Chapter Text
“Can I sit here?”
He tore his eyes from the window to glare at whoever spoke to him, “Sit wherever you want,” he replied nonchalantly, watching as the boy smiled, dropping his bag at his feet and kicking it as he sat. He turned, his back to Mo as he spoke with one of his friends, an animated blond that spoke at a mile a minute.
He sighed, raising an eyebrow at the name brand bag at the brunette's feet, the dirt collecting around it and embedding into the expensive fibers.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, rolling his eyes at the display of carelessness for an item so ridiculously overpriced before looking out the window again. The bus door shut with a soft creak, and the vehicle eased out of the school parking lot, rocking with every bump in the road.
He knows he should be thankful for the free transportation; it was better than using his bus card or having to bike through the snow, but sometimes he’d rather walk home in sub zero weather, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, so long as it was quiet .
The kids spoke loudly over one another, phrases like “No way!” And “Oh my god, did you hear ?!” Overlapped so often he wasn’t sure which was part of what conversation.
Three more stops, he told himself, and I’ll be free of these idiots at last.
A finger tapped his shoulder, and he whipped around to snap at the bastard that disturbed his solace when his eyes locked onto flashing yellow. “Why so jumpy?” She Li asked, reaching past the stranger to Mo’s right to tug at his collar, “I need you for something, get off at the next stop.”
He wanted to tell him to fuck off, that he didn’t want to get strung up into whatever psychotic bullshit he was pulling, but he found himself croaking the words, “I’ve got work,” instead. She Li raised an eyebrow, the gentle tugging dissipating as his fingers curled deeper into the fabric, “Oh? Work? And what’s this work you have? Sounds important.”
“Stocking. At a supermarket,” the answer was mechanical, one he had repeated so often he found himself uttering the phrase before someone even inquired where he worked. A thumb grazed his neck, two fingers pressing against his carotid artery as She Li spoke, “Supermarket huh? What’s it called?”
Mo felt his frustration flare, “The hell is this? An interrogation?” He spat, swatting at the assaulting fingers, “I have work. I work at a supermarket. Fuck off.”
She Li smiled, pulling back to pat Mo’s cheek, “When did you learn to bark like that?” He cooed, hand snaking up to claim a handful of Mo’s hair, “Don’t make me drag you off this bus,” he warned, the stop only yards away, “Be an obedient little puppy. Get up.”
Mo yanked at She Li’s wrist, “I’m not goin anywhere with you,” he snapped, attempting to push She Li back with the hand he had used to grab at his wrist, “Fuck off .”
It was the most honest accident. He hadn’t meant to send She Li tumbling back. He hadn’t anticipated him tripping over someone’s thrown out legs.
He didn’t want the entirety of the bus to fall into a collective silence as he landed with a rough thunk onto his backside.
He didn’t expect the explosion of laughter; the high shrieks and low chuckles, fingers pointing as She Li slowly stood from his position on the floor, eyes never leaving Mo’s as he slinked out of the bus, dust still apparent on the back of his pants.
Mo’s head felt a mess once the bus finally reached his stop, and the now half vacant vehicle had seized howling with laughter, reduced to random giggles and occasional mocking oofs .
The story will spread , his mind whispered, the whole school will know by tomorrow. What’ll you do? He’s going to kill you for that.
He gulped.
Sometimes his own mind worked against him.
Palms sleek with sweat, fingers shaking as though exposed to the frost on the other side of the window pane, he gathered his backpack and fisted the worn fabric, hoping the nerves would melt and become one with the fibers.
He had no such luck.
His mind spiraled; listing events that have occurred, could occur, and most undoubtedly will occur by tomorrow, so he couldn’t help but jolt when a hand rested on his shoulder, and an unfamiliar, smooth voice saying, “He deserved that. Motherfucker treated you like his pet.”
He turned, wide eyed to the boy that had seemed to have ignored him for the entirety of the bus ride.
He had intended to tell him off; maybe grumble something along the lines of minding his own business, or shoving his head up his ass, but the words, “He’s going to kill me ,” came as a horrified, breathy whisper, unprecedented to them both.
In the frozen atmosphere between them, Mo squeezed past, descending down the bus steps the way a man stepped up and into the gallows.
—————————————————————-
He was panting, bent over at the waist as his palms rested on his kneecaps, breath coming to him harshly, lungs pressing against bruised ribs.
He hadn’t killed him. But he came pretty damn close to doing so.
Pushed down a flight of stairs, the tile under construction, uneven wooding and bent nails tearing into pale flesh and ripping at his shirt. Mo grunted as he fought to stand, squinting through the blood that caked his forehead and dribbled into his eyes.
His sides throbbed. His knees threatened to give out.
He bit back the urge to cry as he shifted his weight onto his right leg, channeling whatever remained of his energy into a scowl.
She Li stood at the top of the steps, light spilling from half clouded windows illuminating his figure, transforming him into a dull, less threatening silhouette of himself.
“Be grateful,” He spat, voice like broken glass; as harsh as it was sharp, unforgiving as it pierced through you and meddled into your bloodstream. A hand came up to rest on his hip, the gesture mundane, relaxed even, as he watched the boy at the bottom of the stairs grimace and maintain the fight in his eyes. He raised an eyebrow, a chilling smile tugging at his lips as he fiddled with a toothpick wedged needlessly between his teeth, “I didn’t give you an audience.” He finally said, waving at Mo with a limp wrist, signaling his dismissal, “Your fragile ego and pride are still intact.”
Mo grinded his teeth, hissing through them silently as a crowd began to form around the bus stop, the usual chatter drowning out his muted, pained gasps. A shadow fell over him, and he huffed out a cloud, prying a hand from where it had been clutched to his side to bring the zipper of his thin coat higher.
Cold. It was so cold.
His nose must’ve become an icicle, teeth chattering and cheeks flushed a light pink as the wind bit his features and left him frozen. “Your face is bleeding,” Someone inquired; a familiar low voice, a hint of nasaliness courtesy of the cold, “Hold still, and Jesus it’s the middle of January, why aren’t you wearing a thicker coat?”
If Mo’s jaw wasn’t frozen shut, he would’ve snapped at him.
Why does he care? His eyes followed the movement of pale hands, watching as they trifled through a dark bag, the figure to his right grumbling, “Where the hell is it?” And “Is he trying to freeze to death?” All the while.
Fuck this, Mo thought bitterly, whatever warm blood left in his body rushing to his face, he didn’t need his help anyway.
Before he could step away, a hand curled around his arm and tugged him a foot closer, “This might sting a bit,” he said, the warmth of his breath thawing the tip of Mo’s ear. If it did indeed sting, he wouldn’t know, his attention unusually hitched to the pads of fingertips pressing against his face, sending jolts of warmth rippling through his cheeks and he nearly sighed.
Nearly.
The boy tugged at Mo’s collar, “You got a couple of more scratches on your neck, just the side though. One of em looks deep, the others not so much.” Mo didn’t move, overtaken by both confusion and awe.
Was whoever this guy was, trying to help him, or hurt him?
Did he want to use Mo later? Why was he peaking beneath Mo’s collar?
Hands came to the front of his jacket, turning Mo to face the stranger as he worked at the zipper, his fingers grazing Mo’s neck and leaving a trail of red as they left, replacing the warmth with soft cotton, soaked in what smelled like disinfectant as they collected droplets of blood and bled into a pale pink.
He felt blush blooming across his face as he turned his head away, the boy hovering so close he got a whiff of his mouth wash and lingering cigarette smoke.
Mint and Marlboro.
Why was the combination so suiting? And why was a hand cupping his jaw, forcing his gaze to lock onto unyielding, silver eyes?
“Next time, don’t be a dumbass,” he spoke so closely to Mo’s face he shivered, stepping back to reclaim his personal space. The boy didn’t seem to care, stepping forward to makeup for the loss, arm rising to rest across Mo’s shoulders.
This is it, he thought sorely, fixating his attention on half formed ice, the weight of the stranger’s arm foreign and unwelcome, I got myself another She Li.
The squeal of the bus brakes tore through the air harshly enough to bring the chattering of teeth and conversation to a halt, dozens of eyes watching as the bus doors opened with an odd yet familiar creak .
It was an older vehicle; the paint was worn at the sides and the tires deflated every time another foot climbed onboard, creaks and groans rattled from the engine as it took off or when it eased to a stop. Still, it was a trustworthy companion; the sight of its pale yellow body always managed to bring a sense of ease to the students, the word finally omitting amongst them although never spoken aloud.
He waited for the arm to drop, for the warmth radiating from his side to abandon him at the steps and leave him to shiver and shove his way through the crowd, but the bastard was persistent; waving off friends and pretty girls alike, shifting his weight to lean further into Mo, his chest level with Mo’s shoulder.
He hated how tall he was.
He hated how soft his jacket was.
He hated how he replied to every word, every phrase tossed his way with the same, easy smile.
Mo stiffened.
He hated him. It was decided.
Yet when he was dragged up the steps and onto the bus, he went so willingly, only speaking once he was settled into his standard window seat.
“I won’t thank you,” he mumbled, shrugging off his arm, turning to stare blankly out the window, when the boy’s reflection and level stare looked back.
His reply rumbled from his chest upwards, the smile he had worn before melted into a slight quirk at the end of his lips.
He’s amused.
Mo‘s ears burned. The words formed on his tongue in an instant, and as he slung them from their quiver and lined them onto a bowstring, the boy answered, “I don’t want you to thank me.”
They sat in silence, their bodies rocking with the jolts and bumps in the road, their eyes looking anywhere but at each other.