Work Text:
He picked up a pencil for the millionth time, staring at the paper riddled with numbers and shapes. Hexagons, triangles, boys who threw things from the top of buildings at 25 Newtons, and how long will it take to reach the ground? Mo grumbled again, poking at the insulting grade circled in red marker in the right top corner, glaring at him to finish his work.
And so he did….
….n’t
Instead, his mind wandered. It started when his gaze flickered to the window, where he caught sight of a group of elementary schoolers playing tag, heads thrown back, laughing as they ran from each other, and the kid that he presumed to be ‘it’ would chase after the same girl, ignoring the others around him, but she was always out of reach, always a hair too far.
The hell am I doin’, starin at little kids?
Watching the kids look so carefree made him think of basketball at first, about how much he would rather be playing right now, dribbling the ball between his legs, hearing the satisfying swish of a perfect shot, sweating buckets in the afternoon sun than studying for the language test later that week. From there, his thoughts took a bit more….. different approach. He imagined the faces of the people he’d play against. Zheng Xi, Jain Yi probably flailing his long arms around, being more of a bother than a defender, and the list went on.
Pencil still in hand, the tip found the paper, and he pouted at the problems, hands moving on their own as he began sketching someone throwing a basketball.
It had started off as an innocent thing.
He absentmindedly doodled a cartoon shooting a ball, but the cartoon began taking a more realistic shape without him noticing; arms long, shirt lifting up slightly to show the muscular v that dipped into his pants and he slowly came to the realization of who he was drawing. His face twisted in disgust at himself, eyebrows coming together to form an angry ‘m’ as he flipped his pencil around to erase it when something overcame him. It was as if someone had struck him with a lightning bolt, and he bit his lip, daring to continue his endeavor.
There was no harm in a drawing, right?
No harm in a lil doodling.
No one would know.
His door was locked, and unless someone crept in through the window…..
Stupid chickendick
And so he went on. He drew the hair, messy and flying in the wind, long strands dangling around his eyes and mouth open in a smile, then he advanced to the chest, keeping it wide, face burning in shame as he hung his head, shaking it from side to side, what has my life come to?
Still, he swallowed down his disgrace and sketched out the torso, keeping the abs toned when a sharp knocking at his door practically made him piss himself.
SHIT.
“Little Mo~ let me in already!” A voice rang out, and he looked at the time. He gaped at his own stupidity, staring at the clock, trying to mentally turn back the hands. How the fuck did he forget about He Tain’s promise to tutor him?
SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT-
He ripped the paper from his notebook, nearly sending himself flying off the chair at his own force before diving onto the floor and shoving it under his bed. There was a rustling behind the door, a grunt as the doorknob jiggled, and he swallowed whatever feeling built up in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he could face He Tain after what he had done, hell, he could hardly face himself, but life didn’t always go the way you wanted it to.
And so the door opened.
He almost screamed at the injustice of it all.
He Tain stood in the doorframe, out of breath, almost as if he had run all the way to Mo’s room, with his shirt disheveled and sweats sagging. His hair managed to perfectly balance between sexy and messy, his clothes clung to the sweat on his body, illuminating muscles as he moved to enter the small bedroom. He walked into the room, gaze moving from Mo’s awkward position on the floor, one hand propped up to hold up his head, legs thrown out in front of him, and the boy was burning red, to the upturned chair before plopping his school bag onto Mo’s bed.
This wasn’t their usual scenario, Mo would normally press up against the door, trying to keep He Tain out before He Tain prevailed, nearly sending Mo off the balcony when he propelled across the room, knees smacking against the wood, amber eyes looking at him deliciously, pretty mouth twitching as an insult bloomed between them before he accepted He Tain’s hand and was pulled onto his feet. Sometimes He Tain kept their hands together, smiling at how flustered Mo got when he refused to let go. Lil cutie.
“Ooooohhh was Little Mo getting busy in here?” He asked, mouth curling into a smirk as he shut the door behind him, squatting down to look Mo in the face. “The fuck you doin here?” Mo bit back, trying and miserably failing to keep his blush in control, thoughts still reeling as butterflies-
Hold on, butterflies ? The same butterflies little girls got when their crush smiled at them in math? Was that the feeling that spread down to his toes, making him go numb and brain work overtime, trying to figure out just what the fuck is going on ?
Why were there butterflies in his stomach, making him feel sick enough to puke but giddy enough to smile?
There had to be a mistake.
Why were his hands sweaty, clamming up as He Tain crawled closer to him, his smirk replaced with a look of genuine concern. “You alright Momo?”
Fuck.
FUCK.
It was just like he imagined. Eyes lazily open, hair sticking to his forehead a bit, making him want to reach out and brush them back, to move his fingers through the strands of black silk, to feel them fall between his fingers so he could tug them as he pleased-
Oh shit.
Why, why, why, why, why did his brain think of He Tain the way it did?
Why did he draw that disgusting, disturbing cartoon?
And why the hell was He Tain pressing his hand to his face?
His touch was warm, his hands impossible soft, but against Mo’s already burning face it felt like a hot coal, and he reeled his head back, leaving He Tain’s hand to hang in the air, limp, its owner looking as though someone had slapped him. Mo shrugged off his strange behavior, trying not to draw too much attention to it, clearing his throat and scrambling to sit up, almost hitting himself in the face with his own knee.
The sudden outburst made He Tain frown, and he scooted closer, itching to find out what was making the ginger act out. “Fine, I’m fine,” Mo said, mostly to himself and he fumbled with the chair, about to set it up right when he heard paper rustling behind him. The paper had only caught He Tain’s attention courtesy to its excessive wrinkles and the strange markings at the edges. When he squinted, he could make out what looked like an arm, and curiosity getting the best of him, he bent down to retrieve the strange artifact, and as he unfolded the paper, he caught Mo freezing from the corner of his eye. Why was he acting so strange? Surely, there had to be something -
His eyes fell back to the paper, and the first thing he saw was a miserable looking grade in bold red pen, and he nearly snorted, about to mock Mo for his grades when he caught something else.
A drawing, in pencil. Some lines were fainter than others, smudged from the abuse they endured after getting thrown under the bed.
But what sparked his interest was that it was a drawing of him .
A rather strange drawing of him.
A very detailed drawing of him.
And the dots began to connect. Mo wasn’t ill , he was just hormonal.
And not only that, the boy had a crush on him.
He grinned, lips almost reaching his ears. Mo had a crush on him.
Mo liked him.
He drew a picture of him.
Mo liked HIM.
Mo’s blood froze, a strange, but not foreign feeling of absolute terror showering over him. He thought he might drop the chair a second time when he heard He Tain smooth out paper, mumbling something under his breath.
Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.
“Mo?” He Tain asked, voice hushed, uncertain. The paper still dangled in his hand, unsure if he should discard it and pretend it never happened, or if they should finally confront the root of the matter.
Mo’s heart fell to his stomach, color draining from his face as he stood paralyzed, back to He Tain and the silence stretched, tense. His hands were freezing despite the warm wind that breezed in through his small balcony, rustling the pages of his notebook, and they stood like that for what felt like centuries. His back to He Tain, hand gripping the chair as he glared intensely at his desk, He Tain standing behind him, head cocked to the side, debating whether or not opening his mouth was worth the consequences.
Mo cursed himself, cursed his immaturity, cursed his faulty lock, cursed the creator of basketball, whoever He Tain got his looks from, and cursed his terrible, rotten luck.
Of anyone that could’ve walked in on him, why did it have to be He fucking Tain?
He let out a shaky breath, the urge to cry was getting harder and harder to resist.
This was it. This was the end. Their friendship could never be smoothed out after something like this. Sure, He Tain flirted with him nonstop, but there was a thin line between this and that. How could he deny such proof of his affection? Who else could it have been, drawn on his paper? He Tain would taunt him for the rest of his life, he’d never hear the end of it-
What if he told someone?
The thought only made him feel worse, screwing his eyes shut, trying to block out images of He Tain flaunting the piece of paper, passing it around the classroom as people giggled and pointed at him. ‘Look, look at that kid,’ they mocked, fingers jabbing at him as they threw things at his direction, He Tain’s jeering face standing in front of him as his classmates sneered, scornful laughter echoing in his ears and he’d sink down in his seat, praying the ground would swallow him up and bury him alive.
He fought back against the thoughts, knowing that He Tain would never resort to humiliating him. Despite being a chickendick, the guy was nicer than he initially thought. Mustering up whatever was left of his shattered pride, he swirled around to face He Tain, expecting teases and smirks.
Except He Tain was not smiling at him.
He was not laughing at him.
He was not pointing at his drawing and shoving it in Mo’s face.
He was not taking pictures or videos or posting it on social media.
He only looked at Mo, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “You drew this?” He asked, holding up the shameful art piece and Mo felt like doubling over and hiding beneath the bed. Who else? Mo wanted to say, what other sick creep was drawing that? “What do you think?” He croaked, and he groaned at the weakness of his own voice, hands coming to his face, trying to convince himself it was all just some terrible, twisted nightmare. The front of his wrist dug into his eye sockets, making him see colors and he pressed against it harder, hoping He Tain would just abandon him already. He leaned against the back of the chair, knees suddenly feeling too weak to support his weight.
“ I think,” He Tain said, voice empty of his previous mocking tone as he peeled Mo’s hands away from his face, lowering his own so he could look into his eyes, “That it is completely normal.”
“I- normal? ” Mo half-screamed, tearing the paper away from He Tain, hand shaking as it crumbled in his fist, “How the fuck is any of this normal?” His whole body trembled now, tears of frustration threatening to spill over at He Tain’s fucking calmness. The boy stood, stoic as ever, not bending at Mo’s harsh words, only looking at him sympathetically. As if he knew something Mo didn’t; the look only made the fire in him burn hotter.
“It’s normal for kids our age to be interested in stuff like this,” He Tain reasoned, carefully choosing his words, not wanting to upset him further.
Mo didn’t believe a word of it. “ Bullshit,” he hissed in response, throwing the paper across the room, watching as it bounced and landed onto his bed, chest heaving as he came to the daunting realization that….
That he liked He Tain.
Why?
Why was it so hard for him to like girls?
Everyone else could do it. Everyone else could sit in huddles and stare at thin legs and small waists. Everyone else could whisper about how fine a girl was, about how big her boobs were, about how her curves looked amazing, about soft skin and lips, long hair and pretty models. Everyone else could sit and talk about their favorite actresses, drooling over X-rated films, so why ?
Why couldn’t he just be fucking normal?
Why did he have to stare at He Tain taking a swing of water? Why did the way He Tain lifted his shirt, exposing his midsection to the whole fucking park, literally wiping off his sweat, make his throat go dry? Why was He Tain so-
So goddamn captivating ?
“Why,” he hated how his voice broke, how fucking pathetic he sounded, how He Tain’s face had softened and his hands forced his chin up so they were looking at eachother.
Gray eyes, shining as the sun dipped into the horizon, the setting sun's rays hitting him from the side, highlighting the delicate features of his face. Thick, dark eyelashes, like silk curtains, long enough to leave shadows on his cheeks, and just looking at them made the strange, warm feeling in his stomach come back.
“Why did it have to be you?”
The words hung in the air like the stench of a dead body. The hand that was holding Mo’s face stilled for a moment, and he stared blankly at the amber orbs, glassy with emotion, and he couldn’t help but be wounded by the look of utter grief on Mo’s face, all because he liked him.
He was torn; on one hand, Mo had basically admitted to liking him, something he could only dream of, but on the other, the boy looked completely destroyed at the fact. His thumb stroked Mo’s cheeks, unsure what to say and the boy tried desperately to hang his head, to bask in his shame, but He Tain held his head up.
He loved him; he always had. He loved him even when Mo threw things at his head, when he threatened to chop off his limbs and feed him to the dogs, when he blocked him and would only flick him off for a week, and even at the constant, heart breaking rejection.
The angry red headed boy with the soft, kind heart, his little puppy that he had showered with love and teased the living shit out of. The snarl that flickered into a smile, the blush that reached his ears, and on rare occasions, a horse laugh that rang in his ears for days afterward.
“Mo,” he said, shattering the silence, and he watched as the latter blinked back tears, swallowing thickly, and his fingers brushed the short hairs of his shaven sides, dreading to ask the question that could make or break him.
“What’s wrong with it being me?”
Mo’s eyes came back to meet He Tain’s, staring into them, wanting to reach out and touch He Tain’s face too, to see what those plump lips felt like under his fingertips. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, fussing with the end of his shirt instead, “I just…”
“I don’t wanna lose what we have.”
It was only half true. He hardly had any close friends to begin with, and the thought of losing one of them, the idea that He Tain wouldn’t text him, wouldn’t pester him into cooking or cleaning for him, wouldn’t ask him to spend the night, wouldn’t throw a heavy arm over his shoulder and lean into his ear to say something stupid, it was terrifying.
But it wasn’t just a friend he was going to lose.
It was He Tain.
He had held himself over the line more times than he could count. Bottling up his emotions so deep, that once they resurfaced, he was inclined to detangle and figure them out all over again. Once he did, he shoved them into a pit so deep, he was sure he’d never see them again.
Until He Tain came along, digging them back up and throwing them in his face.
A second hand came to his face now, cupping his cheek, caressing it like fine china, as if he was afraid the moment would shatter, He Tain whispered, “You won’t. You won’t lose a thing.”
The words resonated through him, making him stutter and He Tain smiled softly, pressing a soft kiss to Mo’s forehead, nose brushing against the red curls as he leaned closer, whiffs of Mo’s strawberry conditioner filling his senses, and he pressed his lips against Mo’s hairline this time, harder, trying to send him a message. You won’t lose me. I’ll be right here.
Mo’s eyes shut again, an overdue sigh escaping him as he slumped against He Tain’s chest, feeling arms wrap around him, kisses continuing to riddle his hair and ears. His fingers had fisted into He Tain’s shirt, and he chuckled when He Tain’s lips brushed the ticklish spot beneath his ear. “Momo,” He Tain whispered, leaning back to gaze into Mo’s eyes once more, the look of dread now replaced with one of relief, “I’ve liked you since we were fifteen.”