Passing period had become a scaled-down temple run.

Kevin reached his second class relatively easily, aside from one incident he narrowly missed by grinding to a halt and ducking around a corner when he spotted Jimmy stroll into view up ahead. He knew full well, however, that blind luck would only hold him for so long. The rest of the morning passing periods were a matter of timing, early departures by whatever means available, incredibly circuitous paths through the hallways, and above all, changing directions and tactics at a moment's notice. If he happened to see Eddward, his only real plan was looking at the floor, turning around, walking the other way, and praying that Eddward would neither follow him nor see the look on his face. It barely ever worked. At one point he had come face to face with the three of them, with Jimmy's dark look, Johnny's knowing smirk, and... Eddward, who wouldn't have had to see him in the act to know that their previous "conversation" had driven Kevin to tears.

He hated to let Eddward get under his skin. He had always been able to shrug off whatever the swimmer said, more or less, but this...

This had hurt. What was more, it had yet to actually stop, and all he wanted was for that ache to piss off already. Whenever he looked at Eddward, it returned as fresh as it had been yesterday, renewed again and again. He just wanted it to be over. He'd thought it was over, but then, surprise surprise, the light at the end of the tunnel was just an oncoming train. Why had he expected anything else?

That... wasn't exactly why it still hurt, he realized as he darted through the peacefully empty hallways at lunch, heading for the relative safety of his friends. It wasn't that he had expected something different, though he had hoped, at least. He had expected a return to normalcy, and while normalcy was pretty awful on its own, at least... at least it made sense and lined up and he was used to it already. The things Eddward gave him crap about were stupid and trivial and in no way warranted the kind of treatment he got, but at least they weren't untrue.

He would have been fine with doing something nice and altruistic and then slipping back into the usual without being seen or acknowledged, and instead he had made everything worse. A fresh stab of hurt accompanied the simple understanding, just as he was turning a corner.

In that moment, he was distracted. That was what cost him.

He was confused and dismayed at first, just as much as he was in pain, when a fist came hurtling into his stomach, just below his sternum. With a gasp – or at least an attempt at one – he doubled over, and another fist crashed down on the back of his neck, flooring him.

Eddward had done a lot of things in the past. He had never raised a hand to him before.

For a moment, Kevin crouched on all fours, wheezing for air and clutching his stomach with one arm, until a kick to the side knocked him over on his back. The messenger bag was torn from his shoulder, probably to be rifled through, its contents emptied all over the floor for him to pick up when they were finished with him. His glasses perched lopsidedly on the bridge of his nose, but he could look up at his attackers and see them through watering eyes.

Oh. The track team had returned, hadn't they? And with them, the three thieves.

The one on the right was holding a piece of paper, and now tossed it toward him carelessly. It floated gently down to the floor and came to rest beside him, close enough to read. It was a physics worksheet, returned and graded, with a 99 in red ink and the name Kevin Anderson scribbled in the top right hand corner.

"Found that in the locker room this morning," one of them said, though Kevin didn't look up quickly enough to see who.

With some difficulty, Kevin managed to inhale. "Cleaned it," he gasped out. Another kick to his side silenced him. His glasses nearly fell off his face completely.

"Shut the fuck up," one of them snapped. "You know what we didn't find?"

What, the thing you idiots stole from the most dangerous kid on the entire campus? Only took you an entire day to pick up on it, too. He cursed himself for letting the stupid worksheet slip past him, but he did not answer them out loud.

In the next moment, one of them stepped behind him, heaved him upright by fistfuls of his sweater (and his shoulders, as well), and pinned his arms back. For a few disorienting moments Kevin felt his blood rush from his head, as if he wasn't feeling dizzy enough already. His vision blurred, but he could see that one of the other two stood farther back, holding his messenger bag and pulling supplies out indiscriminately to dump them on the floor.

"You skinny little bastard," the third one snarled in his face. "If you fucking told Rockwell, I swear to God–"

Alarm rushed through him. "I didn't–" he wheezed, only to be cut off by another blow to the stomach. He tried to twist away from it, but the one holding him from behind kept him still. By now, his glasses were holding on to his face by friction and a prayer. He longed to reach up and fix them, but his arms were firmly pinned back.

"I don't give a fuck," his attacker snapped. Something small and wet landed on Kevin's face, probably a fleck of spit, and he grimaced in disgust as the jock kept talking. "You know why? Because that was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to prank that asshole, and you pissed all over it! You took something of ours, you little shit."

The indignation that flared within him was not for Eddward's sake, oh no. But Kevin was sick to death and tired of people opening their mouths and saying things that were just plain not true by any stretch of the imagination. So, against his better judgment, he looked the jock in the eye and glared at him as best he could. "They were not yours."

The next fist was aimed at his jaw, and sent stars exploding in his vision. The force of the blow wrenched his head to the side, and the pain in the side of his neck told him he had probably pulled a muscle in it. Another blow followed, this time to his mouth, and he tasted blood.

"You have a fucking mouth on you, don't you?" someone said, though he wasn't sure who when his ears were ringing, the stars were still twinkling, and the pain register was taking up most of his brain. "You're getting the shit kicked out of you, and you still don't know when to shut the fuck up." His vision cleared, and he managed to look up at the jock again. Behind him, the other athlete carelessly dropped Kevin's messenger bag, though not before pulling out his notebook – the red one – and flipping through it. Sudden alarm broke through the physical pain. Were they going to take it? Or worse, destroy it? Rip out the pages, leave it in the trash somewhere? All his notes, all his diagrams and drawings, all that work and time and passion–

The jock was snickering. "Oh my God, you guys need to see this. Does this nerd seriously write all this shit for fun?"

"Let go," Kevin growled, straining futilely to escape. "Give it back!" He aimed a kick at the one holding him.

This time, the fist struck home, driving the wind from him and robbing him entirely of further speech. "God damn, you're a slow learner, aren't y–" Apparently taking a cue from the one restraining Kevin, the boy glanced to the side and started. The one holding Kevin's notebook captive followed his gaze.

By now, all three jocks had frozen where they were and were staring off to the side, suddenly looking nervous. Still dazed and struggling to breathe, but glad for a reprieve, Kevin turned his head to see what had caught their attention.

Dread filled him, and at the same time, so did hope.

"Uh..." the one holding him began eloquently. "D-did you want something, Eddward?"

How long had he been standing there? Kevin wondered. Had he heard them practically confess? There's always a bigger fish, he thought suddenly, with the delirious simultaneous urge to both laugh and cry, and took so long deciding which to do that he ended up accomplishing neither. (He probably lacked the breath for it, anyway.) Getting bailed out of a beating by Eddward Rockwell was less than ideal, but it was slightly more ideal than the beating itself, especially if it meant that Eddward could just know the truth already. Kevin sagged in the track athlete's grip, limp and weak with weariness and yet just daring to hope. He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, but the lingering panic of can't breathe, can't breathe prevented him from properly forming the sentences to say it, much less speaking them clearly out loud.

Eddward had heard them. Just like in movies and TV shows, he had shown up just in time to hear what he needed to hear, that Kevin had never taken his things, had never touched them except to return them, that someone else was to blame. Then everything could go back to normal. It could all be over.

He just wanted it to be over.

By now he was staring pleadingly at Eddward as he sobbed for breath, pathetically, shamefully, but there was no other out. Please, just tell me you heard what they said.

Eddward stared back at him, eyes flat and impassive, and Kevin's heart plummeted.

He hadn't heard a damn thing, had he.

At length, the swimmer shrugged and turned away. "Not particularly. He's been needing to be taught a lesson anyway, and I don't mind terribly who administers it. Carry on, gentlemen."

Kevin sucked in a noisy breath, but in his desperation he took it in all the same. "Wait!" Another fist to the stomach, almost driving the wind back out of him. "You don't understand, they were–" This time, the jock aimed for the face. On instinct, he ducked, and it connected with his left eye instead of his jaw. His glasses were sent flying, and his body finally answered the urge to cry, without his permission. Straining his watery eyes at the retreating back, he let out a final desperate cry before another punch sent blood streaming down from his nose.

"Eddward, please!"

Whether or not Eddward had even turned his head at that, Kevin would never know.