uninhibited endurance that he was getting better, that he was really recovering enough to play Exy properly. It wasn't until this moment that he realised just how much he relied on the sport as a crutch, in the same way it had suddenly crept up on him how much he relied on Soren with so much distance between them.

When he was certain he could speak without throwing up, he asked, still breathless, "What are you doing here?"

"Abby called." Jack tipped his head but his gaze didn't waver from Henri. "Something about her french hideaway taking to the streets. She was worried about you, or whatever. Wanted me to check up on you. Abby has a soft spot for you, it seems. Probably those big doe eyes that won her over."

Instinctively, Henri narrowed his eyes. "I don't have doe eyes."

"Big doe eyes, frenchie. Don't look so offended," Jack said conspiratorially, and dropped to a crouch in front of Henri. "They're actually lovely eyes. Such a pretty shade of grey." He unclasped the straps to his helmet before Henri could protest and pulled it off him. "There, much better. Now I can see them properly."

Henri blinked, momentarily thrown off guard by his words. They were said with the usual lightly kicking jest as everything else but something in his expression suggested otherwise. He was too surprised to do anything but watch as Jack put two fingers to his chin and tipped his head as if to get a better view of his eyes. Henri met his gaze and in the raw, vulnerability of the night, he couldn't hide what he felt on his face. He couldn't even think of tossing back a snarky response. Jack's blue eyes were calm, appraising, as if searching for something, yet they gave nothing away. In the short time Henri had known him, he didn't think Jack had ever shown what he was really thinking, or feeling. A careful poker face was something he shared with Soren.

"How..." Henri heard the tremor in his voice and tried again. "How did you know I'd be here?"

"You're as predictable as Kevin. I see it in your eyes, when I hand you my racquet," Jack said. "Of course the stadium is the first place you'd come. You live and breathe Exy."

"Don't you?"

"No," Jack said, after a pause. Something shifted through his eyes but it was gone in a moment and still he didn't pull away, his fingers cool where they held Henri's chin in place. "I don't."

"I didn't always. Need Exy like this," Henri said quietly. "It used to...my parents forced me to learn it, to survive. They knew the day would come when holding my own on a court would be the only way I could live. Playing with the Ravens, seeing how the best team in the nation could play when they came together, it changed things. The exhilarating thrill of rebounds, of close call shots, of outsmarting the best players."

"An inspiring story," Jack said, but there was nothing cruel in his voice. It was lilting, thoughtful even, as his thumb lightly brushed along his jaw. Henri wondered whether he should pull away but he couldn't bring himself to; the gesture felt surprisingly nice. "Maybe you need it now, but do you like it?"

"What?"

"Survival and living are two separate things." Jack's grip tightened imperceptibly against his jaw. "Do you enjoy Exy?"

"Yes," Henri said, and he was surprised that he didn't have to think about it, that the answer came to him immediately. "It's fun."

"Interesting."

They were sitting close to each other now, closer than Henri had released, Jack's fingers still a careful presence against his skin and his breath warm where it brushed his cheek. His eyes were the most fascinating case study of colours Henri had ever seen — the pupil, blown open wide, ringed by pale chilly blue which was further ringed by a darker navy blue. Henri's fingers itched for a paintbrush, to mix every shade of blue that existed to find the exact right colour to paint Jack's eyes. Up close, there was a fairy smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, more evidence of days out in the sun.

"What about you?" Henri asked, when he realised the silence had stretched for a little too long. "Do you like Exy?"

"Not particularly."

Henri frowned. "Then why do you play it?"

"Weren't you paying attention? Exy is an escape, nothing more," Jack said. He hesitated for less than a second before his next words, but enough that Henri noticed. "Harder for him to land a hit with all this padding on."

It took a moment for the words to process, and by the time he understood, Jack had already jerked his hand away from Henri's face as if it had burned him. "Jack," Henri began, but the other boy was already on his feet, turning away. His face was hidden but the tense set to his shoulders gave him away. "Jack — "

"That's more than enough therapy for today, don't you think?" His voice was light, steady, but he still didn't turn back to face Henri. "I'll let Wymack know you won't be playing with us today, not with the way you blew your arms out. That would just be reckless."

There was nothing Henri could say as Jack walked away without a backwards look and the loud bang of the locker door falling shut left him alone on the court, Exy balls scattered in every directed and his racquet lying useless at his side.