Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Miguel hadn’t really wanted to go. The idea of a house full of drunk teenagers grinding to bad music didn’t sound like his kind of celebration —not after everything that had happened. But Hawk wouldn’t let it go. “You’re kicking ass again, bro! We’re celebrating that. You’re back!”

So here he was, standing in Moon’s living room, a red plastic cup in his hand, pretending to have fun while the bass made the floor vibrate beneath his shoes.

He should have felt proud. He was whole again. Strong. Ready. 

But all he could think about was Robby Keene.

If life were fair, he thought, they’d settle this the old way —on the mat, under the bright lights of the All Valley, where punches had rules and revenge had honor. He’d beat him clean this time. That would’ve been enough.

But Robby had vanished. No one there had seen him since he got out of juvie. Not even Sensei knew where his son was. Miyagi-Do had been closed since the school fight. Word going around was that Robby's mother was still in rehab, and that Robby didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Sometimes, when Miguel caught himself thinking about that —about how Robby might be out there, sleeping in a shelter, or worse— he shut the thought down immediately.

He took another sip of his drink, the taste of cheap beer bitter on his tongue, and told himself he didn’t give a damn.

Hawk found him by the kitchen counter, grinning like he owned the place. His red mohawk was even brighter under the colored lights, and he already looked half-drunk.

“Dude, lighten up,” he said, slapping Miguel on the shoulder. “You’re standing here like it’s a funeral. You should be out there—” He pointed toward the living room, where half the crowd was jumping and yelling along to the music. “—celebrating the return of the champ.”

Miguel managed a smile, but it felt hollow. “Yeah, maybe after another drink.”

Hawk laughed. “That’s the spirit. You earned this, man. You came back from hell.”

Miguel nodded, but the word hell made his chest tighten. He knew what hell felt like —the hospital, the pain, the long months of rehab.

The crowd kept shifting, new people coming and going. The air smelled like sweat, perfume, and spilled beer. Then, out of nowhere, Hawk elbowed him.

“No way,” Hawk said, his grin fading. “Is that who I think it is?”

Miguel turned toward the hallway, and his heart stopped.

Robby was there.

He stood just inside the doorway, wearing a black hoodie that hung a size too big, his hair longer and messier than Miguel remembered. A dark bruise marked his jaw. He didn’t look like a menace anymore. He just looked... exhausted.

For a moment, their eyes met —a flicker of recognition, shock, something else— and then Robby looked away. He moved toward the table where the snacks were, head down, pretending not to notice them.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Hawk muttered.

Miguel didn’t answer. He was too busy watching Robby grab a handful of chips like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Maybe he hadn’t.

And even though Miguel tried to remind himself that Robby deserved every bit of what had happened to him, there was a part of him —small, quiet, but impossible to ignore— that felt something else.

Pity.

Hawk didn’t waste time. The moment Robby turned his back, he started moving toward him, his swagger loud enough to draw a few eyes from nearby.

“Look who finally crawled out of his hole,” Hawk said, his voice sharp over the music. “Didn’t think you’d show your face around here, Keene.”

Robby froze for half a second, then straightened up, still clutching a paper plate with a few chips on it. “I’m not looking for trouble,” he said quietly, without turning around.

“Too late,” Big Red said, appearing beside Hawk with a beer can in one hand. Doug followed, smirking. “You already found it.”

Miguel stayed where he was. He could feel the pulse hammering in his neck, but his legs wouldn’t move. His mind told him to step in, to stop them before things got ugly, but something in him hesitated —the part that still remembered falling, the crack of his spine, the look on Robby’s face.

Robby turned then, his face pale under the kitchen lights. His eyes met Miguel’s for just a moment —no anger, no challenge, just something hollow and tired.

“I’ll go,” Robby said. “Didn’t know this was your party.”

But Hawk stepped in his way, blocking the exit with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nah, man. You can’t just walk out. You owe us a little payback first, don’t you?”

Robby tried to move past him, but Hawk shoved him hard in the chest. The plate hit the floor, chips scattering everywhere.

Miguel’s breath caught. He should have said something. He wanted to —but the words stuck in his throat.

“Guess juvie knocked the fight outta you, huh?” Hawk sneered.

Before Miguel could even process what was happening, Moon appeared from the crowd, her expression sharp with disbelief.

“What the hell, Eli?” she shouted, grabbing Hawk by the arm and yanking him back. “This is my house! What are you doing?”

Hawk blinked at her, caught off guard. “I was just—”

“No. You’re done.” She turned toward Robby, her voice softening. “You okay?”

Robby didn’t answer. He just nodded once, brushed off his hoodie, and walked out the back door without looking at anyone.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the thump of the music coming from the living room. Hawk muttered something under his breath and stormed off toward the kitchen.

Miguel stayed where he was, staring at the open doorway, a pit forming in his stomach.

He told himself that it wasn’t his fault —that Robby deserved whatever he got.

But for some reason, it didn’t feel like victory.

The party had started to thin out after midnight. The air inside was heavy with sweat, cheap perfume, and the sour tang of spilled beer. Miguel sat on the front porch steps, away from the noise, his cup empty and his head heavy. Hawk and the others were still inside, laughing too loud about something that probably wasn’t funny.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

He wished Sam had come. Not because he still expected anything —those days were long gone— but because she grounded him. She made him feel like there was still something good left in all this mess. At least they were talking again. Friends. That counted for something.

He leaned back, watching the thin trail of smoke rising from someone’s cigarette near the pool. Maybe he’d say goodnight, maybe he’d finally go home.

That was when Doug stumbled out from the sliding door, his grin crooked and stupid.

“Yo, Diaz,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You gotta come upstairs, man. You’re not gonna believe this.”

Miguel frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Doug jerked his thumb over his shoulder, eyes glassy. “It’s payback time, bro. Big Red said it’s only fair you’re the one to go first.”

A chill crept through Miguel’s chest. “What?”

But Doug didn’t answer. He just laughed and disappeared back inside.

Something in Miguel’s gut twisted. He pushed himself up, his legs unsteady but alert now. The music had changed —slower, deeper, the kind that made the walls hum. He walked through the crowd, past people too drunk to notice him, and up the stairs.

He heard voices before he saw anything. Hawk’s, Big Red’s, laughter that didn’t sound right. A door half-open at the end of the hallway, the light dim and yellow.

When Miguel stepped closer, the laughter died.

Inside the room, Robby was lying on the bed —half-conscious, eyes unfocused, his hoodie pushed off one shoulder. Hawk stood beside him, holding a beer can, grinning like it was all a joke. Big Red was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, taking pictures.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.

Hawk turned, smirk fading just a little. “Relax, man. It’s nothing. He’s wasted. Probably roofied himself with some drink someone left lying around.”

For a split second, Miguel’s first thought was horror —that someone had been drugging people’s drinks at the party. The idea made his stomach twist. But then he looked at the way Big Red and Doug exchanged glances like it was some kind of victory.

And a colder thought settled in.

Maybe this wasn’t an accident.

Miguel hung back, every muscle coiled like a spring. The room smelled of sweat and cheap cologne; the yellow lamp threw long shadows that made the scene look unreal, like a painting he didn’t want to study for long. For several seconds nobody moved. The silence tightened until it felt loud.

Then Big Red pushed off the wall, slipped his phone into his pocket, and grinned at Miguel with that stupid, satisfied look. “Go on, Diaz,” he said. “It’s all yours.”

Miguel blinked. “What are you talking about?” His voice came out flat, as if he were asking about the weather instead of the expression on a friend’s face that had just turned predatory.

Doug laughed, a high, cruel sound that bounced off the ceiling. “What do you think he means, man? Can’t you see how he is?” He jerked his chin toward Robby, sprawled and half-awake on the mattress. “Perfect time to get back what he gave you. This bitch robbed you —now you get to rob him back.” He smirked. “You know, finally pay him.”

The word landed like a blow. Miguel felt it before he processed it: bitch. His stomach turned. He had called Robby cruel things —things sharp enough to leave scars in his own head— but never that. The thought of anyone using it against the boy on the bed made his skin crawl.

“Hear me out,” Hawk said, voice slow and wet with the kind of excitement Miguel had seen before, the kind that led to fights that broke noses and parties that ended in the hospital. “No one’ll blame you. You get to—”

“Shut up.” Miguel cut him off before Hawk could finish with the petty theatrics. The word was small, but it had teeth. He could feel all the heat in the room pivot toward him, a sudden current.

For a moment nothing happened. Big Red’s grin faltered. Doug’s laugh stuck in his throat. Hawk blinked, as if surprised that someone was finally taking the situation seriously.

Miguel looked down at Robby: the slack jaw, the way his hands lay useless at his sides, the dark rings around his eyes. That hollow, tired expression from earlier made him feel absurd for the old fantasies of sanctioned combat. This wasn’t sport. There were no rules and no referee and the kind of victory Hawk imagined would leave a different kind of mark —one with no honor to it.

“You guys are fucked up,” Miguel said finally. His voice didn’t waver.

“If you think I’d—” He stopped, because part of him knew he might have, not that long ago. He’d been close to the edge for too long. The thought made his knees weak and his hands tremble —not with fear, but with the memory of how easy, how clean it would’ve felt to hit back.

He clenched his jaw, the decision sharpening like a blade. He wasn’t going to be that kid anymore.

“No. I’m not gonna do it.”

Miguel’s words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and unmoving. No one spoke.

Then Big Red let out a short, ugly laugh and glanced at the others.

“Fine,” he said, shrugging. “If you don’t want to do it, I will.”

Doug’s grin widened. “Call dibs on second,” he muttered, like it was some kind of game.

It took a few seconds for the words to register. When they did, Miguel felt the room tilt off balance. His mind refused to connect the dots —wouldn’t let him. Then Big Red shifted his weight, a cruel light in his eyes, and started toward the bed, fingers working at his fly.

“Wait,” Hawk said uncertainly, his voice breaking the thick silence. “What are you—”

But the rest of his words died. Miguel saw it in his face —the realization that this wasn’t about payback anymore. It was something else. Something sick.

Miguel's body went cold. His pulse hammered. For a heartbeat he couldn’t move, couldn’t think —and then Robby stirred.

The movement was small, but enough. His head turned slightly, eyes half-open, glassy and unfocused —but they found Miguel’s.

That look —confused, frightened, and helpless— hit Miguel harder than any punch he’d ever taken.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

With a burst of strength he didn’t know he had, Miguel lunged forward, grabbed Big Red by the shoulder, and shoved him off the bed with everything he had.

Big Red hit the floor hard, the crash echoing through the small room. Hawk jumped back, cursing, and Doug froze mid-laugh.

“Get the hell away from him!” Miguel shouted. His voice shook with fury this time —not fear, not hesitation. Fury.

Big Red sat up, red-faced and shocked. “What’s your problem, man? We were just—”

“No,” Miguel cut in, his voice cracking but sharp as glass. “You weren’t. Not ever.”

He turned back toward Robby, dazed and trembling. Miguel’s chest tightened at the sight.

Whatever lines had existed between them —between enemy, rival, or victim— blurred completely.

Without another word, Miguel took a step forward, grabbed Robby by the arm, and pulled him up.

“Come on,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “We’re leaving.”

Big Red was already pushing himself up, red-faced. “You’re dead, Diaz,” he spat, his voice slurred but dangerous. “You think you can just—”

“Shut up!” Hawk barked suddenly, stepping between them. The sharpness in his tone caught everyone off guard —even Miguel. His face had gone pale, his eyes darting from Robby to the others. “This isn’t what we do. You hear me? This—this isn’t Cobra Kai.”

Doug scoffed. “What, you going soft too?”

Hawk didn’t back down. Despite the bravado that usually wrapped him like armor, there was no swagger now —only disgust.

“We’re not doing this. You’re not doing this,” he growled. “And if you don’t back off, I’ll shove you through a goddamn wall.”

The tension snapped like a live wire. Big Red lunged forward, but Miguel met him halfway —his shoe heel slamming into the older boy’s shoulder. Not hard enough to break anything, just enough to make him stumble back.

“Stay down,” Miguel warned. His voice was steady this time.

Doug hesitated, caught between pride and fear, but the look in Miguel’s eyes decided it for him. He took a step back, muttering curses that no one heard over the pounding music.

“Grab him,” Miguel said to Hawk, nodding toward Robby. Hawk hesitated only for a moment, then slipped his arm under Robby’s other shoulder. Together they lifted him —dead weight between them, half-awake, barely standing.

The hallway felt longer than before, every step a gauntlet of curious faces. People stared, some whispering, some filming. Moon appeared at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Hawk said quickly, breathless. “We’re taking him out.”

She saw Robby’s face and her expression softened, guilt and anger mixing into something raw. “Go. I’ll handle them.”

Miguel nodded once, grateful.

They half-dragged, half-carried Robby down the stairs. The living room went silent for a heartbeat as they passed —the kind of silence that meant everyone knew something ugly had happened but didn’t want to admit it.

When they finally hit the porch, the night air felt almost unreal. Cold. Sharp. It smelled like rain and asphalt and relief.

Robby mumbled something incoherent, his head lolling against Miguel’s shoulder.

“I got you,” Miguel said quietly. He didn’t know if Robby could even hear him. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

Behind them, shouting erupted again —Big Red’s voice, angry, humiliated— but Moon’s yell cut through it, followed by the slam of the front door.

Miguel and Hawk exchanged a look. Neither said anything.

They walked toward the streetlight, the three of them moving like broken shadows.

They made it as far as Hawk’s car —a Nissan Sentra parked crookedly under a streetlight. The night had gone quiet except for the hum of the city and the faint echo of music leaking from Moon’s house.

Miguel eased Robby down against the side of the car. The boy slumped there, head hanging forward, the hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Under the harsh yellow glow, he looked even younger —almost breakable. The bruise on his jaw stood out clearly now.

“Hey,” Miguel said softly, crouching beside him. “Robby. Can you hear me?”

Nothing at first. Then a faint sound —a groan, the rustle of fabric as Robby tried to shift but couldn’t. Miguel touched his arm, careful.

“Come on, man. Wake up.”

Robby’s lips moved. “...don’t… touch…”

The words were barely there, but they hit Miguel like a blow. His stomach turned cold.

“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re safe, okay?”

Behind him, Hawk’s footsteps scraped against the pavement. “Dude…” he started, voice low and shaky. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. I thought they just wanted to mess with him, like… shave his eyebrows or something childish like that. I didn’t—” He swallowed hard, the words catching. “I didn’t know they’d try something like that.”

“I know,” Miguel said quietly. “I saw your face back there.”

Miguel's eyes stayed on Robby —his slow breathing, the tremor in his fingers. The reality of what could’ve happened pressed down on him like a weight. 

“Robby,” he said again, more desperate now. “Where do you live? We’ll take you home, alright?”

Robby stirred faintly, his eyelids fluttering. For a heartbeat, there was a flicker of awareness.

“...park…” he mumbled. “…by the bridge…”

Miguel frowned. “Park?”

But Robby had already slipped back into silence, his body sagging against the car.

Hawk came closer, his expression changing as the words sank in. “Wait… park? He can’t mean—”

“Yeah,” Miguel said quietly. “I think he means exactly that.”

The realization spread between them —heavy, wordless. The bruises, the clothes that didn’t fit, the way Robby had attacked the food earlier —all of it lined up now in a way Miguel wished it didn’t.

He leaned back on his heels, staring at the cracked pavement. “He’s been out there this whole time,” he murmured.

Hawk ran a hand over his face. “Holy shit. Sensei Lawrence doesn’t know, does he?”

Miguel shook his head. “No.”

The two of them sat there in silence for a while, the sound of the wind carrying scraps of laughter from the house —hollow and distant now.

Then Miguel stood up, decision settling in his chest like a weight he was finally ready to carry.

“Help me get him in the car,” he said.

Hawk frowned. “Where are we taking him?”

Miguel didn’t hesitate. “To his dad.”

Chapter Text

The car rolled through the quiet streets of Reseda, its headlights carving pale lines across the empty road. The music and laughter from the party were long gone, replaced by the hum of the engine and the soft rattle of loose change in the glove compartment.

Hawk kept his eyes on the road, both hands gripping the wheel like the world might fall apart if he let go. Miguel sat in the back seat with Robby, holding him upright as best he could. Robby’s head rested against Miguel’s shoulder, his breath shallow but steady, his skin clammy from the cold.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional scrape of tires against asphalt.

"You think he’s gonna be okay?” Hawk asked finally, voice tight. “I mean… whatever they gave him, it’s wearing off, right?”

Miguel nodded. “I think so. He’s breathing steady.”

Hawk exhaled shakily. “I still can’t wrap my head around it. He’s been out for, what, two months? And he’s been living like that the whole time? On his own?”

Miguel glanced down at Robby, whose hand twitched faintly against his lap. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Looks like it.”

Hawk shook his head, eyes still fixed on the windshield. “Man… I used to think he just didn’t want to come back. Like he was too proud or something. But this?”

Miguel didn’t answer. He was too focused on Robby, brushing a few strands of hair from his face. In addition to the bruise on his jaw, there was a small cut near his temple —half-healed, fading into the purple mark. He looked nothing like the fighter who’d kicked him off that railing. He looked lost.

Then Robby stirred. His eyelids fluttered, a faint sound escaping his lips.

“...Where are you taking me?”

The words came slurred, small —but filled with something too close to fear.

Miguel tightened his grip on him, instinctively. “With your dad,” he said.

Robby’s reaction was instant. He flinched and shook his head, weak but forceful. “No…”

“Robby, hey—it’s fine,” Miguel said quickly, but Robby’s voice cracked over his own.

“No, please…” His breathing hitched. “I can’t… can’t go there.”

Miguel frowned. “Why not?”

Robby’s eyes stayed closed, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Because he hates me. I hurt you. He’ll never—” His words faltered. “He’ll never forgive me.”

Miguel sat frozen, unsure how to respond. The words shouldn’t have hit him the way they did, but they did. Something raw and fragile pushed its way up through all the anger he’d been holding on to for months.

“That’s not true,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t hate you. He just… he wants you back.”

Robby didn’t answer. His head fell back against Miguel’s shoulder, a shiver running through him before he went still again.

Hawk looked at them through the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. “He really thinks Sensei Lawrence hates him?”

“Looks that way,” Miguel muttered.

The car fell silent again, the hum of the tires filling the space where no one could find the right words.

They pulled up in front of Johnny’s apartment a little after two a.m. The parking lot was empty, save for a few beat-up cars and stray beer cans glinting under the streetlight.

Hawk cut the engine, and the sudden silence hit harder than any noise could.

Miguel took a slow breath. Robby hadn’t said a word for the last ten minutes — just shallow breathing and the occasional twitch of his hand. 

Hawk glanced back. “You sure about this?”

Miguel nodded, though his stomach was tight. “Yeah. He needs his dad.”

They got out, the night air colder now, heavy with that post-storm stillness that made everything sound louder —footsteps, keys, breathing. Hawk opened the passenger door while Miguel carefully pulled Robby out of the back seat, keeping one arm around his waist.

Robby stirred, eyes barely open. “No… don’t—”

“Easy,” Miguel murmured. “It’s just me, alright?”

They reached the door. The apartment light was still on —Sensei was awake.

Miguel hesitated only a second before knocking.

From inside came the muffled thud of movement, a chair scraping. Then the door opened, and Sensei stood there in an old t-shirt and sweatpants, hair a mess, eyes bleary and red. 

“Miguel?” he said, confused at first —then his gaze dropped, and the world seemed to stop. "Robby?!”

His voice cracked on the name.

For a second he didn’t move. Just stared, his hand still gripping the doorknob like it was the only thing holding him upright.

Robby tried to straighten, but his knees gave out halfway, and Miguel caught him before he hit the ground.

“Easy, I got him,” Miguel said, his voice low, urgent. “He’s okay —I mean, not okay, but he’s alive.”

Sensei's face went through a dozen emotions at once —disbelief, relief, and something darker, like guilt finally catching up after months of denial.

He stepped forward, dropping to his knees beside them. “What the hell happened to him?”

Miguel hesitated. The truth burned at the back of his throat, but saying it out loud —here, now, with Robby half-conscious between them— felt too raw.

“I think he… he had too much to drink,” Miguel said finally, forcing the words out. “We found him like this at a party. Must’ve gotten out of hand.”

Sensei blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Robby? Drinking?” His tone was somewhere between disbelief and worry, like the idea didn’t quite fit. He looked at his son again, as if searching for proof.

But he didn’t press. He just nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “Alright. We’ll talk about it later.”

He reached out, brushing the hair back from Robby’s forehead. “Hey, kid. Hey, it’s me. You hear me?”

Robby didn’t answer —he just blinked slowly, his body slumping against him, completely spent.

Sensei looked up at Miguel. “Help me get him inside.”

Miguel nodded, and together they lifted Robby, guiding him down the narrow hallway. Hawk followed silently, his sneakers squeaking on the old tiles.

Sensei pushed open the door to the small guest room —a cramped space with a twin bed, a dresser, and a flickering lamp that threw a soft amber light over the walls. The air smelled faintly of detergent and old wood.

They laid Robby down carefully. His breathing was steady, but his skin looked ghostly pale under the light. Sensei stood there a moment, catching his breath, then said quietly, “He’s drenched in sweat. We can’t leave him like that. Help me get this off him.”

Miguel froze. “You mean—?”

“Yeah,” Sensei said, already pulling at the zipper of Robby’s hoodie. “He’s shaking. Come on.”

Miguel swallowed hard and nodded. He crouched near the foot of the bed, untying Robby’s sneakers —the soles worn, laces frayed, the kind of shoes that had walked too many nights without rest. He slipped them off gently, trying not to wake him.

Sensei was working carefully, tugging the hoodie off one arm, then the other. The shirt underneath came with it partway, riding up over Robby’s stomach.

Then Sensei froze.

His breath hitched —sharp, like he’d just been punched. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

Miguel looked up, confused —and then he saw it.

Under the harsh light, Robby’s torso —too thin, too pale— was a map of bruises: deep, dark marks scattered across his ribs, his abdomen, his side. Fresh. Angry. Ugly.

For a moment, no one spoke. The air felt heavier than before.

Sensei's voice came out rough, almost breaking. “What the hell happened at that party?”

Miguel’s throat went dry. Hawk stepped closer, eyes wide, his face pale as the wall.

They exchanged a glance —brief but loaded. Hawk gave a tiny, imperceptible shake of the head, silently telling Miguel we didn’t do this.

Miguel turned back to Sensei, his chest tight. “I swear,” he said quickly, his voice cracking under the weight of it. “Sensei, I swear —nothing happened at the party. I mean, not this.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Sensei sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at his son’s battered chest like the sight itself was tearing him apart.

Hawk stood frozen, his expression hollow.

Miguel felt something twist painfully inside him —not just guilt, not just fear, but something deeper. A realization that the damage done to Robby went far beyond broken bones or old rivalries.

Sensei reached out and pulled the blanket over his son’s bruised torso at last, his hands trembling. “Alright,” he said hoarsely, more to himself than to them. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”

Miguel nodded, but the words didn’t make the air feel any lighter.

The apartment was quiet again. Hawk had left a few minutes ago, muttering something about texting when he got home. Now only the low hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of an old clock filled the silence.

Sensei stood by the counter, a half-empty glass of water untouched beside him. Miguel sat at the small kitchen table, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. Neither of them had spoken since leaving the guest room.

Finally, Sensei broke the silence.

“Alright,” he said, voice rough, still trembling from what they’d seen. “You’re gonna tell me what really happened tonight.”

Miguel lifted his head, meeting his eyes. “I already told you—”

“No.” Sensei slammed his hand on the counter —not in anger, but frustration. His voice cracked. “No, that’s not it. Robby doesn’t drink. I know him. So don’t tell me he just had too much at some party.”

Miguel’s stomach tightened. He took a slow breath. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Maybe… maybe someone put something in his soda.”

Sensei frowned. “Something?”

Miguel hesitated, searching for words that wouldn’t make it worse. “Yeah. Like… I don’t know. Something to knock him out. He wasn’t acting drunk, not really. Just… gone.”

For a second, Sensei didn’t react. Then the realization hit him —like a light switching on behind his eyes. The look that crossed his face made Miguel’s stomach drop.

“Sensei,” Miguel said quickly. “Hey, listen to me. It’s not what you think.”

Sensei's gaze snapped toward him. “You sure about that?”

Miguel nodded hard, his voice firm even though his pulse was racing. “Yeah. I swear, nothing happened. As soon as we saw he wasn’t okay, we got him out of there. Right away. We didn’t let anyone near him.”

Sensei's fists unclenched a little. He stared at the table for a long moment, breathing through his nose. “You’re saying someone tried to—” He cut himself off again, shaking his head like the word itself was poison. “Christ.”

“He’s safe now,” Miguel said softly. “That’s what matters.”

Sensei dragged a hand down his face. The anger was still there, simmering under his skin, but it was laced now with something heavier —fear. The kind that settled deep and didn’t fade easily.

He looked toward the hallway, where the door to the guest room stood half-open, the light inside still on. “He’s just a kid,” Sensei murmured. “My kid.”

The silence that followed stretched until it hurt. Miguel shifted in his chair, the question gnawing at him since the drive over finally pushing its way out.

“Sensei… can I ask you something?”

Sensei didn’t look away from the doorway. “Yeah.”

Miguel hesitated. “Why isn’t Robby living with you? I mean —if his mom’s still in rehab and all.”

Sensei reached for the glass of water he hadn’t touched and took a small sip, his eyes fixed on nothing.

“I went to look for him the day he got out of juvie. LaRusso was there too. He didn’t want to go with either of us,” he explained, his voice low. “A couple of weeks later, I tracked him down outside his probation check-in. I just needed to know where he was staying. If he was okay.”

Miguel listened in silence, watching the lines tighten around Sensei’s eyes.

“He told me he was crashing with some friends,” Sensei went on. “Said he didn’t need my help. I offered to let him move in —told him he had a room here, that it was his if he wanted it.”

He laughed bitterly under his breath. “Didn’t even let me finish. Said if I tried to tell his PO anything, he’d disappear for good. And… I believed him. I thought maybe he just needed space. Time.”

Sensei exhaled, the sound rough and hollow.

For a while, neither spoke. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge.

Then Miguel leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice came out quiet, careful. “He’s not staying with any friends, Sensei.”

Sensei turned to him slowly, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Miguel met his eyes. “I mean, he’s been on the street. I’m sure of it.”

Sensei straightened. “How the hell do you know that?”

Miguel took a breath. “At the party… when I saw him, he looked—I don’t know. Rough. He went straight for the food, like he hadn’t eaten in days. Clothes didn’t fit, he looked exhausted, like he hadn’t slept indoors for a while. And in the car…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “When he was half-awake, he said he was staying at a park. By the bridge.”

Sensei’s eyes widened, disbelief and guilt hitting all at once. “A park?” he repeated, his voice breaking on the word. "A fucking park?"

Miguel nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Sensei pressed his hands against his face, then dragged them down, staring at the table. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “My son’s sleeping in a damn park in the middle of winter, and I didn’t even know.”

Miguel’s throat tightened. “You couldn’t have known,” he said softly. “He didn’t want you to.”

Sensei's shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. “Doesn’t matter. I should’ve tried harder.”

They sat there for a while, both staring at the same spot on the floor, the weight of it pressing down on them like a confession neither wanted to make.

After a long moment, Sensei spoke again —quieter this time, almost to himself. “All this time I thought he was just angry. Turns out he was… lost.”

Miguel didn’t know what to say. There was nothing to say.

He just nodded, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

Through the half-open door down the hallway, Robby’s breathing was steady and faint. The lamp still glowed, casting a sliver of light that reached the kitchen floor.

Sensei stayed quiet for a long while, his elbows resting on the table, his hands folded in front of his mouth. The light from the fridge washed the kitchen in a pale glow, soft but cold.

When he finally looked up, his eyes went straight to Miguel. The usual edge —that restless, half-defensive energy Sensei always carried— was gone. What remained was something tired and honest.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you did something real good tonight.”

Miguel frowned a little. “I just—”

Sensei shook his head. “Don’t sell it short.” He leaned back, letting out a slow breath. “You had every reason to walk away. You’re still angry at him —hell, I know you are. And I get it. You’ve got every damn reason to be.”

Miguel looked down at his hands, his knuckles still sore from earlier, and didn’t answer.

“But you didn’t walk away,” Sensei went on. “You saw him, you saw what kind of shape he was in, and you helped him anyway.” He paused, his voice roughening just a little. “That couldn’t have been easy. Or pleasant.”

Miguel gave a small, uneven shrug. “It wasn’t,” he admitted. “But… leaving him there would’ve been worse.”

Sensei nodded slowly, eyes softening. “You did right by him. And by me.”

Miguel looked up then, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. Sensei wasn’t smiling —not exactly— but there was a warmth there that felt unfamiliar, almost fragile.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The air between them was heavy, but not in a bad way —it was the kind of weight that came after something had finally cracked open.

Miguel exhaled slowly, staring down at his hands. “You’re right,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet. “I was angry. More than angry, actually.”

Sensei tilted his head, watching him.

“I hated him,” Miguel said quietly. The words came out slow, careful, as if saying them too fast might make them hurt more. “For a long time, I did. I kept replaying that fall in my head —every second of it— and I wanted him to feel what I felt. The pain, the fear, all of it. I wanted him to pay for it.”

He gave a faint, tired laugh, shaking his head. “But tonight… seeing him like that —so lost, so… empty— I realized he already has. Whatever punishment I thought he deserved, life’s already given it to him. He’s got nothing. No home. No one. And it doesn’t feel like justice. It just feels… sad.”

Sensei let out a breath through his nose, leaning back in his chair. His gaze softened, heavy with something between pride and regret. “You’re a good kid, Miguel,” he said quietly. “Better than most people I know.”

Miguel blinked, caught off guard. The words lingered, strange and uncertain. 

A beat of silence passed before Miguel said, quietly, “He told me he thinks you hate him.”

Sensei’s head snapped up. “What?”

“He said it in the car,” Miguel explained. “When I told him we were bringing him here. He didn’t want to come. Said you’d hate him for what he did to me.”

Sensei stared at him, confused, a muscle in his jaw tightening. For a second, he looked like he was about to argue —to insist that Robby was wrong, that he’d never said anything like that— but the words didn’t come. He just exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.

“That’s… absurd,” he said finally, his voice low.

“Yeah,” Miguel agreed softly. “It is. But he believes it.”

Sensei dropped his hand, staring at the floor. The silence that followed felt heavier than before —not angry, just tired.

After a long pause, he said quietly, “It’s late. You should head home.”

Miguel hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Sensei’s tone was final, but not cold. He glanced toward the hallway again, where the light from the guest room still leaked faintly into the dark. “I’ll stay up with him.”

Miguel nodded, pushing back his chair. His legs felt heavier than they should have.

At the door, he looked back once more. Sensei was still sitting there at the table, shoulders slumped, staring at nothing — the picture of a man trying to hold himself together for everyone else.

For a moment, Miguel thought about saying something —He’ll come around, maybe, or He still needs you— but the words stuck in his throat.

So he just said, “Goodnight, Sensei.”

Sensei didn’t look up. “’Night, kid.”

Miguel stepped out into the cold hallway, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Chapter Text

The next morning, sunlight poured weakly through the kitchen blinds, painting stripes of gold across the counter. Miguel stood barefoot by the stove, waiting for the toast to pop, the hum of the fridge the only sound in the apartment.

Ma and Yaya were out —Sunday mornings were always their ritual, wandering through the farmers’ market together. The quiet felt strange, almost too calm after everything that had happened the night before.

He poured himself a glass of orange juice, took a sip, and leaned against the counter. His gaze drifted —inevitably— to the window.

From there, he could see Sensei’s apartment just across the courtyard. The blinds in the living room were still closed, no sign of movement inside.

Miguel chewed on his toast absentmindedly, his mind running circles.

Had Robby woken up yet?

Had Sensei told him anything?

Were they talking —or just blaming each other?

He tried to picture it: Sensei pacing, Robby avoiding his eyes, that endless, impossible space between them stretching even wider.

Maybe they’d figured something out. Maybe they hadn’t.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Then —a sound.

A faint creak.

Miguel froze, turning toward the window. Across the courtyard, Sensei’s door had opened.

Robby stepped out.

He moved slowly, like someone trying not to be heard, one hand gripping the doorframe for balance. He was still wearing the same jeans and hoodie from last night, his beat-up sneakers dangling loosely from his fingers.

Even from a distance, Miguel could tell. The stiffness in Robby’s shoulders, the way he glanced around before taking a single, careful step down —it wasn’t hesitation. It was escape.

Miguel’s stomach dropped.

He didn’t need to see more to understand what was happening. Sensei had finally crashed —exhausted, probably sometime just before dawn— and Robby had stirred first. Found the door unlocked. Decided to slip out before his dad noticed.

Damn it.

Before his brain could catch up, Miguel was already moving. He darted out the door, barefoot, the cool morning air biting against his skin as he crossed the courtyard.

By the time he reached the other side, Robby had just finished tying his sneakers. He looked up at the sudden sound of footsteps —startled, eyes wide.

For a moment, they just stared at each other.

Robby’s expression shifted from confusion to sheer panic. He scrambled to his feet, the sneakers barely tied, and started toward the gate that led to the street.

But Miguel moved on instinct. He stepped forward, cutting across his path before he could reach the gate.

Robby stopped short, eyes darting toward him, then toward the exit again. His breath came quick and shallow.

“Robby—” Miguel began, but Robby took two quick steps back, his whole body tense.

It wasn’t anger in his face. It was fear.

The kind that made Miguel freeze where he stood.

For a second, he didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense. They’d fought before and Robby had never looked at him like that. Not even when things were at their worst. On the mat, off the mat, they’d always been evenly matched. Equals. Robby had never flinched from him. Never backed away.

Then it hit him.

The bruise along Robby’s jaw. Another, darker one, peeking from beneath the collar of his hoodie. And beneath that, Miguel remembered what they had seen the night before —the ugly, spreading marks across Robby’s torso.

He wasn’t scared of Miguel. He was scared of what one more hit might do to him.

Miguel’s stomach twisted, a hot rush of anger flaring before he even knew where to aim it —at the people who’d done that to Robby, at the world that had left him alone long enough for it to happen, maybe even at himself for being too caught up in his own resentment to care sooner.

Miguel took a slow step back, raising his hands a little, palms open. His voice came out quieter this time, careful. “Hey… I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? I just— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Robby’s eyes flickered, confusion mixing with the fear. His throat worked before he spoke, his voice rough and uneven. “Just let me go,” he said. “Please.”

The word please hit harder than it should have.

Miguel took a half-step forward, shaking his head. “I can’t do that.”

Robby’s eyes narrowed, hurt flickering beneath the exhaustion. “Why not?” His voice rose just a little, still hoarse but cutting through the stillness of the courtyard. “Why the hell not, Miguel? You should want me gone.”

Miguel opened his mouth, but the words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. Robby wasn’t wrong —not entirely. There’d been a time when the idea of never seeing him again had sounded like peace. But now…

He exhaled slowly, forcing the words out. “Because I can’t let you walk out on your dad like that. Not after last night.”

Robby stared at him, confusion and disbelief flashing in his eyes.

“I’m not doing this behind Sensei's back,” Miguel said quietly. “You want to leave? Fine. But not like this. He deserves to know.”

Robby’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening like he was ready to argue. “You don’t get it,” he started, his voice shaking. “He—”

A sound cut him off —the sharp thud of movement from inside the apartment across the courtyard. A curse followed, low but unmistakably Sensei’s.

Robby froze.

Two seconds later, the door swung open.

Sensei appeared in the doorway, barefoot, still in the same T-shirt from the night before, his hair a disheveled mess. His expression was thunderous at first —the kind of anger born from panic— but it shifted the moment his eyes found Robby standing in the middle of the patio.

The fury drained out of him, replaced by something else —a mix of shock, relief, and exhaustion.

“Robby, what the hell are you doing out here?”

Robby didn’t answer. He just took another step back, as if the sound of his father’s voice burned. His breathing quickened —short, shallow, uneven.

Miguel glanced between them, his heart pounding. The stillness in the air felt fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it completely.

Sensei stepped forward, slowly this time, his tone lower, calmer, as if he were trying not to spook a wild animal. And watching him hesitate there, palms open, Miguel realized Sensei had figured it out too —this wasn’t someone who’d stepped outside for air or breakfast. Robby had been trying to leave.

“Hey,” he said. “Easy. You don’t have to go anywhere, alright? Let’s just… talk inside.”

Robby’s shoulders stiffened. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“The hell there isn’t,” Sensei said, but his tone wasn’t angry —not this time. It was tight, heavy, almost pleading. “You disappear for months, show up half-dead on my doorstep, and now you’re trying to slip out before I even wake up?”

Robby flinched, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t ask to be brought here,” he said hoarsely. "And I'm leaving. Now."

Sensei’s own jaw tightened. “No. You’re not walking out like this,” he said, low and steady. “Not while you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Robby muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

“You’re not,” Sensei replied, his tone firm yet gentler than before. “I saw the bruises, kid.”

Robby’s jaw clenched harder.

“And Jesus, Robby…” Sensei muttered, shaking his head. “You look like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

Robby didn’t respond, but the tension in his face deepened, his silence louder than any protest.

Sensei took another slow, deliberate step forward. Robby instinctively stepped back.

Sensei’s tone softened even more. “Look, I know you don’t trust me. I know I’ve screwed up —a lot. But whatever happened out there, whatever you got mixed up in, it’s done. You’re here now. You’ve got a bed, food, a shower. That’s all I care about right now.”

Robby’s shoulders didn’t ease. They went rigid. His eyes drifted toward the open doorway behind Sensei —the apartment, dim and cluttered, familiar yet foreign— and his jaw trembled before he turned away.

Miguel felt a dull weight settle in his chest. Robby didn’t look relieved. He looked disappointed.

Sensei took one last step closer, his voice almost a whisper. “Come on, son. Let’s just go inside.”

For a long moment, Robby didn’t move. The courtyard was so quiet that Miguel could hear the faint buzz of the old streetlight overhead.

Robby’s lips parted, and for a second it looked like he might give in. But then he shook his head, slow and stubborn.

“No,” he said, his voice rasping. “I can’t. I have to go.”

Sensei blinked, disbelief tightening every muscle in his face. “Go? Go where, huh? Back to that park you’ve been sleeping in?”

The word hit the air like a slap.

Robby froze. His eyes darted toward Miguel —startled, confused— as if he’d just realized that his dad knew.

Miguel’s stomach twisted. He held Robby’s gaze, forcing himself not to look away, though guilt burned behind his ribs. He hadn’t wanted it to come out like this.

Robby’s voice came quieter now, thinner, almost like he was running out of strength. “I just… I can’t stay here.”

Sensei took a step forward, his voice rising. “Why the hell not? You think I’m gonna let you walk out of here just to sleep on a bench again? If your PO finds out you’re homeless—”

“He’s not gonna find out,” Robby cut in sharply, his tone suddenly raw. “Not unless you tell him.”

The words cracked in the air, leaving a hollow silence behind them.

Sensei stared at him, thrown off, the anger dissolving into something closer to hurt.

“That’s what you think?” he asked quietly. “That I’d turn you in? That I’d—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Christ, kid.”

Robby didn’t answer. His jaw was locked, but his eyes flicked down —not in defiance or disappointment this time, but something closer to shame.

Miguel shifted his weight, torn between stepping in and staying out of it. The tension between them was thick enough to choke on, but there was something else beneath it now —the exhaustion of two people who’d already fought this same battle too many times in their heads.

Sensei dragged a hand through his hair, his voice breaking just slightly. “I’m not your enemy, Robby. I never was. You think I wanted this —you out there on your own, starving, getting beat to hell?”

Robby’s mouth twitched, but no words came.

“Please,” Sensei said, quieter now, almost pleading. “Just come inside. We’ll figure it out. You don’t have to run anymore.”

Robby blinked hard, his throat working, like the words were pushing against something he didn’t have the strength to hold back. But he didn’t move.

Miguel could see the war going on in Robby’s head —pride against fear, guilt against the tiny, aching part that maybe wanted to believe his dad meant what he said.

But before either of them spoke again, a door upstairs opened somewhere in the building, a woman’s voice calling to someone in the hallway —normal, ordinary sounds in a world that wasn’t.

The noise seemed to snap Robby back to reality. He clenched his fists, jaw set. “I can’t,” he said again, softer this time, but final.

Then, without another word, he started walking toward the gate. His steps were uneven but determined, the kind of walk that didn’t wait for permission.

“Robby,” Sensei called after him, voice tight. “Don’t you walk away from me again.”

Robby didn’t slow down.

Sensei moved on instinct, crossing the few steps between them and reaching out. His hand closed around Robby’s arm —not hard, not rough, just enough to stop him.

“Hey—”

The reaction was instant.

“Don’t touch me!” Robby’s voice tore through the quiet morning, raw and jagged. He yanked his arm back with surprising strength, spinning on his heel. His face was all fire and anger and panic and something close to heartbreak. “Just—don’t!”

Sensei froze, his hand still half-raised, stunned by the outburst.

For a moment, no one breathed.

Robby’s chest heaved, his pulse visible at the base of his throat. Then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the gate.

He passed Miguel without a glance, eyes locked straight ahead, jaw set like stone. Miguel’s heart hammered as Robby drew level with him. For one breathless second, he imagined it —stepping into his path again, blocking the way, the words spilling out raw and desperate: Don’t do this. Just stay. Please.

But the thought died as quickly as it came. He had no right. 

So he stayed frozen, hands useless at his sides, and watched Robby walk away.

The gate creaked, then slammed shut behind him. The sound echoed off the walls like something final.

Sensei stayed where he was, staring at the empty space where Robby had been. His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him all at once.

Miguel swallowed hard. His voice came out quiet but sharp. “You’re just gonna let him leave?”

Sensei turned to him, eyes bloodshot, his expression halfway between anger and grief. “What do you want me to do, huh? Drag him back inside? Tie him down?”

Miguel hesitated. The first word that came to his mind was yes. Anything that would keep Robby safe, that would stop him from disappearing again, from ending up cold and hurt and alone.

But then he remembered the look on Robby’s face when Sensei grabbed his arm, and the word died before it reached his lips.

He looked away, jaw tight. “No,” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “I guess not.”

Sensei let out a long breath, the kind that sounded like defeat. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes still fixed on the gate. “Next week,” he muttered. “He’s got his check-in with the probation officer.”

Miguel blinked, caught off guard by the calm in his tone. “You think he’ll show up?”

Sensei gave a short, humorless laugh. “He has to. That’s the only thing keeping him out of juvie right now.” He paused, dragging a hand over his face. “I’ll wait for him there. Try to talk to him again. Maybe this time he’ll listen.”

Miguel nodded slowly, processing. “When is it?”

“Friday,” Sensei said. His voice was quiet, but there was something steady in it —the faint trace of hope that hadn’t been completely crushed. “Eleven in the morning. Downtown.”

“Friday,” Miguel repeated under his breath. Five days.

He looked toward the gate again, but the street beyond it was empty now — nothing left but the echo of footsteps and the faint rattle of wind through the alley.

Five days.

It didn’t sound like much. But the image that wouldn’t leave Miguel’s head —Robby’s bruised torso, his trembling hands, the way he’d flinched from his dad’s touch— made it feel like forever.

What could happen in five days?

Where would he go?

Would he eat?

Would he even make it that far?

A cold shiver crawled down Miguel’s spine, untouched by the weak winter sun that was just beginning to spill over the apartment courtyard, turning the concrete pale gold.

He wanted to believe Sensei —wanted to trust that Robby would come back, that he’d show up at that office and they’d find him again. But as the minutes stretched and the morning light grew harsher, Miguel couldn’t shake the sinking thought that maybe five days was too long.

Too long for someone already running out of time.