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Rule number 264 in the underbelly of Earth-42’s New York;
You don’t mess with Ganke Lee.
It’s not “you don’t mess with Ganke Lee unless you wanna get your shit rocked.” It’s not “you don’t mess with Ganke Lee unless you wanna get your brains bashed out, piñata style.”
It’s you don’t mess with Ganke Lee . Full stop.
Hesitate on the end of speaking it and you’ll find yourself among the thousands of people that no one bothered to report missing this year in New York.
Ganke lives in one of those high rise apartments, the type that were probably nice a long while ago. Most of them were gutted when the city went to shit. The building itself is repeatedly gashed in the crossfire by the bomb laced edge of whatever tape measure they’re using in this week's lethal-damage-encouraged dick measuring contest, between every nobody with a chip on their shoulder stupid enough to do something about it.
Miles climbs quietly onto the balcony outside Ganke’s window and does a routine scan. No cracks, no bent framing, no indication that anyone other than himself has been here.
He raps on the glass and watches, knot in his chest untangling, as Ganke looks up from his computer. His glasses, reflected with blue light, obscure his eyes.
Miles can still tell he’s in one of those moods. The ones he gets in after something bad happens, where his eyes glaze over and he sits picking at his cuticles.
He throws his headphones off, moving to pull the window open.
“Miles!!!”
Ganke takes him by the wrists and tugs him through. The fabric of his Pajama top—the cat patterned one with matching pants— is soft as it brushes Miles’ skin.
He sits on the sill and unlaces his boots, kicking them into their usual alcove between the wall and Ganke’s desk.
“Holy shit, man. The news said that your street got fucked up and-just-“ He inhales sharply through his teeth, scanning Miles hurriedly from braids to kuromi-pattern-socks, “Don’t wait that long to answer my texts ever again, dickhead.”
He rocks up to kiss Miles open-mouthed, sliding his fingers into the notch of his jaw and trailing them down from it.
This is Ganke’s routine. His version of checking for cracks.
The pad of his thumb grazes a gash on the nape of Miles’ neck. He licks along Miles’ teeth, looking for the copper taste of blood.
None is there, not this time. The blood is pooling elsewhere, into the dirty white of Miles’ undershirt.
He walks Miles over to the edge of the bed as he traces down his arms, finding the new burn on the left side of his forearm and yesterday’s bandaging on his right bicep.
Pushing Miles down flat on the unmade comforter and kneeling between his legs on the mattress, he pulls away from the kiss to tug Miles’ shirt up.
“I knew it. Fuck, dude. Fuck.”
Miles coughs out a laugh and winces as the bruising on his ribs throbs.
“Are they broken?”
Ganke asks, thumbing along the edge of the large patch of bloody, ripped skin blossoming from the center of the bruise. Always touching just soft enough that it doesn’t hurt.
“Dunno. Probably.”
“Fuck. That’s so not good. I don’t know if I can fix this one, Miles.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
Ganke glares “I didn’t say you did. I’m always going to try and fix your sorry ass, no matter how many times it gets broken.”
He pulls Ganke over so they’re lying side by side, holding hands with their arms interlocked.
“I was so worried about you.” Ganke says, his voice cracking a little, “Every minute you’re not here, i’m worried I'm going to find out you won’t come back.”
Miles presses his face into Ganke’s neck, “Stupid thing to worry about. ‘M never leavin’ you.”
Ganke leans his head on Miles’,
“I’m worried that it’s not going to be your choice.”
Miles has no way to respond to that, so he says “I love you.”
“I love you too. “ He looks conflicted “But i wish you wouldn’t-“
“I know. But you know as well as I do that wishing never got nobody nowhere.”
Ganke stands up and shrugs off the well trodden argument, moving to sit on the windowsill and leaning his head on the glass.
The sinister purple light of the night leaks in through the half blinded window, casting Ganke’s skin a muddy lavender. Even a city as ugly as this one looks beautiful reflected in his eyes.
Maybe, seeing it like this, Miles understands why Ganke wants to save it so much.
“Are you staying over?”
Miles nods and tugs his pants off, pulling his shirt after.
Ganke’s eyebrows crease as his eyes flick over Miles’ chest.
“I’ll get the neosporin and bandages. Gotta replace that one from yesterday too.”
He slides off the sill, cupping Miles’ elbow as he passes. Miles, briefly, feels so deeply loved that he isn’t sure what to do with himself.
Ganke’s mom finds him like this, standing in nothing but his boxers with wet eyes, staring blankly at where Ganke had been a moment ago.
“Erm. Hello, Miles.”
Miles startles and stumbles backward, tripping over a pile of clothes and landing squarely on his ass.
“What happened to you?”
She asks, eyebrows touching the short, blunt cut of her bangs. The warm crows feet around her eyes crinkle in concentrated concern. It reminds him of his own mother.
“That’s what I'm trying to figure out.”
Ganke says, pushing through the door in a flurry of antiseptic and bandages and salve.
“Also, why are you crying?”
He adds, entirely unsympathetically. Miles’ throat is tight with how much he loves him.
“I’m not.”
“And? So? What happened there?”
She says, gesturing at the mangled mass on his chest.
“Fell while I was sparring with my uncle.”
She hums sympathetically “Be more careful. You’re always coming and stealing our medical supplies. Stop getting all banged up.” She tsks, and then gets a glint in her eye “Cannot be losing my future son in law.”
Miles ducks his head and nods, accepting a side hug from her as she shuffles out the door, clothes bin on her hip.
“Love you, puppy.”
“Love you too, Miss Lee.”
He watches her bustle out with a fond smile.
“Lose the misty eyes, she’s said that to you since we were seven.” Ganke says as he hip checks Miles onto the bed, “Time for me to play doctor.”
Biting his tongue, he tries not to groan as Ganke cleans the gravel and grime from the wound with saline solution and a cotton pad. While he wraps a bandage around Miles’ ribs, he asks, softly
“So…what actually happened, huh?”
He thumbs Miles’ cheek.
“Bad fight. Got kicked real hard in the ribs.”
He hisses in sympathy, “Geez. Sometimes I can't believe the shit you go through, man.”
After he’s capped the bottles and thrown the bandages on the nightstand, he rolls into the bed next to him.
“Shove over, I shouldn’t be on the side you’ve got that boo-boo.”
Miles tries to see the smirk he knows Ganke is making in the dark. When he can’t he finds it with his fingers, pressing his index into the dimple in his cheek.
“Go to sleep, weirdo.” Ganke says, but settles his palm on the curve of Miles’ hipbone and drops a leg over one of his.