He was a skeleton under the sickly green light of a buzzing streetlamp.

It was the opening act, and the first swing had been an infinite one. There was no wavering in the line of the blow; he had accepted the consequences of wherever his fist landed long before he began the punch.

Aeron Molloy went down, but before Boy—which was the temporary nickname he'd given the young man's he was currently fist-fighting with—had time to form a plan of any sort of counter-action, he was back up again, fist smacking into him. Boy released a string of profanity so carried and pointed that Aeron was amazed that the words alone didn't slay him. Knees met chests. Elbows rammed into faces. Then Boy grabbed the hood of Aeron's hoodie and used it to throw him onto the hood of someone's Volvo.

"Not my fucking car!" someone in the background snarled. A bystander. Some poor fat-wallet schmuck.

Ripping Boy from the BMW, Aeron hit him hard.

Several strides crunched across the parking lot. "Aeron!"

Aeron turned his head in the slightest direction toward the voice, only for the fight to reel in fast-forward. This was not a play to be acted out; this was a real fight, with bloody teeth and bruised features.

Someone sprang, from the peripheral vision of Aeron's sight, seizing Boy's arm in mid-swing. He still had fingers hooked inside Aeron's mouth. Aeron had Boy by the bunch of his shirt's collar, and Boy gripped the back of his skull with one white-knuckled hand. With a neat flick of his wrist, Boy smacked Aeron's head off the driver's door of the BMW. It made a sick, wet sound. Boy's hand fell away at his side.

Aeron moved slow, as if his mind and body had been cotton-stuffed. The same someone who had tried to restrain Boy earlier seized an opportunity to propel Boy away. Boy jackrabbited his legs on the pavement in an attempt to try and out-arm his holder.

He looked bedraggled, a nasty bruise rising on his temple. Aeron spat a wad of saliva and blood off to the side and tilted his body so that his balance corresponded to his sight.

Across the lot, one of the managers emerged from the side entrance of Exodus, a cellphone in hand. It was only natural for the police to be called for this sort of situation, but that was the last thing Aeron needed.

"Aeron." Someone said his name, as if they knew him. In this town, it wasn't unlikely. Something pressed against the back of his shoulder. When Aeron looked, it was a hand. "Come on, man. Back up. This is bullshit."

Aeron knew who was speaking with him, but registered their attention to Boy, who jerked his chin to spit blood at the pavement.

Aeron said, snarled, "This guy is such a piece of shit. Assholes like him should just rot." This made Boy burst forward again. The young man holding him clamped his arms around Boy's chest and had to drag him back.

"This isn't helping anyone," they told him. "And it sure as hell isn't helping you. Get your shit together and let's go before Daniel calls the fucking cops."

"I'm not leaving until that pig-fucker apologizes."

"Aeron."

Boy must have caught the conversation because, from across the lot, he shouted a string of words that Aeron would have probably used to describe him. It involved a lot of profanity and the phrase fucking tranny.

It was apparent Boy wanted a certain reaction out of Aeron. It was also apparent that this was exactly what had happened.

The young man holding Boy had to release him when he knew he wouldn't be able to keep Boy back much longer. The hand on Aeron's shoulder dropped. He was given a "I swear to God" before Boy was coming at him in full swing.

Grabbing Aeron's hoodie, Boy propelled him back toward Exodus and in the way of a decently-sized crowd of both pedestrians and customers that had begun to show up. And it only took Aeron a moment to get his feet under him. His knee found Boy's gut. Doubled over, Boy snatched a hand toward Aeron and crashed his skull into Aeron's face.

The fight was dirty. At one point, Aeron went down and Boy kicked, hard, at his face. Aeron's forearms came up to protect himself, but had had no practice with these kinds of fights, and so the toe of Boy's boots met with the bridge of Aeron's nose. The pop was audible. Blood oozed.

For Aeron, there was no recollection of the second between getting kicked in the face and the police arriving. Red and blue flashed across the parking lot, lighting the back of the club for a second at a time. Someone was yelling. Something squeezed Aeron's upper arm and hauled him upright to his feet.

"Sir?" It was an officer who had him by the arm. "Boy? Are you alright?"

Across the lot, another officer dragged Boy off, pulling his arms behind him in attempt to handcuff him.

"Yeah," Aeron said. "Yeah, I'm—bleeding."

Bleeding, in this case, was the cause of not being alright. Blood had poured from his nose, down his neck, and stained a good portion of his hoodie. It had dripped onto the pavement and was currently dripping onto the officer's uniform.

It wasn't long before EMS arrived, and by then, the small audience that had gathered had been disbanded just as quickly. Aeron was cuffed with his hands in his lab and given medical treatment by the paramedics. His nose hadn't been broken, only fractured, and a splint would have to do the job.

A police officer, different from the two Aeron had already met, came up to him. He had out some sort of writing pad with a pen ready in his left hand.

"My name is Officer Hynes," he greeted. "We got a call about a public disturbance and potential assault. Can I get your name?"

"If I'm being arrested, can I at least be given my rights?" Aeron asked.

"I have no reason to arrest you," Officer Hynes said. "I just need you to answer some questions about what happened here tonight, and then I can release you."

He lifted his bound wrists as a visual example. "Then why am I handcuffed?"

"To assure your safety and mine."

Aeron wanted to remind the officer that he was the one who possessed a loaded gun. Instead, he said, "Aeron Molloy."

"And, in your words, how can you describe tonight's events?"

Aeron answered Officer Hynes's question as best as he could. It had involved both boys being intoxicated (which he had left out for obvious reasons) and a one-word insult that had them brawling until their knuckles were raw and red. In hindsight, the fight had been pointless, if not unavailing. This only annoyed Aeron, who pressed his hands closed so that his nails dug into the flesh of his palms.

Officer Hynes closed his booklet with the pen inside. "Alright," he said. "Looks to me like a small hate crime." Aeron's blood simmered. "Now, I'm gonna let you off with a warning, understand? I don't want to find you or him fighting with one another. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Aeron said.

"Good." He turned to another officer. "This kid's clear. See if he's got a ride home and discharge him, okay?"

The other officer gave Aeron a once-over and complied.

It took around a half hour before Aeron could collect his belongings and walk free. His nose was tender, and a pang of pain would spread every time he inhaled through his nose or sniffed just a little too hard.

"You look like shit."

Kit Cheyenne stood on the edge of the parking lot, his form cast in shadow from the outward glow of Exo's welcome sign. He had a backpack slung over one shoulder and a can of Coke held in his hand. He'd painted his nails black, which was as much of a surprise as them not being painted at all.

Aeron took the Coke from his hand and downed a generous amount before giving it back. "Thanks," he said, "for backing me up back there. My fractured nose thanks you."

"Be glad you weren't brought to the station." He handed over the backpack to Aeron. "Here. I don't think anything's broken. Your pen might be."

The pen, in fact, was not broken, which Aeron was immensely relieved. He pressed the discharge button five times before holding it down and putting his lips to the shell's top. He inhaled a mouthful of Pear Hibiscus. He exhaled through his nose, which stung considerably, before passing the pen over to Kit.

As he spoke, thin plumes of smoke came from his mouth. "Think you could give me a ride home?"

Kit nodded as he inhaled from the pen. He said, "No problem. You coming to practice tomorrow, then?"

"We'll see."

The ride from Exodus to Aeron's home took longer than it should have. On the way, Kit had stopped at a twenty-four-hour convenience store to buy a pack of Menthols. The two of them split the pack and smoked until Aeron's apartment came into view. A silhouette at the kitchen window drew aside the curtains to look at Kit's Passat as he parked across the street.

Kit pulled up the handbrake. "Home sweet home."

Aeron reached in the back for his backpack. "Thanks for the ride." He climbed out, but before he could close the door, Kit said something to him. "What?"

"Tomorrow—Coach wants us there seven a.m. sharp. I know you said 'maybe,' but just come."

Aeron's hands worked on the straps of his backpack. "The minute I step on campus, I'm gonna get sent to the counselor's office. I don't need people thinking Oliver beats the shit out of me."

"But he doesn't," Kit said. "That jerk did. Just say you were practicing at the shelter and things got out of hand."

Aeron didn't comment on that. He said, "I'll see what I can come up with. Thanks, again."

"No problem, man. See you tomorrow."

Aeron knocked on the roof of the Passat and stepped back as Kit pulled away. He made sure his breath didn't smell that of cigarettes and convinced himself the blood on his clothes was beneficial to his pride.

When he walked in, he was greeted by his brother's voice. "Cheyenne called. He said you got in a fight with some kid at Exo's?" Oliver was in the kitchen, but came around the corner at the word fight. "Christ."

"No," he said instantly, which was an obvious lie. The bruises and blood stains spoke for themselves.

Oliver gave him a look. It was a look that asked how Aeron, of all people, could be so stupid to think Oliver would fall for something so doubtlessly false.

Aeron said, unrepentant, "Yes."

"Aeron, you can't do shit like that. You're in college now. You need to start acting like it."

Adrenaline still burned in Aeron's veins, and so he was met with the option of either wanting to retract himself from the conversation and take a run around the block or drop everything and kiss his brother's cheek with his fist. He chose neither and simply stood in place, the frigid air from outside sending goosebumps up and down his arms through the open door.

Oliver said, "Come inside and close the door."

Aeron came inside and closed the door behind him.

"He called me a fucking tranny." He turned on Oliver. "Is that what you wanted to hear? I thought people would be a lot more accepting, but I guess we were both wrong."

"I don't care if it was about you or him not liking you. You have an obligation to do better than get into fights. I didn't raise you this way."

Hurt and anger warred furiously inside Aeron. "That's right, you didn't raise me. The Bullocks and Goggins and Weinbergs and the fucking Joneses did."

"You're acting like this is all my fault," Oliver said. "I'm not Dad, Aeron. I'm not the one who smashed a bottle against your head when you were seven or stubbed out cigarette butts on you."

The air held its breath.

Aeron knew Oliver had gone too far. He knew Oliver knew it, too, because when he told him to fuck off, Oliver closed his eyes.

Aeron shoved the door open and slammed it closed behind him. At that moment, as he skipped the bottom step of the front porch, Aeron hated himself. He hated who he was and what he was, bark peeled away to reveal stained and insect-eaten wood. He hated his hideous father and his permissive, absent-minded mother and most of all, he hated the sound of Oliver's last words.

He still had the scar, a crescent-shaped line from the hairline of his forehead to the back of his skull. His hair covered the ugliness of it, but it was a forever-reminder just how hated he had been and just how unwanted he was.

The sound of the front door opening set Aeron's nerves aflame.

"Where are you going?" Oliver shouted out. "Where do you have to go?"

When Aeron really thought about it, the question dazed him. He had nowhere else to go besides here. He knew Kit would offer up his couch, but that would only last so long before either his parents or Kit himself got sick enough of him being around. He was full of so many wants and things that Aeron found himself turning back. This was the only place he knew where to go because here he wouldn't have to worry frays in his clothes or ruts in the carpet.

Oliver let Aeron inside, but they did not speak to one another. Aeron dropped his backpack in one of the chairs at the dining room table before heading straight for his room.

There was an envelope on his pillow, unopened. When Aeron went to pick it up, he noticed the clash of bright orange where the return address was and he knew instantly this letter was for him. He the flap open with his thumb and slipped the contents out.

Aeron S. Molloy,

The Palmetto State University Exy Staff are interested in becoming better acquainted and actively recruiting you to attend Palmetto State University (PSU). We would like to introduce you to PSU.

With small classes taught only by professors, numerous internship opportunities and highly successful alumni who actively mentor undergraduates, students are offered a wealth of opportunities that will put them on the path to success in both their personal and professional lives.

We have enclosed a student-athlete questionnaire for you to complete and return in the self-addressed envelope. We would also like to request a copy of your Exy schedule.

Please feel free to give us a call (864) 656-3311 or drop us an e-mail anytime.

Sincerely,

David Wymack

Head Coach

Aeron tossed the letter aside. It hit the other wall by his closet and crumble to the floor. This had been the third letter this past month, and they were all the same, but it wasn't something Aeron considered ever following through with. It was the same want and ache and the same crude judgment of who he was and who he was meant to be.

David Wymack, whoever the fuck he was, could kiss his ass.

Aeron would refuse to sign to anyone.