CliftonPOV
The rain was cold. It always was in Chicago in October.
Clifton's memory dragged him back to that narrow brick alley behind the stadium. The Fire Cup MVP trophy was heavy in his right hand. His veins were still singing with adrenaline from the championship victory.
He had Justice by the wrist. Justice—just an amateur then, a nobody Clifton had found in solo queue and decided to keep. They'd ducked into the alley to escape the screaming fans and flashing cameras.
The alley smelled like wet garbage and stale beer. A single rusted streetlamp flickered above them, casting long shadows across the puddles.
Clifton pushed his back against the wet brick wall. His chest heaved. He turned his head and looked at Justice.
Justice was panting too. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead. Rain dripped down his pale cheeks. His deep, dark eyes were locked onto Clifton, filled with something that looked like magnetic attraction—or maybe Clifton had just wanted to see that. Maybe he'd been seeing what he wanted to see all along.
The trophy hit the ground with a splash. Muddy water sprayed onto Clifton's shoes. He didn't care.
He reached out. Cupped Justice's freezing face with both hands. Tilted his head down. Kissed him.
It was forceful. Desperate. Driven by months of suppressed desire and the sheer ecstasy of winning.
The second his lips pressed against Justice's, everything went wrong.
Justice's body seized. Not a flinch—a spasm. Like a high-voltage wire had been jammed into his spine. Before Clifton could deepen the kiss, two hands slammed into his chest and shoved.
Clifton stumbled backward. His spine hit the brick wall. Pain radiated across his shoulder blades.
He looked up.
Justice was staring at him like he was a monster. His hands were clamped over his own mouth, knuckles bone-white. His chest heaved erratically. His eyes were wide—filled with naked terror and a visceral, physical revulsion that couldn't be faked.
Justice stumbled backward. His foot splashed into a deep puddle. A harsh, dry-heaving sound tore from his throat.
Clifton froze. His hand—still reaching out—hung suspended in the cold air. Rain soaked his sleeve. His heart felt like it had been crushed in an icy fist.
To a man as proud as Clifton, the message was crystal clear. This was raw. Unfakeable. Rejection in its purest, most primal form.
He ground his teeth together. "If I disgust you so much, why did you spend six months playing duos with me every day? Why did you look at me like that?"
Justice leaned against a rusted dumpster, gasping for air, shaking his head frantically. He tried to speak. His jaw locked. No sound came out.
To Clifton, that silence was an answer.
Default. Guilt. A liar whose scam had just been exposed.
He bent down. Picked up the muddy trophy. Looked at Justice one last time.
"Get out."
He didn't look back. He walked out of that alley, leaving the violently shaking figure behind in the rain.
That night, in his hotel room, burning with humiliation, Clifton blocked Justice's number. His Discord. His Twitter. He erased him completely.
Justice POV
Two hours later, in a cheap motel room that smelled of cigarette smoke and stale disinfectant, Justice sat on the edge of a stained mattress. His hands were still shaking. His chest still felt like it was caving in.
He typed the message four times. Deleted it three.
Finally, he sent it.
I'm sorry. It's not you. Please let me explain.
The screen showed the word he dreaded and hoped for in equal measure:
Delivered.
Justice stared at that single word until his eyes burned. He refreshed obsessively, each empty notification a small death. Clifton had seen it. He had read it. And he had chosen silence.
By the time his phone battery died, Justice had convinced himself of the narrative that would haunt him for the next eighteen months:
He's better off without someone so broken.
