Archive of Our Own ^beta

One day I woke up 

And we no longer spoke 

The same language 

I haven’t heard from you since

~Hisham Siddiqi

“Fuck!” A trash can is sent flying, soaring down the hallway. Passing students keep their heads down as they scurry past, wisely avoiding the scene. Xeno meanwhile, watches in quiet satisfaction as bits of trash hurl through the air with every subsequent insult, every additional rampage an accurate reflection of Alan’s true nature. 

“Would you calm down already?” Liam twirls a piece of his heavily styled hair, “Snyder’s not even here.” 

Alan whips around–fury burning his whole face in a mottled red. He stomps right up to Liam, jabbing a finger hard into the other’s sternum. “Get it through that ridiculously thick head of yours–we are supposed to be the best. We are supposed to be the elite.” Alan roughly grabs Liam’s chin, hinting wildly at the main notice board where all of the best student achievements and awards are posted. “And that uncouth, arrogant fag is somehow the next Shakespeare?” 

Liam snorts, swats Alan’s hands away, “It’s just a poem. Why in God’s name do you care so much?”

Because he needs to win. Because his ego’s more fragile than cut glass. Because for all your money and all your posturing, none of you can beat Stanley.  Xeno conceals his thoughts with a distasteful curl of his lip–siding neither party outwardly. 

Alan continues his out of proportion rant, unused to being so obviously beaten; as the group attempts talk him down while preventing further altercation between him and Liam. Rupert and Randall placating, Elijah admonishing Liam, Calvin admiring his form in the reflection of the notice board glass. 

Humanity at its very finest– Imbeciles. 

And you’re with them. 

Xeno folds his hands behind him, fingernails cutting into flesh. He pretends to care about the inane drama before him, he pretends to be disinterested in the foolscap paper pinned on the board. Look at me. A flash of yellow eyes, sharp and too fleeting. You know you want to– look at me. 

Siren call. Dark eyes trace each line of the poem–drinks in the controlled weight of pen on paper, mumbles along to the rhythm of the words. Cradles them in his mouth, savouring each gem–does what his heart dares not.

Imagines Stanley hunched over his desk; or more likely his knee, propping up the paper on a book there, frown lines etched deeply as he writes and rewrites.

It’s not his place, but Xeno is so proud of and happy for him. 

He ignores the overwhelming pang emanating from his chest, tries to breathe through its chokehold.

He allows himself a millisecond, to indulge in the fantasy of a world where they are still friends.

He could’ve gone somewhere else. After the move–his parents citing better transportation and distances closer to the city centre– he could have chosen any other high school. A more prestigious one, or a more well-connected one– Carnegie Vanguard, Eastwood or even St. Johns. But of course, he chose this one because Stanley was here. 

“Well, well. It would seem that the eyesore has decided to show up today, after all.” 

Xeno turns dutifully; and not for the first time, wonders how they’ve stumbled to this point. 

Stanley strides into class, his shoulder-length hair gathered into a small ponytail at the nape. His plethora of silver piercings glint beneath the murky overhead lights–tiny pinpricks of stars. Xeno categorises them again–the burnished darker silver stud on his tragus, the long industrial bar, the fish hook daiths. His gaze lingers on the simple ring on his helix, and the short silver chain on his lobe–the first two which Xeno had done for him with nothing but a needle, a flame, and a potato; sequestered in a corner of his parent’s backyard. 

There’s a new one now–a vertical on his right brow, the twin silver studs undulating with any arch or frown. Xeno wonders if the blond had it done by a professional; or one of his more risk-taking artist friends had the honour. He worries about another potential injury during a fight but ah, he doesn’t need to fight on my behalf anymore. 

He doesn’t examine the reason why a stone has made a perch on his chest; crushing crushing crushing. 

Liam deliberately turns his back to Stanley as the latter kicks out a chair, taking his seat at the far end of the classroom. “We should complain, you know.” Liam combs back his stray bangs with a pinky, “It’s such a disruption to class; aesthetically.”

“Now, now,” Alan barely makes an effort to placate– he knows he doesn’t need to. At the end of the day, all his loyal followers will bow obediently to his words. “Why waste your time and energy on someone who’s evidently beyond saving? If you’re that gung-ho about making a change, perhaps you should write-up the teachers and administration who are allowing this to happen without at least a suspension.” 

There’s a retort on Xeno’s tongue so acidic it burns, but he forces himself to swallow it–puts on his practiced docile smile, the one which helps keep his place in the circle. The pit in his stomach churns as they continue their base insults, targeting all the little things which makes Stanley so different from their clean-cut preppy style. 

Stanley’s eyeliner– which had started as thin outlines at first; had steadily increased in thickness and visibility throughout the past year. His clothes– obviously thrifted, not bought off pristine racks from established branded stores. Leather jackets and dark wash jeans in various stages of distress; heavy military boots scuffed to hell and back. The most damning aspect– Stanley’s lipstick, today a deep cherry red. 

He recalls Stanley’s chronic condition of chapped lips– skin around them whitish, torn, spotted with flecks of blood. The blond would worry them over every inconvenience, and they cracked even  further. Back then, Xeno did the only logical thing he could– he climbed up to his mother’s dressing table, and swiped all her lip balms. There were organics, there were medical grades, and there were ones tinted in various fruit-flavoured colours. Strawberry, watermelon, peach; but Stanley’s favourite has always been cherry. It has always been Xeno’s favourite too. 

The twins snicker as Stanley flips his books open, lazily twirling a pen while he scans the lines on the pages. “Eww,” Rupert enthuses, scrubbing his lips with a forearm; Randall echoes both sentiment and action back. 

Xeno has the urge to smash their heads together; grips his knees where they’re out of sight instead. He doesn’t commit the violence they so deserve, but he can’t play along to their cruelty. Not when it  was directed towards Stanley. Not when it was about the only person he could have called his ‘friend’. 

You’re not now, aren’t you? Presumptuous, that he’d need any of your useless help. Xeno bites the inside of his cheeks to keep from yelling, from making a scene.  It would be an act of idiocy to flush all his efforts down the drain now; no matter how many times he slashed his own heart in repentance. Stay nice, he chants the worn mantra, turning it around and around. Don’t forget how easy you have it now.

It was a natural process, he supposed. 

The masses will always flock to the loudest person as their leader– who often offers nothing except their gift of blabber and pockets heaving with cash. The more cunning ones will see to bolster their little empire with talent– people with actual expertise who unfortunately lack resources. People who will trade their morals, their thoughts, their selves; for a modicum of cash or respect. People who are desperate enough. 

Xeno had been desperate from day one. 

Elementary school was the period of alienation. Middle school graduated into active ostracisation from both students and teachers– no one likes it when you’re smarter or better than them. They like it less when you fail to engage in the thousands of social niceties, when you aren’t humble about your talents, when you don’t play the game according to their rules. 

Sure, you can be smart. But you’ll have to complete the group work on your own, and let them take credit for it. Sure, you can be quirky. But only till a certain degree deemed harmless and entertaining to be made fun of. Sure, you can have your own opinions. But you still must agree with every single collective opinion of the group, to show ‘solidarity’. 

Sure, you can choose to be your own person. But you’ll never be inducted into the born privilege of the elite. You will always be nothing. 

He’s ashamed of it; but he now has access to the materials in the school labs. His experiments and submitted papers are given the green light without his integrity being brought to question. He can walk the halls without being shoved, he can eat in the cafeteria without being pelted by soggy  baked beans. He has a clean locker. He can stroll into the prefect’s lounge for a cup of good coffee from a working machine. He can live a normal high school life. 

Coward. Weakling. Traitor.

I know.

Xeno conceals his scowl at the swatches around him in distaste. Suffocating turtlenecks and sweaters, garish tweed patterns, ridiculous penny loafers, polo shirts, corduroy trousers– all in shades of tan, navy, khaki, black, soft yellows, creams, and so much fucking beige. 

He despises the tweed vest draped heavily across his shoulders, the dress shoes which were always impractical on the field, and the pockets of his slacks which could barely fit a phone and wallet. The 7:3 preppy hairstyle gives him a headache, but he persists.

He yearns for the multiple deep pockets of cargo pants to stuff all the parts and tools in, just a reach away. He wishes he could shatter the world of beige with a pair of Go-to-hell pants, but even that is seen as too transgressive. 

The residing principle is clear-cut:  If you can’t comply; the group has no need for you. 

As he got older, all he could think about were consequences. 

As he got older, all he could do was to change into someone he’s not– just to make it make sense. 

So he doesn’t flinch when Ms. Martinez distributes their graded poems; he doesn’t peep a retort at her scathing lecture on why art is important but most of them in class are too conceited to appreciate it. He pretends to agree with whatever insults Alan and co. whisper back and forth about how useless an English class is when everyone already speaks the language in America; how Literature is a waste of time, for which nut job would treat mere stories as being on par with more important, real-life subjects like math, business, and science? 

Indeed, why bother when communication is more efficient when relayed through numbers– at least they don’t lie. 

But he remembers the beauty of words— his mother reading to him when young, touching 3D fuzzy pictures on children’s books, which didn’t appeal to him as much as the rich descriptions which could transport him to another world.

Just another memory now, stored on a shelf of bygone innocence.

So when what should have been a routine tirade on the merits of language deviates; when Ms. Martinez proudly holds up a student’s paper and praises it as the most thoughtful and arresting response; when she announces the name Stanley Snyder–

All eyes immediately turned, shades of disbelief and awe in varying measures. Xeno clocks the way Stanley’s boots shuffle uncomfortably, how he folds his arms and braces them on the edge of the desk– bewildered, slightly afraid, but facing the danger of it head on. 

Xeno wants to offer a hand, to let Stanley fidget with his fingers like he used to when they were children. He wants to ease the tension in those shoulders, to take any worry or doubt away.

He openly stares instead at the slight upward curve of the other’s lips, the intensity of honeyed eyes, the excitement coiled in his frame even as he tries to play it off coolly. On the cusp of victory. Beautiful. Elegant. Unreachable.

He despairs internally when Stanley declines to read his work in front of the class, blush tinting his ears in a rare show of bashfulness. Saves the precious image of it in his mind– notes with threads of jealousy who else in class has done the same. 

Ms. Martinez graciously reads it herself; and Xeno sharpens his focus, gobbles every word  to be re-examined later, to be held and loved in private. 

New winds
Stir up trouble
Splittin’ vessels
Tearing sails 

 

Rope burns
Scars I want to keep
The dream I see 
When still awake 

 

Withering flower 
Nodding at the sea
Your preferred music–
I’ve the whole album

 

Jokes once precious 
Repeated to an audience of one 
Moments remembered with you–
Awful, awful, and shimmering 

 

Certainties
From so long ago–
Breaking waves
Singing the same song 

 

 

I’ll keep waving 
To your shadow
From the 
Opposite shore

 

I’ll keep waving
To our selves–
All our selves
From all befores

 

Alan scoffs, something about improper grammar and meter, which breaks the spell and makes Xeno want to break his nose. 

It’s unpolished and raw, it’s a bit childish yet sincere in the way that only Stanley can make it charming. Xeno chances a glance at their poet– who hides in he collar of his jacket, fingers twisting themselves into knots, complex as the mix of joy and embarrassment painted on his fine features. 

Catches Stanley’s eyes by accident– the blond promptly looking away. 

Xeno crumples his own slapdash submission, tucks it into the satchel with his shame. 

It is on Tuesdays when he finally feels a semblance of retiring to himself. It is on Tuesdays when he permits himself to break away from the suffocating structures of limited curriculum and social navigation. 

Classes on Tuesdays last only until 3pm, with the rest of the two hours reserved for club activities. Alan and most of his posse would be pretending to learn golfing. Calvin would be at the gym, unsurprisingly. Liam would only join them halfway, only after he has attended to whatever he needed in the fashion club. 

Xeno attended the astrobiophysic club religiously— of which he is the president and the only member. 

Cheater, a slightly nasally voice, hint of a smirk reflected in golden eyes. Xeno shakes his head to be rid of it. 

His advisor and the school admin would have noting to complain about— Xeno did his dues. He wrote up analyses and reports for fun in his spare time; he certainly would never be lacking. 

Tuesdays are sacred— Tuesdays are for taking a bus to the Truck Yard, still devoid of massive crowds in the middle the afternoon. Food trucks galore in the open space, in the midst of being set up. Vendors out and about— hauling cargo, frying up dishes before the rush; their chatter mingling with the myriad of smells and colours of the venue.

He loves this— the hum of energy in the air, charged with anticipation and familiarity. He waves to the vendors, most of who they know each other by sight; and even spends sometime asking after them when he can. Technically, those under 18 should be accompanied by a guardian, as alcoholic beverages are served on the grounds; but Xeno feels much older than his fifteen years. People have already teased him about having the habits of a grandpa who hates retirement. That, coupled with the fact that he and Stanley used to sneak here after school since they were ten, secures his pass to roam wherever he liked. 

“Hey, be careful with those,” a pale and weathered hand snags the scissors from him, leaving the leeks in his left grip suspended. 

“I am being careful,” Xeno retorts, aware of how petulant he sounds. 

Ririko taps the metal bowl of cuttings, “This won’t earn you those gyoza tacos, by the way.” 

He has to admit, grimacing at the uneven green and white logs, that the quality leaves much to be desired. “I’m sorry–”

Ririko waves the apology away. “Something on your mind?” She gestures for the leeks, sets them aside, and leans against the prep table. Her cat-like eyes search his, and Xeno has to stop himself from squirming. She drums her fingers on the edge of the table. “Hm, a girl? Wait, wait, no–”

“It’s nothing,” Xeno assures a little forcefully, knowing that she’ll uncover the truth with relative ease. He and Stanley used to visit all the time back then, after all. 

She clicks her tongue at him, mutters something in Japanese.

“–miso?”

“Nou miso ga tarinai,” she sighs, starting on the tempura batter. “Means that you’re lacking in brain matter.”

“I am not–”

“Have you talked to Stanley?” she presses, deftly mixing ingredients without needing to measure them.

Xeno’s mouth clamps shut, wordlessly drawing the leeks back to him. He reaches for the scissors, but Ririko dangles them away with the pointed stare that all mothers employ towards their children. 

“He’s–” Lines of undulating poetry, blue waves pinned against a drab board. Tentative smile on cherry lips, as if afraid of waking from a dream. “He’s doing fine.” The tract of his throat burns. He swallows bitterly, “He’s doing great without me, actually.” Holds up a hand for the scissors, ignores the way his voice breaks, ignores Ririko’s concerned gaze. 

“Xeno,” Ririko begins gently, “I am just worried about you two.”

“We’re okay–”

“Please, I’ve been feeding you both since you were children.” She smacks him lightly on the shoulder with a silicone spatula, traces a circle around her own face with it. “Everything written, on your face.” 

Ririko purses her lips, passes the scissors after a long beat. They resume their work, companionable if not a tad tense. Xeno’s mind wanders at the repetitive task– a double-edged sword which offers one of the best solutions to calm his rocket-fuelled noggin at the cost of mostly painfully embarrassing self-introspection. 

If only Alan and his troupe, or anyone from school really, could see him now. Xeno Houston Wingfield– that smart aleck who knew too much, who could debate with teachers and nearly always win, who buried his nose in books, and who Alan’s posse could count on for any academic work. 

Xeno– who is looking right into a pair of golden eyes, startled as his own. 

“Oh, Stanley is that you?” Ririko beckons enthusiastically as she shields her eyes from the sun.

Xeno blanches; catches a similar look on the blond from afar, but nothing could stop the force which is Ririko. She flaps her hand harder at him, “What are you dawdling there for? Get over here already!” 

The house is dark and cold as a morgue– the usual. Nothing greets him as he creaks the front door open, and no one calls out to him as it closes with a squeak. So still the dust hasn’t stirred. 

Xeno heads straight to his room, dumping his satchel with renewed distaste every single time the flimsy strap digs into his shoulder. He used to haul around much more than just textbooks in his backpack with relative ease; but they aren’t ‘preppy’ enough allegedly. He frowns, kicking the satchel to his desk. 

He enters the kitchen at the same time his father does, cursing his luck. The older man shuffles out of his study in ratty slippers;  dishevelled, needing coffee and sleep. His dark eyes meet Xeno’s own, so similar yet so foreign. 

Xeno ducks– he never wants to become like this. Disillusioned, empty gaze; working only at the behest of the company despite being a top astrophysicist, willingly shackled to mediocre familiarity. “Mother’s out,” he says instead, poking at the neon post-it on the island counter between them. 

His father barely blinks, only deflates with a weary sigh. “Another conference, probably.” 

Is that what we’re calling cheating these days? He pins the retort down, guards it behind the invisible seething of his teeth. He knows the signs. His mother wearing different perfumes, odd accessories popping up. Long absences, returning home smelling like a brewery. It could either be a man or a woman, always not as smart but much better in bed. His mother’s mood– bright, happy, what Xeno imagines she used to be when younger– until the fling comes to an end, and the cycle starts again. 

His father shrugs, takes a sip out of a cold pot of coffee. Shuffles back to his room, digging into the pockets of his tattered cardigan, and drops a handful of bills onto the counter without counting. “Something sour, but I don’t want it too spicy.” 

Xeno nods dutifully, already sorting through the piles of flyers in their junk drawer for coupons, and bemoaning the lack of fare. A single food truck like Ririko’s offered so much more compared to bland pizzas and American-commercialised Chinese takeout. 

As he watches the door to his father’s study close, he would always wonder why his parents ever married past their shared academic field. He would always think about the time his father was drunk on another batch of experimental failings and a half a bottle of whiskey. How he kept raving about orchestras and cellos. How the cellist was so beautiful, how she played a song which took him to space without ever needing to leave his seat– the darkness expanding around him endlessly to reveal galaxies of stars.

He would wonder about his father’s cello in the corner. Never played, but always tuned. Fingers tracing the strings with a forlorn look. Decoration dusted with memories. 

A flash of golden eyes in inky waves. Xeno crumples an unwanted pizza place flyer as the memory of that afternoon replays itself, his cheeks heating to fever pitch. 

Stupid. 

Stanley, in all his alternative dress glory, roped in by an insistent Ririko to come help peel the edamame by the food truck. His refusals and excuses flat out rejected by her reminder of how much free food she fed them both in the past. She sandwiched the blond between herself and Xeno, set him to work immediately as she asked after his health, how he was doing in school. 

Awkward tension so thick it choked them, while Ririko continued with her small talk cheerily. Their arms so close, Xeno could feel the line of heat from them. Could smell a faint whiff of cologne– the odd vanilla and gunpowder one they pilfered from a fancy store eons past. Couldn’t tell if the tightness in his chest was an allergic reaction. 

The leeks in his hand shook, but he persevered. Ririko talked enough to fill the silence between them, and soon the bowls were filled with prepped vegetables. They stood ramrod straight, hands empty. Stanley’s shallow puffs of breath, smelling of cigarettes.  

He panicked then, wondered if he could escape from the situation if he stabbed himself hard enough with the scissors; but thankfully Ririko let them off with hearty thanks and a box each of her Japanese-Mexican fusion treats. 

They bolted off in different directions. The taco gyoza Ririko had prepared was delicious, but Xeno doesn’t think his heart could take another close encounter like that. Knowing the cunning businesswoman, he’s mostly sure that she would go out of her way to orchestrate something similar in the future.

He clutches at the dull ache in his chest. For some reason, he doesn’t dread it as much as he thought it would. 

“Tomatoes first, then onions,” Ririko instructs, holding up both vegetables towards Xeno, who receives them with a nod. She pulls them back just before they reach, “If you switch the order, I will know.” Xeno swallows, unwilling to discover the extent of her ire. 

Beside him, a muffled sound like a snicker from Stanley. “You, mochi,” Ririko announces, slapping a bag of glutinous rice flour. “I need it very smooth, you remember how to do it?” Stanley nods curtly, already grabbing a pack of sugar to be added. Ririko grins, praising them in Japanese. 

Xeno should be thankful that they’re positioned further away this time. He dices the small mountain of vegetables as fast as he can on one worktable, while Stanley moulds and pounds the mochi on a separate one. Loud noises from the chopping and pounding obliterates the need for talk, but still the awkward tension lingers. 

The tomatoes are easy enough to get through, though they leave his hands slimy. He reaches for the bowl of water to wash off the residue as he swipes a washcloth from the other end– is startled at the brush of the other’s hand. Shocked dark eyes meet honeyed ones for the briefest second; before they both spin away. 

This is ridiculous. Xeno huffs, gesturing for the other to go first. He decidedly does not eye how lean muscles in a tanned arm stretch. He also does not blush. No. He ignores the way those same arms strain when pounding the mochi. The banging of fists against the metal table do nothing to help. The onions, he refocuses, sharpening the knife on a slab with more force than necessary. 

Chop. Bang. Chop. Bang. 

Maybe it was the combined force of their efforts that did it, but a large bowl of corn before them teeters. Stanley barely catches it by the lip, while Xeno’s arm darts to secure the wobbling base of the stool– choked breaths caught in their throats. Xeno steadies the stool, Stanley rebalances the bowl. A few yellow dots litter the patched grass of the ground. 

Xeno looks at Stanley, and Stanley looks back. Without needing any further communication, they swiftly pick up the stray corn, and toss them back into the bowl. 

Xeno looks at Stanley, and Stanley looks back– shyly grinning. 

Don’t! He yells at himself, fingernails digging into palms; but unable to look away, unable to resist the siren call, because this isn’t just anyone, it’s his best friend, it’s Stanley–  “I don’t have enough cash to bail us if we’re sued.” 

Oh and isn’t that just the most intelligent thing to say after a year of radio silence. Xeno slaps himself, words tripping each other up before they even reach the starting line. He’s aware, much too aware, of how red he’s becoming and fast. “That’s not– I mean– I don’t–!”

Thunder strike. A peal of golden laughter, breaking through the clouds. Xeno can’t look away. 

“Right,” Stanley shakes his head, grin still present. When he looks up, his gaze is conspiratorial, is familiar and warm, “Guess we better not get caught then.” 

It’s all Xeno can do to push past the growing lump in his throat, rasping a weak “Yeah.” 

Stanley stares pointedly at his hand, “So you can put down the murder weapon, Holmes. Ain’t no one’s coming after us.” 

The knife clatters, and Xeno wants to vanish immediately. Stanley’s guffaws rings in his ears, unseemly hiccups and wheezes. 

They can’t hear it; but something clicks back into place. 

They can hear how Ririko yells at them to stop fooling around though, and scramble back to their stations to complete their tasks at the double. 

Xeno chops up each onion like they’ve personally offended him; pretends it’s them which makes his eyes water and his chest heave. 

It happens in slow motion: the sinking horror of missing where his Math textbook should have been in his satchel. He had revised the topic last night, but had been too distracted by the latest research papers of potentially producing artificial universal blood. It was on his desk back home. All of it was on his desk back home. 

Of all the mistakes he could have made– 

There’s a dull panic throbbing at the back of his head. Mr. Weizenberg was famous for being strict and intolerable, punishing anyone for the slightest offence. Xeno curses under his breath; he could take physical punishment, what he’s more concerned about is how the teacher would needlessly exaggerate issues when marking up their student records. 

The glare of pristine textbooks lined up perfectly around him feels suffocating. Get it together, find a way out of this. He bites down the nausea threatening to spill, parses through the best reasons he could possibly give, even as the teacher enters–

Math textbook. Dropped onto his desk from heaven. 

He glances up just in time to catch the flutter of Stanley’s jacket on his nose, the way sharp golden eyes pin him down with a silent Stay here. The blond casually strides up to the teacher, announcing that he forgot his textbook. 

Xeno’s heart twists as Stanley and a few others in the same boat are subjected to a volley of scolding, then each made to stand outside hall holding a bucket of water above their heads. It twists further when he peeks past the class windows, sees Stanley discreetly help a short girl steady her bucket lest she drench herself. The kindness touches him, in tandem with choking tendrils of jealousy. 

You’ve no right, he turns to face the board, angry at himself. Runs his fingers over Stanley's name scrawled boldly on the first page, and flips it to today’s lesson. 

Daifuku gorditas; made with thin mochi skin as barrier, and filled with chicharron or hanpen.  Tamagoyaki quesadilla; eggs, tomatoes, some mole, and cheese. Rice cake churros; pleasantly stretchy and stolen from Korean tteok. Mochi tamales. Tempura guacamole. 

Xeno’s stomach rumbles at the extensive list Ririko expertly writes on the long chalkboard. True to form, she adds simple yet cute drawings for some of the higher-end items, enticing customers even more. 

The other food trucks don’t pale too much in comparison either when it comes to their abundant offerings— wings, cajun fries, onion rings, Philly cheesesteaks, griddle muffins, tacos of every kind, bright cake pops, funnel cake, cotton candy. 

Stepping into the area is pure foodie paradise. 

“What’s that?” Stanley points with his clean hand to a drawing on the board; the other cramping from all the batter stirring. 

Ririko’s chalk taps, “Plums. Like my name, you know?” She gestures in the air, “ ‘Riri’ is plums. ‘Ko’ for child.” Two gentle taps on her own sternum, confident smile. “Ririko.” 

Both teenagers ooh and ahh in understanding. 

“You’ve a lovely name,” Xeno compliments sincerely. 

Stanley nods, “Yeah, the sound of it too, has a nice rhythm to it.” 

“Ah, mezurashii na,” Ririko gasps, amending herself at their confused stares. “I mean it’s rare, usually non-Japanese people won’t notice the how do you say,” she claps her hands thrice lightly, in the tempo of how her name is said, “the yin po– the ah, you said ‘rhythm’? Something like that.” 

“Sorry, is that–”

“No, no, it’s a good thing!” Ririko reassures in a flutter of hands, “Means you are very attuned, very observant to the world and people around you.” 

It may be a rarer instance still to see Stanley so bashful, and Xeno can’t help the way his own pulse quickens at the sight of delicate redness staining the other’s cheeks. His mouth moves before he can process it, “Stanley’s a poet.” 

He feels only slightly guilty as Stanley shoots him a glare so harsh it would murder any lesser man. He feels more proud and vindicated, when he and Ririko manage to snatch the blond’s backpack to extract the original copy of his poem, Ririko praising it to the skies and beyond.

Stanley grasps weakly for the poem back, protesting and blushing but obviously pleased. 

You should be, you deserve it. Everyone should praise you. Everyone should know how amazing you are. Xeno scowls at the memory of Alan’s tantrum. Idiots.

“It’s nothing special–”

“Don’t say that,” Xeno’s voice cuts through them, fists curling on his slacks. He locks his gaze with golden ones, a ball of truth bubbling its way to the surface, “You’re damn special, Stanley Snyder. No one else could even come close. ” 

It takes a few seconds– Ririko’s wide and knowing eyes, and the force of Stanley’s blush– to fully realise what he said. The noise Xeno makes is a cross between speaking and groaning; he fights off his own flush. 

“It’s merely fact,” he coughs, returns to his task of portioning rice into paper bowls for the don bentos. Hears Stanley’s soft “Thank you”; scoops the rice faster. 

For the crab cream croquette, he chants in his mind as a talisman to ward off dangerously fond thoughts, I’m doing this for the crab cream croquette. 

“Actually I’ve been thinking about it, but what do your names mean?” Xeno hears Ririko ask. 

Xeno? What kind of name is that? Weird. Weirdo. You think it makes you better than us? Nerd. Go away. Go away . 

Xeno shakes his head, dispelling the echoes of bullies past. This is different. This is not school. A true and tried, self-depreciating one-liner is on his tongue– the one designed specifically to erase his oddity behind a shrug and a crooked smile– but Stanley beats him to it. 

“In Greek, ‘Xeno’ can be read as ‘stranger’, but it’s more accurately known as ‘guest from xénos’. According to the Law of Xenia, any guest should be offered the best seat in the house, the largest plate and the fullest glass of wine.” Stanley states, gold eyes burning intensely as they hook onto dark ones. Xeno’s breath hitches. “It means that the stranger is of utmost importance, and whoever defers from the law should be punished for not paying due respect.” 

“Oh that’s a good fit for our Xeno!” Ririko slaps the mentioned boy on his back. “And what about yours?” 

Stanley grimaces, “Not much of a history there, just that in Old English, ‘Stanley’ means ‘stoney field’.” He waves a hand, “Sounds like a grandpa, I know.”

“Or a 50-year old at Home Depot,” Xeno snarks, earning a withering glare. 

“It’s amazing how you remember all that,” Ririko praises, which Xeno has to agree with. Stanley had rattled off the facts smoothly, as if he had memorised them so much it’s a part of his being. 

He places the rice bowl down, “Well a ‘stoney field’ can be interpreted as unchanging, I suppose. Unwavering.” 

Stanley’s gaze slides away, “Maybe.” 

“Names are important,” Ririko pats them both on the back. “Like my son, Hifumi. In kanji, it’s written literally as ‘1, 2, 3’, and I wanted him to take it a step at a time, but no of course he wouldn’t listen–”

Xeno catches Stanley’s fond smile above Ririko’s head, listening to her rant about her errant musician/comedian/host son who hasn’t returned any of her calls in the last eight hours. 

How he’s missed seeing the blond smile like that. 

Your own fault. You chose the path. 

Ririko cuts off her tirade, drawn to the front by another vendor about borrowing some ingredients. They watch the vendors negotiate in the near distance, falling into an uneasy silence. 

Again, this thing between them. Elephant in the room. Wall hardened by months of nothingness. 

Collar of the button-up digging into his skin, restricting words and breath. 

Where could he even start? 

A flutter of white jolts him– Stanley whooshes a translucent tarp over the prepped paper bowls. 

“Keep the flies out,” he explains needlessly, staring at the bowls as if they could divine his future. 

They hear Ririko puttering around in the kitchen on the truck, metal cabinets banging. A dry breeze renders the already oppressive heat of the late afternoon unbearable. High up in the trees, a cicada cries. “Stan–”

“They treating you right? Cause if they don’t–” Stanley holds up a fist. 

Do I tell you everything? What can I spare you from? How can I divulge every detail, when this is the first time since we were children that your knuckles are free from scars, that you’re able to wear as many piercings as you like without the worry of being punched right back. 

“They can be too much sometimes, but it helps with opportunities,” Xeno answers as truthful as he’s able– renews his resolve to minimise interference and pain. The posse, they can undermine him all they want; as long as they keep their clutches away from the person who matters most. 

Stanley nods, sharp and curt. “It’s survival,” he grinds out. 

They can’t meet each other’s eyes. The silence stretches– suffocating taffy. 

“What about you?” Xeno points to his own face, dread coiling, “Does– does your Pa know?” 

Coarse, barking laugh. “Bastard’s drunk most of his life. Sure, he gives me a hard time about it when he does register all this, but–” Stanley plants both hands on his hips, and deflates with a sigh, “But I don’t wanna hide. I’m tired of hiding, Xe.” 

“I don’t know where you find the strength,” he bows his head, feeling inadequate. 

Stanley hesitates, tugging his bangs. “I got it from you,” he says in a rush, pulling off the bandage. 

“Me?” 

“You said you’re gonna change the world, right? You’re gonna get those scholarships, and the early placings. And you’re already on the path to do that.” A smile– too soft and fond, too knowing, “I don’t doubt that for a lick of a second.” 

“Oh, you’re a poet for sure,” Xeno mutters, ducking to hide the redness. 

Stanley’s ‘what’s that?’ is unceremoniously interrupted by the presence of a cow which Ririko dragged over for her neighbouring vendor– Xeno may just start worshipping the animals for their timing.

Brunch with "the lads" as they liked to call themselves, is always exhausting.

A horridly stuffy affair, they are only allowed to address each other by surnames like adults. Alan says it's good manners and practice, but Xeno notes that it makes them pretentious and distanced. 

Liam arrives late again, all movie star boy-next-door good looks, scrubbing his arm vigorously. He was helping an old lady cross the street, he says. She smelt like mouldy laundry, he says. She clutched onto my arm with a death grip, I was worried a bit whether her black fingernails were about to administer diseases, he says. He harasses a poor waiter for disinfectant. 

They launch into debate about women– mainly how they want their girlfriends to be pretty and smart, but not too smart. "Gotta keep them stupid and submissive,” Elijah says, tearing into another overpriced bagel. 

Someone talks about his older brother buying an apartment near the marina. How it’s bare except for a bed and amnesties. How it’s used solely for fucking up against the large panelled windows. "And even then the view is so much better than the fuck.” Cackles all around.  

Xeno grips the top of his knees, tries his damnest not to upend the entire brunch table, tries to resist the thoughts of pouring piping hot tea down the seats of their pants. 

He surreptitiously counts the bills in his wallet, struggling to pay even though he's ordered the cheapest thing on the menu: a paltry appetiser of overdone garlic bread and a dab of butter. Relies on the kindness of the establishment for uncharged table water.  

The rest of them order extravagantly but don't finish, saying how it ruins their diet plans. Rupert is on team no coconut oil, while Randall is on team no palm oil. 

Leave. The sticky grime from the interaction coats him, his silence equivalent to agreement. Leave. 

Alan casually reminds Xeno that he should buy them a round to celebrate; once the proposal for his latest project has been green-lit– a feat thanks to the precious connections his family helped bridge. 

Xeno unclenches his fist– smiles. 

He tries to talk to Stanley at school; but the obstacles always prove to be too tall for him to climb. 

Alan and his preppy posse, their relentless group affirmations and tightening collars of control. 

Sometimes, he would see the hurt in Stanley’s bright eyes from the group’s idiotic comments– and kicks himself for it. 

“It’s fine” Stanley would say later, around a mouthful of tacos,  “It’s survival, yeah? Fake it till you make it, Xe.” 

He can only nod in agreement– cacophony of words too muddled to parse. 

Stanley rolls his eyes, flicking him on the forehead, “You think about everything too much, you’ll break your own heart.” Honeyed eyes squint then, hooking a finger to the bridge of Xeno’s oversized glasses, “Read too much in the dark?” 

“Hardly,” Xeno scoffs, suddenly self-conscious. It’s Stanley, he reminds himself. You owe him this much, at least. “They, well,” he harrumphs, eyes darting to anywhere but the blond before him, settling on an interesting spot of grass beneath the other’s boot. “They say it’s more fashionable this way, and it covers up my forehead…” 

Stanley leans in close, to a distance reminiscent of when they were children; and Xeno is proud of himself for not letting out an indecent screech. He swipes back stray strands of silver hair which had loosened from the strict 7:3 combover. A teasing grin, "Oh look a Boeing’s on the landing strip.” 

“Fuck. You.” Xeno grates, picking up the yakitori skewers menacingly. 

“Whoa there Vlad, violence is not the answer!” 

The silver skewers shine sharp as Xeno’s smile. He throws one with unnerving force and accuracy, the tip of the skewer piercing the potato in the blond’s hands with a clean thunk. 

“I like your big ass forehead,” Stanley blurts, eyes wide as platters at the punctured potato. 

A skewer lays delicately on his cheek as he crosses his arms, “I see your default is flattery as self-preservation. Alas,” the remaining skewers fan out like blades between his fingers, “I’m not so easily swayed.” 

Stanley clicks his tongue, tries to shimmy the skewer out of the poor potato without damaging it further. “ ’S not empty flattery,” he mumbles to the vegetable in his hand, tips of his ears reddening, “You look better when your eyes are unobstructed.” 

Xeno’s pulse rabbits, Don’t praise me like that. He gestures for the potato, sliding out the skewer easily; enjoys the shock on the other’s face. 

“How the hell did you do that?” 

Xeno smirks, a finger coming to rest on his lips, “Physics.” 

He stuffs another tissue up his nose, sneezing from the cold. If not for the library being blissfully  open but empty this early in the morning; Xeno would happily still be buried in his nest of makeshift blankets crafted from papers, textbooks, and garish candy wrappers. 

Seas of white mist roll across vacant fields, bathing the world in grey dread. Xeno blinks, scrubbing sleep from his eyes as they clock onto a darker shape– a ship emerging through the fog. His breath hitches at the sight of a purpling bruise on high cheekbones he knows too well. 

“What are you doing?” Stanley hisses when Xeno accosts him, thin hands surprisingly strong as they held onto the other’s wrist. He lowers his head, angling his body away from the school building. “Xe, people will see.” 

“Let them,” he grates past gritted teeth, fingers hovering above the injury– longing to soothe, but afraid to hurt. Already dark eyes deepening further as lances of fury surge through him. “Your Pa–?”

“Don’t,” Stanley grabs the other’s wrist, locking them into each other. 

Xeno grunts, swiftly pulling them across the field into the narrow strip of land between the labs and the incinerator. Their shoes and pant legs wet from the morning dew, crunching up the fresh smell of vegetation from young grass.

“Stand still,” he orders, planting Stanley into a shadowy corner; roots through his satchel. The glasses slip on the bridge of his nose, and he yanks them off in frustration. “Here,” he offers when he’s found the pesky tube of stick concealer, gestures for the other to lower his head a little. He makes quick work of blending the purple bruise into a colour as close as he can match to Stanley’s original skin tone; cursing the smallness of the tube and the off-colour substance. 

“Ow,” Stanley winces at a hard swipe, “You’re gonna scrub my face off at this rate.” 

“Sorry,” Xeno automatically replies, worry momentarily victorious against wrath; before the onslaught of anger obliterates it. He repeats the harsh motion, earning another yelp before smoothing over the concealer in gentle circles. “He can’t keep doing this.”

“He will,” and it’s the way that Stanley states it– clinical, certain– which kills Xeno inside. 

Eyes so gold they shine in the dim morning; searching. “Don’t do anything stupid.” He nudges the other’s hand away, misses the contact. “I’m serious. Okay?” Xeno grumbles something about protection services, and Stanley has to tug him up by the chin. “Xe, please,” doesn’t let go until the other nods, relenting. 

Stanley jerks his chin at the concealer still held with a vengeance in Xeno’s left hand. “Use that often?” 

“Hides the dark circles, sometimes.” Xeno scowls, “We have to look clean and fresh after all.” 

“Right,” Stanley mutters, for lack of anything else to say. He doesn’t understand their posse’s obsession with perfect aesthetics; and doesn’t want to. Points instead to his cheek, “Thanks, for this.” 

Pinkish blush dusts pale skin, teeth worrying a lower lip. “Don’t make it a habit.” 

“I won’t, I won’t,” the blond assures with a wave; already turning towards the main building. “Let’s scram before the hordes arrive.” 

Don’t go. Stay. I swear I’ll protect you, so please. Stay with me. Xeno crushes the concealer back into his satchel; looks up to blond hair being swallowed by the mist. 

At lunch, Alan complains about how rowdy and uncouth jocks are. Elijah joins in about the "artsy" students– so depressing and weird, living in fantasy worlds instead of reality. The whole group agrees that watching too much TV and movies can do that to you. 

Xeno plots a whole arc on how to torture a man so much, that he’ll be kept alive against his will. 

Handmade beef patty, seasoned and fried with tempura batter into a katsu. Bacon bits, thick slices of cheddar, fluffy buns. The burger is halved, then dunked into a pool of creamy cheese sauce. Gorgonzola, Monterey Jack; with a sprinkle of pepper, topped with fried garlic. The crowning glory– a hefty pile of parmesan, tumbling into the sauce like snow on a mountain. 

An absolute health hazard; but Xeno could care less as he attacks it with the vigour of Vikings, cheese of every variation staining his lower face and jaws like a hyena at a feast. 

“Slow down,” Ririko chides, pulling a handful of tissues from a repurposed biscuit tin. 

Xeno surfaces from the rabid haze of eating a slice of heaven just enough to mumble, “This is unbeatable, thank you!” 

Ririko’s expression is torn between pride and worry. She slaps the wad of tissues in front of the boy, and ruffles his hair, doubling the pressure of it at his futile attempts at swerving away. “You deserve a good meal after all your hard work!” She nods to the certificate stowed safely, far away from the cheese zone. “Congratulations Xeno!” 

Xeno takes a big bite of the burger, hiding red blushes. The burger tastes good, feels like a hunt long-earned. Ririko’s hands in his hair are warm as her words and genuine smile. Alan and the posse’s side glances, poorly hidden smirks. The sterile, cold walls of his own house. He wants to cry. 

“Ah Stanley, good timing!” Ririko crows, waving the blond over from a distance with the certificate held high. “Xeno won!” 

Xeno tries to shush her maximum volume, to no avail. As if he couldn’t be more embarrassed wth other vendors looking their way, Stanley actually sprints across the way to them, kicking up a trail of dust in his wake. 

Frantic gold eyes scan the thick paper– once, twice. Gaze lingering on the title of the award, cherry lips mouthing Xeno’s name. “You did it,” he exhales breathlessly, carding a hand through his ponytail and messing it up. “You crazy bastard, you actually won.”

World’s most difficult Chemistry assessment in academia. Notorious for stumping even active top chemists in their respective fields. A test given freely to any university, and now high school, student who was insane enough to try. Twenty pages, two and a half hours. Three questions yet to reach a proven consensus, meant to only be theorised. 

Xeno had received a separate email asking him for permission to use and further his written theories that morning. 

He munches on his burger smugly. 

Stanley looks at him mid-bite, gaze hard and determined, and shit Xeno knows that look, now’s not the time– 

“I’ve got cheese everywhere!” he yells desperately, but it doesn’t stop the blond from slamming into him and lifting him by the pits into the air. “Stanley!” he screeches, holding his cheese-stained hands aloft from landing on anything– though it may have been pointless seeing as how bits of cheese turn into stray projectiles as Stanley spins him around, laughing high and unfettered. 

“Stanley Ryder Snyder, put me down this instant!” 

“You’re gonna be in the papers for sure!” 

“Eh which one? I’ll have to buy two copies!” 

“Unhand me!” 

Stanley doesn’t even try to heed the angry threats from the boy in his arms, doesn’t dodge the splatters of cheese onto his own face and hair from the other’s cat-like swipes. His smile is so wide, it hurts his cheeks. “You’re a genius, Xe!” 

The warmth in his chest balloons close to bursting. Am I allowed to have this? Golden eyes glimmering in the sun, rarest of gems. Am I allowed to want more? Swallows past the lump in his throat, ducks to hide the tears brimming in his eyes. 

Slams a cheesy hand straight into the blond’s face– maybe if he sacrifices enough cheese, he can smudge the bright and sincere expression away. He’s gratified by Stanley’s indignant squawks. 

"They're good, I guess?" 

"They're kinda shitty, just admit it.” Stanley’s shoulder bumps into his, alleviating the ringing wall of noise blasted upon them. 

They watch today’s opening band– the only band who's not country.  That, and they're probably one of the few audience members who actually know what "sycophant" means in the band lyrics– it would be poor form to leave them performing their hearts out to rednecks who’ve written them off for paper cups of beer this early in the evening. 

Stanley and Xeno cheer dutifully from the side, loud enough to be heard but not drawing unwanted  attention from the half-drunk and hulking rednecks. 

The band makes a racket on stage, tearing through their second and third songs with aplomb. The lead singer screams passably into the mic, and Stanley even claps during the guitar solo. Xeno has to credit them for how confident they appear, giving it their all even though barely anyone's listening; some even scowling. 

The lead singer thanks the audience, reads off their socials written in glitzy pop-punk on a makeshift cardboard sign. Xeno sees Stanley balancing his cup of lime sweet tea, following the band on his phone. 

“Supportive,” he nods at the phone. “Though you’ve just insulted their music.” 

“What can I say,” Stanley shrugs, shoving his phone back into his pocket, “I like lost causes.” 

Do you like me? Xeno takes a long sip of his drink to drown the sentiment. 

They enjoy a bit more of the band’s efforts, before deciding to head back. Ririko would soon be setting up the front, and they’ll be able to get their grub from the open kitchen. Salmon and pesto spaghetti today, with miso chicken taquitos. Xeno’s stomach begins a choir. 

Their shoes crunch and drag against gravelly sand and balding patches of grass. Lights from the food trucks flicking on around them, guiding their path. Shoulders grazing against each other’s, very slightly. The ice cubes in their drinks have long melted, but they hold on to the dregs just the same. 

Stray gold tendrils whip across his vision, drawing attention to the ponytail unravelling wildly from  a half-snapped hair tie. 

“Hold this,” Xeno instructs, promptly extracting one of the many rubber bands he keeps in his pocket; a habit formed from helping Ririko secure completed bentos. "This may hurt a little,” he warns, tiptoeing in close. He releases the snapped hair tie; regathers the thick, golden tresses carefully, mindful not to tug too hard. The strands are sweaty from a day’s hard work, but he doesn’t mind. 

“There, all done,” he chirps, stepping back to admire his handiwork– combusts when he registers  the intimacy of his actions, and at how hard Stanley is blushing. He’s the colour of a sunset, of a wheat field on fire– honeyed eyes finding purchase on the ground, arm unconsciously lifted as if to shield himself. As if he ever could with how red he’s glowing. 

Xeno is positive he’s not doing much better. 

Silently, shakily; the drink is handed back to him. Xeno takes the now warmed drink. They walk back to Ririko’s food truck; Stanley’s neat ponytail bouncing with every step, skimming the base of his neck. Not another word leaves their flaming faces. 

Xeno wonders what people make of them– two red-faced, stalking figures; lengthening shadows blending together. 

Stanley presses fingers into his eyes; blinks hard to ensure he’s not hallucinating from paint or cigarette fumes. 

Xeno sits on the curb behind Ririko’s food truck– a normal occurrence, if not for the baby in his arms, and how the teen is blowing bubbles into the air to gargling infant giggles. The afternoon light surrounds them in a bright halo, dots of wildflowers pushing through concrete gather at the teen’s feet. The baby’s pudgy arms are raised towards Xeno; trusting. And Xeno– 

For the tiniest of moments his perpetual frown is smoothened, his smile and eyes soft, a slender finger raised gracefully to the small hands reaching out for him. Holy tableau. 

A volley of words, teases, praises, and thoughts not meant to be shared ever slam the gates of his teeth which he grinds shut painfully; bursting into jagged pieces. They slice up his mouth, blood stinking of reverence and desire and want choking him. Stanley swallows. 

Dark eyes meet his and widen before he could take a walk around the entire circuit to clear his head. ”Oh thank god you're here,” Xeno huffs, offloading the baby unto the blond immediately. 

“Xeno–!” he hisses, fumbling with the loosened blanket and sudden precious cargo dumped into his arms. “What the f–” bites his tongue as Xeno smirks, blowing bubbles in his direction. The baby giggles. 

“Care to explain?” Stanley grits, readjusting the baby and the thin blanket to sit more comfortably. But the infant squirms on her new throne, hands grappling at the front of the blond’s t-shirt, aiming for the tail of his hair next. 

Xeno chuckles, swishes the blond’s ponytail past his shoulder and far away from the mini menace. The baby makes a noise of protest, pouting at him. “Ririko’s friend came by and left her daughter here "for a bit”. Said she was going crazy being holed up at home.” The baby snorted at the way Xeno did air quotation marks, so the teen did it again. “But it’s been over an hour, so Ririko’s gone to look for her, while yours truly was saddled with baby duty.” 

Stanley files the comment of Xeno pouting exactly like the baby did to himself. He eyes the wand in the other’s hand, “Aww, made them bubbles yourself?” 

“You weren’t here during the first few minutes when she couldn’t stop crying,” Xeno bites, dipping the wire into the mixture of dish soap, water, and honey. He blows a trail of bubbles to flutter right above the baby so she can grasp at them, hitting Stanley in the face. 

“You’re doing that on purpose.” 

“It’s the wind.” 

“There ain’t any.” 

“Geez, I don’t control the weather Stan. I can’t tell when the wind picks up, or when it doesn’t.” 

Stanley scowls, but Xeno just shrugs with that mischievous smile dancing on his lips. The baby gurgles for more bubbles. 

Honeyed eyes survey the bundle in his arms close. Soft tuft of blonde hair so new it looks white in the sun, flat button nose, apple cheeks, small roving eyes. Swaddled in a light summer blanket of cartoon hippos and crocodiles, which he suspects is a hand me down judging by the worn texture. 

“She’s so pudgy–”

“I know.”

“And so cute–”

“Hah, just wait till she eats your hair.” 

Stanley rocks her gently from side to side, and she laughs– one small hand holding on to his t-shirt as the other reaches for Xeno, waving with force. 

Xeno squints, “Yes, what do you want?” 

The baby babbles nonsensically; but manages to put her fist to her mouth, then fling it outwards. 

“Oh, smart girl,” Stanley praises, bouncing her a bit to her giggles. At Xeno’s confused brows, he translates, “She wants the bubbles.” 

The realisation dawns on the other comically– Stanley can practically see the overthought wires in his brain rearranging themselves to the logical conclusion. 

A loud crash of falling trays from a nearby vendor makes them all jump, especially startling the baby. 

“Which imbecile–” Xeno curses, as Stanley frantically rocks the crying baby in his arms, her face splotched red with fat tears. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Stanley soothes, propping her upright a bit to rub circles into her back. “You’re okay, nothing bad happened.” 

Xeno swishes bubbles desperately, “Look it’s the bubbles! Colourful bubbles!” 

But her wails increase, small arms flailing at her sides wildly. Stanley shushes to no avail, the baby even rejects Xeno’s outstretched hand in a panic, batting it away. 

The blond searches his memories– what did his mother do again when his younger brother used to cry massive tantrums? Didn’t she rock him just like he’s doing now? Didn’t she comb his brother’s hair? Why was there something involving a clove of garlic or an onion– or was he misremembering? 

The baby’s face is an angry shade of red; she’s taken to grappling at his t-shirt and dodging any attempts at patting her head. 

“Stan,” Xeno is frazzled, even more out of his depth thanks to being an only child. He’s so worried she may pop a blood vessel at this rate. “Do something, please.” 

Faint strains of a melody long-forgotten. Hazy summer curtains billowing, the long hair snaking down his mother’s shoulder glowing gold. Soft lips and softer smile– a sense of being held, and loved, and safe. He’s heard it before– his mother singing it to his younger brother, singing it to him.

He doesn’t remember the words, can only hum what he believes is the right melody– it’ll have to do for now. He sways the bundle in his arms gently, in time with each crest in the song. Gradual ups and downs, slow pats on her back. She calms eventually; cheeks no longer firetruck red, eyes puffy with tears but slowly returning to roving with curiosity. He knows she’s put it behind her once her grip on his t-shirt loosens. 

“Didn’t think it’d go so well–” the rest of his whisper to Xeno dies in his throat, at the open look of pure astonishment on the other’s face. “What,” he pretends that the flaring heat licking up his neck and cheeks doesn’t exist, “got something to say?” 

Xeno shakes his head, mute– his eyes wide and sparkling with the weight of galaxies. 

What Stanley wouldn’t give, to keep those eyes on him like that. He lifts the baby towards the other a little, voice whispery low, “D’ya wanna hold her?” 

Thin hands flapping in front of his face into a cross, volume matching the blond’s, “You’re a natural.” 

Stanley tries to play it cool with a nonchalant shrug, but Xeno doesn’t miss the slight pride curving in his smile. 

He can’t have this, if he sticks with you. He can’t have this– not from you. 

He wishes he could cut off the thoughts, like one would a festering limb– but knows that this truth only adds to all the reasons why he shouldn’t get too close to Stanley, shouldn’t burden him any more than he already is. 

His phone pings. Stanley reads Ririko’s message when Xeno holds up the phone to him, squinting in the sunlight. “Why does your screen have to be so dark.” 

“I’m a vampire,” comes the near automatic retort. He sends Ririko a thumbs-up in response; she sends a cute cat sticker back, which Stanley is also amused by. 

His phone pings a second time; Stanley politely looks away while Xeno frowns at it. Another inane summons from Alan’s group chat, asking for everyone to pile their notes for ‘comparison’ from today’s History lesson– which is extremely banal code for ‘let me copy everything from you’. 

Normally, he would snap the photos of his notes and be done with it– taking petty satisfaction in how the photos always turned out slightly blurry compared to the high quality PDFs some of the other members sent. 

But there’s a line of warmth at his shoulder; there’s a bundle who’s starting to gargle again; there’re eyes glowing golden from the sun, soft and smiling and true. 

He silences the phone. Alan can fucking wait. 

The baby gapes like a fish, makes grabby hands at them. 

“Hm? What is it sweetheart?” Stanley props her up, tickling her nose with ink smudged fingers. 

Xeno clutches his chest, tries not to go into cardiac arrest at the easy endearment, and the way they other two paint an idyllic, domestic picture. How elegant. 

The baby presses her lips, “Bah-buhh,” she murmurs, then repeats it louder. 

Xeno mouths along with her, brandishing the wand, “Bubble,” he confirms with a wide smile, inexplicably feeling so proud of the little bundle. He blows a trail of bubbles to float over them, and the baby giggles. Small hands flail, catching Xeno’s outstretched finger.  “Bah-buh! Bah-buh!” 

“Are you gonna cry?” Stanley teases, allowing himself to dip in close, lips ghosting against Xeno’s ear. The other’s awed expression, as if he had just solved an impossible equation, was too much to bear– Stanley felt a similar fullness in his chest. 

Xeno turns to Stanley slowly. “She’s a genius,” he proclaims. 

“Now, now, she just said one word Xe– Don’t tell me you’re actually recording?” 

He steadies the phone in one hand, and readies the wand with the other. “It is a moment of historic significance, Stan. A moment worthy of record. Years later, we shall all look upon this moment and–” 

Stanley sighs, shifting the weight in his arms to pat a hand onto the other’s shoulder. “Let’s not get carried away.” 

Xeno’s about to protest when Ririko pops around the corner with the baby’s mother in tow. The puffiness of the mother’s eyes betray her tears, but Ririko nods reassuringly at them– whatever it was, she’s settled it. 

The baby coos in delight when she sees her mom again, but has a hard time letting Stanley and Xeno go. 

They should really stop playing soccer on the quad. Break lasts less than an hour, yet many male students would flock into teams, kicking a ball seemingly procured out of nowhere, with only two sticks acting as goal posts. The most infuriating aspect of it all wasn’t the sweaty stench of boys going through puberty, or even the way they pockmarked the grass to smithereens. It was the noise. 

The so-called jocks on the quad would heckle the nerds at the sidelines; and the nerds would heckle back. Other groups either joined in occasionally– like the one time a five-man ‘emo’ troop completely obliterated the jocks at both soccer and croquet– or spectated with a sick smugness, much like Alan’s own posse. 

Xeno only knows that he gets a headache from all the posturing. 

Beside him, the new addition to Alan’s posse looks frightened to death as one of the jocks grabs a nerd by the collar, imminent argument escalating. 

“Careful,” Xeno guides the new recruit by the elbow, “they’ll be displeased if you spill those.” 

The new boy (‘Stephen’ Xeno recalls from the recycling bin in his mind) nods hurriedly, clutching the cans of drinks closer. “Mr. Wingfield–” Stephen starts in jitters. 

“–refers to my father,” he corrects, all smooth smile and open demeanour to set the other at ease. “Please, do address me as Xeno.” 

“But–”

He anticipates it, lifting a finger to his lips, “Alan doesn’t have to know. It’s quite silly to be using our last names as friends, don’t you think?” Xeno is rewarded with the newest member nodding like a jackhammer, the tension easing from tight shoulders. 

The posse can be jackasses all they want; it doesn’t mean he has to be one too. 

“O-okay,” Stephen stutters, takes a deep breath to gather his courage. “Thank you, Xeno. You don’t have to accompany me for this though,” he gestures to the drinks they’re carrying. “Alan said it’s always the newest member’s job.” 

Xeno resists the urge to shake the boy awake. He knows why Stephen is with them. He’s seen the aftermath of soiled textbooks and bloody gums. He understands that the boy thinks he’s been saved– but he doesn’t know how to tell him to leave this den of vultures without questioning his own permanence in the group. 

“I want to,” a shallow answer. Xeno furrows his brows, amending, “It’s not right to subject you to such free labour. They all have legs to fetch their own drinks.” 

Stephen looks shocked at the unhindered insult, but wisely keeps his mouth shut. 

They walk past a group of ‘alternative’ students; a mixed bag of punk, emo, and grunge. Some of them suck on e-cigarettes boldly, expelling sickly saccharine fumes into the air. Xeno wrinkles his nose, wondering if they mean to choke the jocks and nerds to silence with that toxic tactic.

His gaze is automatically drawn to a halo of gold hair at the far edge near the fences. Subtle indigo lips today, leaning oh-so-casually against the fence with crossed arms and a bored mien. Honeyed eyes meet his without prompting, without delay; and Xeno wants to drop everything to close the distance between them. He settles for a minuscule nod, shifts his gaze away before his heart betrays him further. 

His fingers tingle at the memory of golden tresses. 

“Took you long enough,” Calvin booms, snatching his nasty loaded protein drinks from a terrified Stephen. Xeno rolls his eyes, swiftly distributes the orders in his hands. 

The whole posse is sitting poised on a low wall bordering the quad– close enough to watch, and high enough to pass judgement. No wonder the jocks hate them. 

Liam proposes a weekend soirée, backed by the enthusiastic twins. There are talks of which catering service to use, and plans of whose car to take due to Liam’s parents being sticklers for not parking in their compound– when a soccer ball whooshes through the air, aimed straight at them. 

It’s no secret that the kick was made on purpose; yet Xeno curses as his reflexes don't kick in fast enough for him to grab Stephen and dodge at the same time, only managing to push newbie away and come into line of fire himself.

Stephen yelps as he topples to the ground. One of the soccer players shouts a late warning. Alan and company do nothing except gawk. The soccer ball hones in like a missile; reflected in Xeno’s dark eyes– 

Then nothing. No bruises, no bloody teeth, no damaged eye. 

The dull thwack of the soccer ball reaches Xeno belatedly, the sound like a movie not synced properly to the actions onscreen. A long line of black bars his sight. It takes a prolonged beat for all his senses to come flooding back. 

“Hey, pass it back!” one of the jocks infield shouts with cupped hands. 

Stanley scowls, breathing harshly– at the players on the quad, at the nonchalance of Alan’s posse, at Stephen’s cowering form. Xeno has the irrational impulse to ease the gnashing muscles in the blond’s jaw, to erase the anger marring his beautiful features. 

Gold eyes lit on fire scan Xeno quickly, apparently satisfied. He cocks his head towards the quad, as if asking for confirmation. At Xeno’s small nod, he launches the ball far, far away– beyond the far end of the quad, sailing pass hungry onlookers of all cliques; clearing the fence next to the main road. 

The jocks curse him out, chasing after their illegal ball before they are reported. Stanley only huffs, retying his loosened ponytail. 

Elijah whistles lowly, and Xeno is irritated enough to attempt pulling his tongue out. 

“That was quite the show,” Alan’s cool voice douses them all, thin smile saying anything but. 

Don’t engage, Xeno thinks desperately, careful to keep their gazes away from each other. Don’t give them a reason to mock you. 

Stanley takes a step forward, unconsciously shielding Xeno further. You were almost hurt because of these shits. 

I’m fine. Xeno straightens his back with eyes geared ahead; feels the blond’s resistance in jagged waves. He risks a glance, the fastest cut of eyes. Please, Stan.

A beat. Two. Stanley’s stance shifts, pivoting back towards his own group.

Xeno deliberately sways on his own feet as he gets up, using the motion to bump his fingers against the blond’s. Thank you. 

Anytime, gold eyes looking back relay. 

“Lucky you,” Alan sneers past his curated coolness, as Xeno brushes grass off his slacks. 

“Perhaps,” Xeno adjusts his collar, ignores the other’s glaring daggers at the lack of total agreement. Forces himself not to look towards that head of golden hair. 

He grapples with the case as he sprints out the door, leaving the musty smell of the workshop in a rush. The Home Ec teacher Mr. Smith should definitely stick to smoking joints only in his car. Xeno gags at the lingering scent which had nestled into his sweater. 

He races against his watch, arriving at Ririko’s food truck in record time considering he was already twenty minutes late when he finally left the workshop. Victory however, doesn’t taste as good when it’s tainted by shallow, harsh, breaths; and a pulse so fast he’s ninety percent sure he’s having a heart attack. He drags his leaden feet to the back, thankful Ririko isn’t there to accost him with well-meaning questions or witness what he’s about to do. 

Stanley sits on the curb, long legs crossed as he stares into the distance with a slight pout. A box of tacos sit next to him, cooling from being left out too long. His ears prick as Xeno enters hearing range, “You’re late.” 

“Apologies, traffic,” Xeno tries not to pant, his lungs failing him. 

Stanley looks up then, startles at the large case and Xeno’s dishevelled appearance– shirt tails untucked, slacks dirtied, slicked hair flying every which way. “Traffic,” he deadpans, gesturing to all of the mess. 

Xeno wheezes, “Okay, so that’s a poor lie.” 

Stanley eyes the case warily as he looks for a water bottle amid Ririko’s boxes. “New experiment?” 

Xeno takes the offered drink gratefully, gulps down half of it in one go. 

“Easy,” Stanley chides, swiping tissues off the worktable to dab at the river which escaped past the other’s lips. 

But Xeno’s attention is elsewhere. With a hammering heart and wet shaky hands, he presents the case to the other. “For you.” 

Stanley hesitates, puts down the tissues and approaches the black case with caution.  “You need me to help you test it?” 

Xeno pushes the case forwards more, and Stanley receives it with the care of a bomb disposal officer– which to be fair, Xeno had handed him explosive materials before. 

“Am I about to die?” 

“Quit stalling, and just open it,” Xeno grumbles, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, all excited energy. 

Stanley does; tease at the tip of his tongue fading into nothing as he unzips the case to reveal Xeno’s latest project. He touches the neck, but retracts them just as quickly as if burnt. “Xeno–”

“Go ahead,” the young scientist urges, takes over holding up the case. “It’s yours, if you want it.” 

His hands move on autopilot, gently extracting the instrument from its case. 

“It’s semi-acoustic,” Xeno cannot wait, excitement overflowing, “At first I thought about a fully electric one, but considering the cost of amps, and the inconvenience of having little space for practice, semi-acoustic offers the best of both worlds. Not to mention, they’re able to cover a wide range of genres, from blues, jazz, and even rock, which I’m almost entirely sure that’s the one you’re most interested in–”

“Where did you get this?” Stanley’s voice is distant, still in shock.

“I fixed and modded it,” Xeno says simply, furrowing his brows. “Do you– do you not like it?” 

“I love it,” Stanley interrupts immediately, hand caressing the deep rosewood neck of the guitar. “I love it Xe, but how–”

Relief floods in, and Xeno laughs. “A lot of scouring,” he recalls with a shudder. “Trust me, there are heaps of unwanted parts backstage and around town.” He nods to the sleek black body of the guitar, panelled by mahogany pick guards in the shape of sprawling wings, “But for the main body, I bought it off one of the prep boys we know. He had it for a long time, but it was gathering dust and needed only minor maintenance.” 

Stanley inhales sharply, “This is too much–”

“Nonsense–”

“Xe,” Stanley locks their gazes, speech ticking faster, “I can't sing, I can't play, and this is expensive stuff–”

Xeno slaps his hands onto the other’s cheeks, sandwiching him. “You can write,” he breathes, looking right into startled golden orbs. He sighs, “You write so beautifully Stan, and that melody you hummed?” Thin fingers trace a circle into Stanley’s temple, “I can’t get it out of my head.” 

“That’s nothing–”

“Why do you insist on belittling yourself?” Xeno admonishes, pulling the other closer. “Don’t you know that you’re the most brilliant person the world has had the pleasure to see?” His thumb skims across the ridge of a cheek, dangerously close to the eye. Voice dips as his head does, “Can’t you see that you’re the proudest part I’ve the honour of calling mine?” 

Stanley swallows, short of breath. He’s losing himself– hurtling down, down, down into dark nebulas; bathing in unwavering certainty and trust. 

Xeno releases a cheek, hand wrapping Stanley’s own on the neck of the guitar, dark eyes boring right into the core of his soul. Can you, Stan? 

Stanley turns his cheek into the palm still on his face. I can. 

The ghost of Stanley’s lips against his palm jolts him from the spell. Xeno fights to chirp, “Excellent, I’ll be expecting a hit song from you soon.” Forces his hands away, forces himself to back away from the precipice of what could have been. 

“Menace,” Stanley shakes his head with a tried response, mind and heart racing to recalibrate to normalcy. They were so close. 

Xeno harrumphs, “Helping to push you to your full potential, you mean.” 

“You do this for all your friends?” Stanley teases, even as he recoils inwardly at the thought. 

Xeno pretends to ponder, reaches out to lightly tap the other on the nose. Mischievous smile. “Only for my favourite one.” 

The blond congratulates himself for not being the latest case of spontaneous human combustion.  He leans his head heavily against the guitar as Xeno laughs. Swear to God, you’ll be the death of me, Xe. 

“Get down from there before you hurt yourself.” 

Stanley sticks out his tongue childishly, swinging with more force. 

Xeno grumbles as the rusty chains creak, the flimsy frame of the swing set shaking. “If we end up hospitalised due to a freak swing accident, I’m billing you.” 

“Does that mean I don’t have to pay if it’s a normal one?”

“Hilarious,” Xeno deadpans, as the other snickers while passing him back and forth from his perch on the swing. He watches with worry as golden locks barely miss hitting the bar. “You’re much too tall now to be standing on the swing, idiot.” 

Stanley halts the swing, drapes each arm on the chains as he looks downwards at where Xeno sits properly in the other one. “Jealous you can’t swing as well?” Looks pointedly at Xeno’s hair, “Old man.” His snicker morphs into a yelp as Xeno tugs him by the leg of his jeans, nearly face-planting him to the ground. “That’s dangerous!” 

“Eat your yakitori burritos before they’re cold,” Xeno shoves the takeout box into Stanley’s lap as the blond relents, sitting down on the swing seat. “You don’t have the right to complain if it’s congealed.” 

Stanley makes a face, peeking into the box. “I wouldn’t complain either way; Ririko looks like she knows where to hide bodies.” 

“Or where to find them,” Xeno hums around a delicious bite. 

“Exactly! That cow she magicked out of nowhere–”

“No idea,” Xeno shrugs, picking out the pickled radishes from his own box to migrate towards Stanley’s. 

“Oi.” 

“Don’t you like them?” Xeno blinks innocently. 

Stanley jabs at a soggy one, “Not when they’re half-eaten.” 

“Pity.” 

“Take them back.” 

Xeno hums, “No, I don’t think I will.” 

“You little–”

“Oh, and what do we have here?”

They freeze, ice sluicing through their veins. Xeno knows that voice too well– cold and mocking, always looking down on anyone different. They had wanted a change of scenery from the usual food truck scene, and now it seems they’re paying the unfair price for it. 

Stanley crooks his neck, What do you want to do?

Xeno copies the move in the opposite direction, Follow my lead. He swivels to face Alan, expressionless and calm. “Good evening.” 

Alan chuckles tonelessly; the others in his posse shuffling along. “Fraternising with the uncouth masses? A rather poor choice for a hobby, if you ask me.” 

Xeno clicks his tongue, “Fortunate then, that no one did.” 

A ripple in the posse– no one speaks to Alan like that. 

Smug sneer, accusatory finger pointed in Stanley’s direction. “You would associate yourself with such inferior trash?” 

“Watch it,” Xeno bites, springing up to his full height. 

“How’s this gander: a charity case.” Alan steeples his fingers together in an approximation of intelligence, fans them wide. “We’ll chalk up this unfortunate incident to your burgeoning sense of justice, no? Xeno Wingfield, the empathetic and magnanimous. A lapse in judgement, if you will.” 

“Counter offer,” Xeno announces loudly, lassoing the rest in a circle with his finger. “You all leave. Now.” 

“This is a public park, you’ve no right,” Randall can’t help himself from adding; and is cowered into silence by everyone’s hard stares. 

“You’d choose,” Alan flaps a hand at Stanley, “this. Over us?” Sharp eyes, predatory grin. “Over everything we have to offer?” 

He’d lose it all. The lab access whenever he wanted. The easy approvals given by teachers for his experiments and opinions. The clean lockers. The undisturbed walks down the hallway. The social protection of the group. He’d lose it all– the normal high school life he’s always wanted. 

Undulating ink, lifelike verses. Warm food in warmer food trucks. Shared burdens, shared joys. Ririko’s nosiness and hiccuping laughter. The morgue of his house, and the corpse of an unplayed cello. Baby’s giggles, confidently saying ‘bah-buh’. Stephen’s bright-eyed eagerness tinged with a desperation they have in common. 

Golden eyes and tresses, sun-bright grin. Soft melody, measured touches. Quiet protection. Gentle care, gentler soul. Creative, smart, braver than anyone he’s ever known. Steadfast. Unconditional. Irreplaceable. 

“Yes,” his voice rings clearly, reverberating throughout the park. He reaches behind him without looking, and Stanley takes his hand. “Of course I would.” 

The posse erupts in protests, confused and disbelieving voices overlapping into white noise.

A trash can is sent flying, soaring down the street. “Fucking hell!” Alan yells; his drones already flocking to appease him. 

Typical.

What he doesn’t expect is Alan bypassing his followers, bee-lining towards them. In a flash, the bastard has his useless hands buried in Stanley’s collar, yanking the blond up and shouting obscenities. “This is your fault!” he roars, spittle flying. “You and your kind always manage to mess things up for the rest of us don’t you?” The nerves in Alan’s jaw and forehead pop, “You keep taking away the things which rightfully belong to us! You fucking fags!” 

Stanley remains unfazed– he trusts Xeno. 

And Xeno– he’s so angry that for once, he’s calm. He draws back his fist, and punches Alan right in the nose. Faintly registers stickiness on his curled fist as Alan screams, clutching at the break. Rivers of red gush and stain the beige of his clothes. Good. Finally some colour. 

“Motherfuck–!”

Xeno’s arm strikes out, snake-like. He grips Alan by the chin despite the height disadvantage, kicks the back of his knees in, and wrenches him down into a kneeling position. Almost unseen, he whips out the modified box cutter which doubles as a measuring tape from his pocket. The blade unsheathes with a sharp crack, glinting with promised pain at the edge of Alan’s mouth. 

Alan stills. The crowd is shell-shocked. Stanley smirks. 

Xeno should have done this a long time ago. 

He tightens his grip, blood squelching. “I detest having to repeat myself,” his voice is gravel, dark and commanding. “You either leave when I say so,” he presses the blade slightly into flesh, drawing a new line of red. “Or you wait to be punished.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Alan sneers with bravado, even lifts his cheek in a challenge. “You don’t have what it takes Xeno. And mark my fucking words, you’ll pay for what you’ve done here.” He spits at Stanley’s feet, “Both of you fucking fags.” 

With the lightness and precision of an ice skater, Xeno slices the tip of the blade into skin, slashing a near perfect straight line. Alan screams bloody murder. 

“Oh enough already,” Xeno rolls his eyes, jams the hard heel of his dress shoe into Alan’s crotch. 

“You’re going too far!” Liam finally shouts from the sidelines, moving towards Alan; but Xeno points the blade at him to stop him in his tracks. 

Bottomless dark eyes rove around the semi-circle of the posse, passing over each tense member; reflecting nothing. “Interesting that you would be the one to speak up first, Liam.” The devil smirks, pulling out his phone. He scrolls a bit, makes a positive noise once he’s found what he’s looking for. 

“But I guess it does make sense,” he flashes the image on his phone at them one by one, landing lastly on Liam. Jerks his head towards Alan. “Considering how vocal you are in bed, when you’re with him.” 

The blood drains from Liam’s face and most of the other’s. Murmurs rippling, accusations at the ready. 

“Worry not gentlemen,” Xeno bows theatrically, arm splaying wide, “I’m not such an inconsiderate friend, that I would forget to prepare gifts for all of you.” 

“The fuck are you–”

Xeno swipes his thumb through the photo gallery. “Calvin, doping up before the bodybuilder’s contest which he recently won; congratulations by the way. Elijah, absolutely swimming in dumpster trash and alcohol during the abstinence of Yom Kippur. Rupert, is that Randall balls-deep in your girlfriend?” His eyes alight on their newest member– the one he hadn’t wanted to dig up the most. “Stephen,” his voice is almost gentle in its admonishment, “655 thousand dollars in gambling debt.” Xeno grinds his heel further as he keeps the posse leader anchored by the chin, pointing the blade at his neck. “And you, Alan–”

“My father will hear about this!” he yells in a near sob, tears flowing through the blood. 

“I’m sure he’d be ecstatic to,” Xeno purrs, swiping to the final picture in his arsenal. “Especially when these records of fraud in his company are released just as his son returns home, grovelling.” 

Alan’s skin is cold upon contact, eyes shot wide and frightened. His upper lip trembles, and Xeno glowers at the fat drops of saliva dribbling down. 

“Needless to say, I’ve plenty of copies, and systems have been set into place to release these rather incriminating photos as I wish.” Xeno smiles sweetly at the group. “I do hope you enjoy my small parting gifts.” 

“You’re crazy,” Elijah whimpers into a closed fist like a babe. “You’re fucking crazy!” 

Xeno clicks his tongue, and the mere sound of it snaps the posse to attention. “I’m well-prepared, thank you. Regardless,” he takes a cool look at his watch, “you’ve wasted too much of our time. The food has gone cold.” 

Calvin releases a battery of curses, but Liam stops him with a hand. “Did you plan this?” he pants, “Did you know you were going to do this from the very start?” 

“Please, this is insurance,” Xeno scoffs, eyes darkening. “The situation changed. You hurt Stanley.” He feels the way the blond tenses behind him. “And I, do not care for those who do.” Knowing eyes bore into Liam’s. “Wouldn’t you do the same?” 

Liam swallows, whispers, “What are your terms?” 

“Liam you fucking idiot!” 

“Shut the fuck up Alan! For once in your life just shut up!” Liam’s narrow shoulders heave beneath the designer blazer, wild and caught. 

Xeno lays the phone against his cheek, and grins. “Honestly, I don’t care what you do amongst yourselves after this. The only condition is to leave me and Stanley alone.” He ticks the items off his fingers, “That means no interaction, means that you’ll let us pass safely whenever and wherever.  Means you will not be influencing any teachers or administration to go against us. Means that you won’t be using other groups or lackeys to come after us, though if you try,” his gaze meets fiery golden ones, “I can’t guarantee their safety.” 

The short affirmative nod from Stanley sends tingles zapping down Xeno’s spine. He beckons for Liam with an outstretched hand, “Do we have a deal?” 

Panicked looks exchanged between all members of the posse. Only Alan won’t meet their eyes. Liam steps up, shakes Xeno’s hand, “Deal.” 

“Excellent,” Xeno releases the hand in his own only after digging his nails in. He retracts the blade and his hold on Alan, swiftly sidestepping as the other slumps on all fours to the ground. “He’s all yours.” 

The moment he locks eyes with Stanley, he cannot look away. Behind him, the posse pack up their wounded and slink away; but Xeno’s gaze does not falter. 

The park is deathly quiet when they’re alone. 

Stanley takes a good, long look at Xeno; then drops his cigarette– when did he light it, Xeno thinks– crushes the dying embers. 

Logic flares panic in Xeno’s system. What had he displayed, what Stanley had just witnessed– Any sane person would choose to stay far, far away from the intensity of his madness. They should. 

“I can take care of myself,” Stanley says hoarsely. 

“I know you can.” Xeno digs nails into his palms, sticky with blood. Wills all the sincerity he has into his words, “But I want to.” 

Faster than lightning, Stanley closes the distance between them, snatching Xeno up into a tight hug. 

“Stan!” Xeno cries, but Stanley’s face is so close, his eyes shimmering in flames, colour high on his cheeks, lips a beautiful cherry red– so, so close and right there–

Stanley’s calloused hands cup the other’s face. He licks his lips, and Xeno follows the motion hungrily. Cautiously, he inches closer till the tips of their noses touch. Harsh breaths fog up the sliver of space between them. 

“Tell me you don’t want this, and I won’t,” Stanley whispers, thumbs caressing Xeno’s cheekbones. “I won’t hold it against you. We don’t have to change. But if you tell me you do–”

Xeno surges forward. Lips clashing together, teeth knocking. Stanley sucks a bruise into Xeno’s lower lip, and Xeno retaliates by nipping into the blond’s. Stanley’s hands roam everywhere, freeing silver hair into default wildness, pushing off the stuffy cardigan sleeves to claw at Xeno’s frustratingly shirt-clad shoulders, tugging the collar of that shirt to the point of no return. 

Xeno raises his own hands to explore, and whines at the sight of them into their ongoing kiss. Stanley breaks away enough to scramble for Xeno’s hands, guiding them onto his own shoulders. 

“Stan, the blood–” 

“Don’t care,” he growls, diving back in to kiss Xeno into oblivion. Grins triumphantly as hands trail up his neck and into his hair. Groans a bit as his ponytail is yanked, talented fingers curling the moderate length around. 

Xeno chuckles, “Should’ve known you’d like that.” Tugs at the tail again, relishes in the blond’s longer groan. 

Stanley migrates across the other’s face and neck, planting kisses with every breath. “You don’t know,” corner of a dark eye. “How fucking hot,” a plump cheek. “You looked,” tip of a cute nose. “When you put that fucker in his place,” a barrage of nips on his sharp jaw. 

Fingernails rake down shoulders, as Xeno forcibly lifts Stanley’s face by his ponytail into the air. “Are you looking for the same?” Stanley’s obedient nod and burrow into his chest is all the answer he needs. 

“Good boy,” Xeno praises, noting the frizzling energy wound into the other’s back. “Oh the things I’d love to do to you,” he continues in a purr, laughing at the intense want in golden eyes. He pets tracks of dried blood into blond hair, and kisses the crown of that head. “But firstly, let’s clean up.” 

The masses gape and stare– of course they do. 

Xeno straightens his back as he strides past the halls; doesn’t feel the need to hide or excuse himself. He walks in a straight line, and the sea of crowds part for him. 

He smirks, knowing he has to credit his new outfit for a hunk of the change. 

Cropped shirt; distressed with a brush, the collar stretched and tinged with burns from Stanley’s cigarette. Black cargo pants artfully splattered with dots of paint resembling stars– a galaxy of silvery whites, yellows, blues. Doc Martens which didn’t pinch. 

Swipe of eyeliner; accentuating his dark under-eyes, rather than hiding them with pilfered concealer. Silver hair slicked all the way back up, bunched a bit at the centre for some volume; exposing his forehead. Plum red choker, silver buckle gleaming menacingly– a tribute to Stan and Ririko. 

“Mornin’ hotshot,” Stanley greets with a low whistle, leaning casually against their moved lockers. He’s dressed up for solidarity– silvery-yellow leopard print tie haphazardly hung around a navy shirt, overlaid with his trusty leather jacket, and skin-tight dark grey chinos with holes ripped into the knees. His hair is slicked back up messily, save for a calculated strip partly concealing his eyes. Lipstick colour of the day: a deep plum which matches Xeno’s choker. 

“Good morning,” Xeno returns, tightening the ridiculous tie to cover up the litany of hickeys on that long neck. 

“Ow,” Stanley mock complains, hooking a finger in the other’s belt loop to tug him closer. “Forceful already? We haven’t even started first period.” 

“Do you wish to live according to other’s rules?” Xeno crooks a haughty brow. 

“Nah, where’s the fun in that,” Stanley laughs, dipping his head to briefly nuzzle the other’s shoulder. “So how shall we live?” 

Xeno smiles, lifting Stanley by the chin for a quick kiss, “That’s a question easily answered, my dear Stan.” Fingers trace the plum lipstick, smudging it, “Greedily.”