Hazmat managed to convince Mr Irving that id the suits saw the van the consequences would be less than good, so Austen, Phitz and Ebony were dropped off at the corner of their blocks. After a moment, coach nodded at them.

“As agreed, MacDonald’s at 4am. Don’t be late.”

Finn rose, hunched, and shut the side of the van. After a moment the taillights were all that could be seen of the others.

Phitz’s stomach growled. “I am craving a hash brown.”

Shaking his head at his friend’s antics, Austen gestured down Ebony’s street. “Come on. We’ll walk you home. Maybe we can help talk you out of some trouble.”

He took a step forward, but she didn’t follow. Adjusting the straps on her backpack, Ebony avoided his gaze.

“That’s not necessary; I can make it just fine on my own.” Austen opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “Besides, I wouldn’t want my mum to feel ambushed.”

He looked at her, unblinking, and eventually she met his eyes.

“If you’re sure.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Phitz looked between them dramatically, but when eEbony showed no signs of moving first he grabbed his friend’s arm.

“Move your arse, man,” he propelled Austen down the street in front of him, tossing back a grin for Ebony. She waved slightly, but by the time Austen had thrown a glance over his shoulder, she had disappeared.

He frowned and Phitz slapped him on the back. “How you doing, bud?”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, playing with the wrench that was still in his hand. It clicked again, and the other boy sent him a triumphant smile.

“See,” he said, puffing out his chest, “it happens to everyone.”

Glaring at the tool, Austen pressed his palm to the uncooperative end and pushed until it thunked back into place. He spun the dial once more and it made no sound. Both boy stopped walking

Phitz swallowed. “So what do you think about Hazmat’s theory? Pretty far-fetched, right?”

“I’m not thinking about it,” he replied, thrusting the wrench into the other boy’s hands, “not if I can help it.”

“But…”

“Don’t Phitz,” Austen pleaded, already stepping off the footpath to approach his lawn, “I can’t right now. Talk to me at four am.”

He nodded, walking the extra 200 metres to his front door, swinging the wrench the whole way.

Austen’s hand froze on the doorknob, and he leant forward to rest his head against the wood. Phitz’s questions had brought back his own, reviving thoughts he would have preferred left undisturbed. At that point, the door opened, and he toppled into his house, tripping and landing in a heap on the tiles.

“Oh, you’re home.”

Austen glared up at his brother, who sat smirking in the doorway. For a brief second he couldn’t help but compare the both of them. Nicholas had the same brown hair, the same brown eyes, and they both inherited their father’s chin. He was wiry where Austen was toned though, and the similarities ended at the waist.

As Austen clambered to his feet, Nic let the door swing shut and manoeuvred his wheel chair towards the kitchen, nearly sending his brother toppling again.

“Great to see you too, bro,” he muttered, dusting off his shorts.

As the door slammed, there was a call from the kitchen. “Austen? Is that you?”

Groaning and running a hand through his hair, he mentally braced himself and stepped into the kitchen.

“yeah Mum, it’s me.”

Mrs McWells was a thin, blonde, ex-cheerleader who ran marathons and was currently sitting anxiously at the kitchen bench. When her youngest son walked into the room she leapt to her feet and rushed to him.

“Thank god! We were so worried.” She enveloped him in a tight hug.

“Dot, leave the poor boy alone.”

Mr McWells, Nicholas senior, was an older version of Austen and from his seat at the dining room table, where he read the paper, he winked at his son.

“Don’t you ‘Dot’ me, Nic,” she drew back quickly, arms still gripping Austen’s shoulders, “I was worried sick.” She looked him up and down. “And what on earth happened to your uniform?”

Austen blinked and glanced down at himself. His white school shirt was nearly brown with dirt, the hem torn and a button or two completely missing. His shorts looked fine to him, though he expected the black concealed more than his shirt. His runners were the only thing that seemed to have come out of the day unharmed, and that was probably because they were already in a pretty appalling condition.

“um…”

“For God’s sake, Dorothy,” Nic Senior grumbled, finally lowering his magazine as he stressed his wife’s full name, “the kid just walked through the door.”

“I am aware of that, Nicholas, but I am also aware that it is,” she glanced at the time on the oven, “past 7:30 and we didn’t even receive a text message.”

Thinking of his phone for the first time all afternoon, Austen’s hand drifted to his pocket. He felt the outline of his mobile and cringed when the corner disappeared suddenly. It didn’t look like he’d be texting anyone for a while.

His parents were glaring at each other over the kitchen counter. His father had lunged to his feet sometime during his wife’s spiel, and was prepared with an equally loud counter-argument. Austen shook his head at them, meeting his brothers gaze across the bench. Nic raised a brow at him, daring him to speak up.

"Mum, Dad," he said loudly, laying his palms flat against the counter, "you need to calm down. I am ok. Nothing happened. I’m sorry I didn’t text. Coach needed to talk to me and Phitz and then we went out with some friends."

Dot made a sceptical noise and eyed her son. "And your uniform?"

Austen cringed. So far he had managed to walk the fine line between not quite a lie and not the quite the truth, but that question put him on the spot. For some reason, the words 'we were chased by guys with guns through a drain at a temporarily abandoned skate park' just wouldn't come out.

So instead he said, "Wrestling."

Each of his family members raised an eyebrow in turn, repeating is unison, "wrestling?"

Austen nodded, warming to his story. "Yeah, that's what coach was talking to Phitz and I about. He reckons that wrestling would strengthen our tackles and get us more grounded, as well as looking great on scholarship applications in a couple of years. You know, to be 'well rounded'."

And just like that his parents were diverted.

"I don't know, son: you wouldn't want to risk injury this late in the season..."

"What day are the training sessions? I don't want you overworked before volleyball all starts up again..."

Nic just smirked at him, and Austen rolled his eyes.

"Look," he murmured, standing up, "I'm exhausted. I think I'm gonna go take a shower, do a bit of homework and go to bed."

His mother kissed him on the forehead as he passed. "You don't want a protein shake?"

"Not hungry."

His father gave him a rough hug. "Make sure you stretch out that iffy hamstring of yours."

"Of course."

Nearly out of the kitchen, Austen paused, turning back to his parents. Nic senior had already returned to his magazine, and Dot was pulling something out of the oven.

"Guys..." He said before he could stop himself. They looked at him. Did you pay to have me genetically altered as a baby? Why did you do it? Wasn't I going to be good enough? What did you do to me?

He caught sight of the trophy wall behind them, the shelves nearly buckling beneath the weight of his father's b-grade medallions, his mothers finalist trophies, Nic's basketball plaques and his own high school awards. In the bottom corner he could just make out a picture taken not long before he was born. A five year old Nic, already in a wheelchair thanks to an arsehole drunk driver, was grinning toothily, nursing a brand new basketball in his lap. Nobody in that picture knew that he'd go on to be a national representative, even at 23, but everybody knew he'd never play soccer like his father, or tennis like his mother. And that wouldn't have been good enough for the McWells.

Somebody spoke, jerking Austen back to the present and he smiled grimly. "Sorry, I don't know what I was gonna say. Night."

He turned and tripped over his brother once more.

"Dammit Nic," he laughed catching himself against the wall, "your stealth is lethal."

His brother reversed a little, giving him space to walk towards the stair case. Side by side they plodded and wheeled, pausing when they reached the base.

"Whatever you're up to, and it sure as hell ain't wrestling you scrawny git," Nic murmured, grabbing his little brother's collar and dragging him down to his level. "So be careful. You watch yourself, alright?"

Austen opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. He could lie to his parents, especially if everything was how Haz described it, but not Nic. His brother had stood by him through everything, and had always taken his side against their parents.

"Alright?" Nic repeated.

"I will," he promised, meeting his brothers eyes without remorse, "but I can't tell you..."

"You don't have to," Nic said, lips quirking up into a grin as he continued, "but if you've knocked a girl up or killed someone, I sure as hell ain't bailing you out."

"Sounds fair to me."

Pulling him closer, Nic planted a rough kiss on his cheek. "I love you little brother. Stay safe."

He pulled away at that, wheeling around to the side of the stairs where his bedroom was tucked away. Austen watched him go, not turning away until he had disappeared behind the door. Then he started up the stairs, feeling for once as if he had no idea who he truly was.

Phitz pulled the key out from under the doormat and let himself in. The hall light was on, but everywhere else was in darkness. He put the key back and locked the door behind him, flicking on every light beside the door until the house looked reasonably warm.

"Hello?" He called out despite his better judgement, nodding firmly when no reply came. He pulled his phone out, disregarding the low battery sign, and opened his messages once more.

2:54 Mum ~ sorry honey, late shift again. Dinner's in the fridge. See you in the morning. Xo

3:37 Dad ~ not home until late tonight. Ask mum about dinner.

He sighed. Walking into the kitchen, Phitz slid his phone on the bench and tugged the fridge open, staring at the multitude of leftovers, each nestled in glassware and suffocated with glad wrap. It was efficient to say the least. As were his parents. Sunday night was family night, practically the only night he ever saw his parents, so their not being home didn’t come as a huge surprise, but he had thought that he’d be sharing last week’s chicken casserole with his sister and her girlfriend before they headed home on the weekend. He shut the fridge with a grunt and came face to face with a yellow sticky note.

We're going down to Gran's for the next few days and then going straight back to school. Our love, the favourite sister and her girlfriend.

Phitz smirked like he was supposed to before tugging it off the fridge and crumpling it up. He tossed it in the bin, grinning when it went straight in and then sighed again.

What to do?

Ironically, unlike the others, 4am might be the rush hour in his house that night. So he stomped upstairs, flung open his room and grabbed a backpack. Inside he shoved a hoodie, a change of shirt and a pair of gloves. He stripped off his uniform and put on a pair of faded jeans and a t-shirt. He exchanged his muddied school joggers for his running boots and then sat on the edge of his bed. Phitz unlocked his phone and opened a new message.

To; Mum, Dad

Only just got your message. Staying at A's tonight. Might see you tomorrow. Talk later.

He sent it quickly, without blinking at the brazen lie. Phitz was used to this. While Austen's parents demanded his location for every minute of every day, his own were much less interested. Sunday dinner was all they needed. And sometimes they didn't even want that.

Grabbing his charger from the wall, he shoved it in his bag and left his room, going in search of food that wasn't going to expire within 24hrs.

He paused on the stairs, looking at the family photo of him holding his first report card that sat on the wall across from him. He had failed most classes, even by kindergarten standards, but he was grinning. His older sisters were hugging him, squeezing so hard it was no surprise his face was so red, but his parent shivered awkwardly by either shoulder. He had always though they'd looked uncomfortable, awkward, as if they were running late for something but didn't know how to excuse themselves from a 4 year olds, half-hour graduation ceremony. 

But now, for the first time in his life, Phitz considered whether or not they looked guilty.

This chapter actually really makes me sad, and I'm sure the next one will too! Poor Phitz! anyways, I know he only got a short bit there, but later on he'll get to tell his story better, and we'll all continue to love him.  I promise. 

SwimmingUpstream 

P.S. This story is currently under Teen Fiction and Fantasy.... do you guys reckon that's right? I DON'T KNOW! HELP ME! PLEASE!