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It's a disgustingly cheerful day outside. The sun's shining, the wind feels nice, the birds are bright-eyed and chirping— your typical Bright American Day type of morning.
Which is exactly why Cheng Xiaoshi hates it. It only ever means the worst for him.
His shoulder slams into the metal fence with a sharp clang. The impact rattles straight through his bones and takes him off his balance. He fights to stay upright against the fence, fingers caught between the chain links.
"Watch where you're going," one of them sneers.
He almost snorts.
He hadn't even been in the way.
"Sorry," he mutters anyway, because it's easier to take it than to argue. Sometimes, they even get bored and walk away on their own.
Today doesn't seem to be one of those days.
A hand catches the front of his shirt before he can push himself off the fence, fingers twisting into the fabric and pulling him forward enough to intimidate.
"You always got something to say, don't you?"
"All I did was apologize. Isn't that what you wanted?" Cheng Xiaoshi retorts, reflex more than courage. By now, he should be used to it. This. Them.
So why did he say that?
The first hit isn't even that hard. It's kinda disappointing— probably a miss as knuckles glide off his cheek. He would scorn and laugh if he were in a position to, but engaging just means he'll be jumped on the walk back home. Whatever that punch was clearly didn't satisfy.
So the second one lands properly.
His head snaps to the side, vision sparking white for a split second. That was a good one. The taste of iron blooms in his mouth, just as immediate as the stinging in his cheek.
"Does that taste good, huh?" Another one digs at him. "You wanna act like a whiny bitch, you'll get treated like one too."
Cheng Xiaoshi swallows it down— blood, words, retaliation. All of it.
All of the school assemblies on speaking up about bullying are traps. No one ever does anything. No one ever wants to.
"We'll look into it," is the biggest lie he's ever heard. It's an excuse for teachers to ignore what's happening right under their noses, for them to look the other way and blame it on adolescence or harmless fun or "boys will be boys."
Fucking losers, all of them.
They should be glad Cheng Xiaoshi has made a promise not to get in trouble. He already owes Qiao Ling's parents his life for funding his education and giving him a place to live. Getting expelled would surely be a kick in the teeth.
Maybe one day, he'll actually be able to do something about it. Or maybe these jerks will do him a favour and blow up by spontaneous combustion.
Hah.
The corner of his mouth ticks up.
That'd be pretty funny, wouldn't it?
A shove to his chest sends him stumbling back into the fence, but this time, his heel catches on the pavement. Gravel tears into his palms as he goes down— hard.
"What're you smiling about?" Asshole #1 spits.
". . . No way— you don't think he . . . likes this, do you?" Cackles Asshole #2.
"Fucking disgusting. Didn't know he was sick in the head too."
"Or maybe he's into you," Asshole #3 muses. "What, you his type or something?"
"Dude's a homosapien!" Asshole #4 snickers.
He gets smacked away by #1. "It's homosexual, dumbass. You're so stupid it's actually embarrassing."
Jesus Christ. These are the guys that Cheng Xiaoshi is losing to? They sound like they share one single brain cell— and even it's fighting for its life.
The thought almost makes him laugh.
Almost.
He doesn't see the shoe heading straight for him until it crashes into his side and knocks the breath clean out of him.
For a brief moment, there's a hollow pressure in his chest like it forgot how to work— then it all comes rushing back to him.
Pain follows right behind it.
He chokes in a breath and curls instinctively, one arm wrapping around his ribs as he tries to steady his broken breathing.
"Still think this is funny?" one of them taunts.
Another kick— sloppier, clipping his hip more than anything else. But it jolts through him hard enough to make his teeth clench.
This'll give him awful bruises for the next few days. He'll have to perfect the way he walks, keep it casual and normal, so Qiao Ling doesn't notice.
He wouldn't want her to end up like this because of him.
Cheng Xiaoshi squeezes his eyes shut. He won't react. He won't cry. He won't give them anything.
They'll get bored.
They have to get bored.
Two, three, four more kicks to his back, his side, his arm. The force dulls with each one, laughter tapering off into something unimpressed.
By the fifth, there's nothing behind it, which means—
"Man, he's not even fighting back."
"Yeah, 'cuz he knows he'd lose."
Whatever's about to come next doesn't land. A shout loud enough to snap attention cuts across the field, distant yet close enough to alarm.
"Hey! What's going on over there?!"
They step away from him. One of them kisses their teeth, annoyed.
"Shit, it's a teacher."
"Let's go. Don't wanna get stuck cleaning erasers after school."
To Cheng Xiaoshi's utter relief, their footsteps start to fade. Down the hardtop, probably to terrorize some other poor soul who can't find the courage to fight back.
Okay, in his defense, he can't because he's indebted. If he weren't held back by such a huge thing, he'd have beaten these guys to hell by now.
He waits for a little while longer, forehead nearly touching the ground, still curled up, focused on nothing but his breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
In—
It catches in his throat. He coughs once, wet, and presses his arm tighter against his side where the first kick, the worst of it, throbs insistently.
. . . It hurts.
It hurts.
Something akin to a low groan builds in the back of his throat, but he swallows it down before he can make a peep. Letting it out, feeling it, reacting to it would only prove those idiots right.
And that's the last thing he wants.
After listening to the world for a bit, the distant cars and the chittering of squirrels nearby, Cheng Xiaoshi pushes himself up slowly.
His palms sting immediately, tiny stones embedded in scraped skin. He brushes them off half-heartedly, smearing dust and red together without really looking.
He stares at the ground for a minute.
Then mutters to himself, quiet and firm—
"I'm not gay."
His growing headache pulses in response.
Standing takes longer than it needs to. It's not his fault everything's still dizzy. He spits off to the side, a glob of bloodied spit landing on the ground.
Gross.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then turns around.
He's probably going to be scolded for being late again. His literature teacher already has it out for him, never mind the times he shows up straight from the nurse's office, cleaned up just enough to look presentable with an ice pack pressed to his head.
It's always the same damn thing from her: a disappointed shake of her head, eyes pointy and mean, nothing but bitter words on her tongue the moment she sees him.
"Late again, Mr. Cheng?" She'll say. Then she'll spend the rest of that class throwing indirect jabs at him and not the guys who kicked him down in the first place.
The feeling's mutual, though— he hates that lady just as much.
It's a miracle natural selection hasn't sniped her yet. Brain-eating amoeba would starve in her head.
So, evidently, Cheng Xiaoshi doesn't head for the school building. He doesn't need to fuel his hatred for every person here in Chengdu.
Instead, he cuts around the edge of campus, taking the longer path that dips behind lush trees. Most people usually forget how nice the backside of the school grounds is, where the noise fades and the air feels a little less city-like and suffocating.
If you ignore the overgrown grass and possibly poisonous greenery, it's a neat place to spend your time. Just . . . watch where you step.
The pond sits there like something straight out of a fairytale— clear water, bellowing frogs on lily pads, the surface undisturbed except for the occasional ripple of movement beneath.
Cheng Xiaoshi crouches down at the edge of it, balancing on his feet, peering into the water. And breathes out deeply.
The grass is a little damp, as his shoes mush against the softened ground, but it's way better than concrete. Better than lockers, and marble floors, and sharp mulch—
Just better.
He sits there for a long time in silence. Wind tugs at his dark hair, sways the leaves on the surrounding trees, reminds him that he's not the only one here.
He wishes . . . things were different. Not so cruel and awful and needlessly mean.
It isn't his fault that he was born. Or that his parents chose their work over him. But somehow he's the one who has to deal with the aftermath of it all.
Every day it's always something— another shove, another insult, another reminder that he doesn't belong anywhere people are willing to be kind. And for what?
What about him is so offensive to everyone?
What about him makes people look at him and decide, so easily, that he's worth less?
He doesn't get it. He hasn't done anything but exist, keep going, try to live his life despite everything that's been stacked against him.
Seventeen-year-olds shouldn't see the world for the ugly truth that it is on a daily basis.
Seventeen-year-olds shouldn't be driven to suicide.
The thing about that is Cheng Xiaoshi's too scared to kill himself. Too scared to even think about it. He's scared of what comes next, whether this'll ever change, whether he's just going to be stuck moving from one bad day to another until they all start to blur together.
Even then— he'd never give up on himself.
Call him weak-willed and pathetic; he doesn't care. Because no matter how bad it gets, there's still something in him that refuses to let go of the chance that things might be different someday.
That someday, he'll grow out of it. He'll find someone. He'll get married, and live long, and be happy.
It sounds nice.
Distant and a bit unreal, but nice.
He reaches for a twig lying in the grass beside him and drags it through the dirt, carving out uneven lines.
The water shifts when a frog hops off its lily pad, sending ripples his way. Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes flick up instinctively, stick pausing mid-curve.
He watches the surface settle, then catches sight of himself— bruised cheek, split lip, one side of his face slightly swollen. He stares for a second.
". . . You look like shit," he says flatly.
The reflection doesn't argue.
He huffs faintly and goes back to sketching in the dirt.
Drawing's the only thing that's ever really stuck with him. So he pays attention in art class and actually enjoys going. Except, even that has its drawbacks.
Where he submits assignments that take him hours to finish, he'll find them later in the day taped to his locker. Defiled, destroyed, vandalized with slurs and all sorts of derogatory names.
Like that's all it's worth.
Like that's all he's worth.
His grip tightens slightly on the twig. The line he'd been drawing digs deeper into the dirt, pressing harder than before.
It isn't fair.
It isn't fair.
Why him? Why not anyone else? How could anyone look at him, know what he's been through, and still decide he deserves nothing but absolute trash?
Is there a worldwide consensus on treating people with the worst luck like they're the reason shipping fees exist? And is it some weird kind of contest, because there's no way he deserves to be treated like this for being the quietest person in class.
He could chalk it up to "hurt people, hurt people" like how the school counsellor preaches during the annual bullying assembly, but he's not brainless enough to believe that.
That would imply there's a reason behind someone's actions. An excuse for the way that they are.
People are inherently cruel.
They're a species that likes to look down on everything else only because they have the awareness to decide what's beneath them.
Give that same awareness to anything else, and it'd be no different.
Imagine if rhinos were given a moral consciousness. You think they'd be happy knowing they've been turned into attractions for entertainment?
No, of course not.
You take one step in that rhino's direction, and it'd impale you with its horn without a second thought for even assuming that was its purpose. And what makes it even more ironic is that you'd be in the wrong because the rhino has rights. Because you're stereotyping the rhino based on what species it is.
Human society is nothing but a joke. Complexity added by people who thought themselves superior and wanted labels on everything to prove their dick was bigger.
Cheng Xiaoshi thinks everything would be better if we lived bound only by morality. True morality.
Not rules, or systems, or whatever it is at this moment.
Just the simple difference between right and wrong, the basic understanding of empathy— of not hurting someone just because you can.
It'd solve a whole bunch of world problems if everyone sat down and talked things out like civilized adults. If empathy mattered as much as eating, breathing, sleeping.
You should get it. You clicked on this knowing what it was about.
. . . Then again, this is just fanfiction.
So maybe it doesn't matter what Cheng Xiaoshi thinks at all.
Cheng Xiaoshi looks up again when there's a disruption in the water. This time, a frog isn't the one that disturbs the surface, nor is it any other sort of animal. It isn't him, either.
It's . . . someone else.
For a few long seconds, all he does is stare.
Either that beating got to his head and now he's hallucinating, or this person is skipping class with him and he just never noticed them.
He kinda hopes it's the latter. Hospitals are expensive.
Cheng Xiaoshi drops his gaze, tracing around the drawing. ". . . If you're here to laugh at me, you're kinda late."
No answer.
He tries again. "You can try to kick me down, but don't expect me not to fight back. There are no teachers around this time."
The guy stands on the other side of the pond and a few extra steps back, framed by the trees and the little light they let through their branches.
His uniform is the same as Cheng Xiaoshi's— except it's neater. Creases ironed, white fabric completely unstained, tie perfect.
He still doesn't say anything.
. . . What's wrong with this guy?
Cheng Xiaoshi finally abandons the drawing and looks up for good now. He squints, thrown off more by the lack of reaction than anything else.
The stranger isn't surprised to see him. Nor does he look concerned, or even frankly interested.
He just looks.
Ominously.
"You gonna say something?" Cheng Xiaoshi prompts, slightly unsettled.
Nope.
Not even a shift in expression.
Cheng Xiaoshi clicks his tongue, irritation outweighing whatever unease had begun to tick him off. This guy's just strange. Not here to hurt him, or rub his loss in, or anything.
"Alright, whatever. Be weird, I guess—"
But that's when he moves, and Cheng Xiaoshi cuts himself off immediately. The guy slips his hand into his pocket, slow and deliberate.
Cheng Xiaoshi tenses automatically, shoulders tightening.
Is it . . . a knife? A weapon?
Dread settles in his gut.
He can't be cut up again. Hiding it last time was hard enough— Qiao Ling will definitely find out. And when she does, when she tells her parents and they complain to the school—
No.
No, no, no—
Panic claws up his throat.
"B-Back off—!" He blurts, shooting to his feet.
Bad idea.
He's been crouched too long and his legs have gone numb, useless beneath him. The instant he tries to stand, they give out and he loses his balance.
Curse him— he should've just sat on the grass!
Cheng Xiaoshi falls back onto the ground, the impact jarring through his already aching body.
The numbness in his legs turns traitor immediately, pins and needles shooting up his thigh as he tries to push himself backwards. His hands scramble against the damp grass, slipping more than actually helping.
"Don't—" he snaps, breath uneven, heart pounding way too fast. "Don't come any closer!"
The stranger, unfortunately, does. He starts closing in, walking along the edge of the pond like there's nothing to be concerned about at all.
This is it.
Cheng Xiaoshi's going to die.
He turns his head away and brings his hands up in defense, practically shaking where he sits. "Please! Don't— I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll do whatever you—" his breath catches and he gasps for air. "—whatever you want. I can't . . . I can't die. I can't."
His chest tightens painfully as the panic seizes him. It isn't working. He isn't—
Footsteps stop . . . right in front of him.
Cheng Xiaoshi braces for the click of a box cutter. Or the sharp end of a knife against his arm. A razor blade, a sharpened pencil, a shard of glass from a bottle— red, hot, blooming pain—
His mind snags on the sound of fabric rustling, and the world narrows down to it and the possibility of being hurt badly.
But nothing comes.
Not after a second. Ten seconds. Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Cheng Xiaoshi, tears glazed over his eyes, peeks over his arm. And to his complete surprise, finds the stranger crouched down to his level.
In his hand? Not a knife. Not a weapon.
But one, single Band-Aid.
He holds it out towards Cheng Xiaoshi, expression carefully neutral. Cheng Xiaoshi blinks, eyes flitting from the bandage to the boy, the boy to the bandage.
". . . What?" It comes out tiny and confused.
Rightfully so. What kind of jerk doesn't clarify they aren't coming at you with a knife?!
"You're bleeding." Says the boy, finally. "If you don't cover it up, you'll get an infection."
Cheng Xiaoshi gapes.
He's being . . . nice? To him??
The tension that had previously built up in his shoulders doesn't ease, but it falters just a bit, confusion bleeding in where fear had been. It makes for a good distraction.
"That's—" he swallows, frowning, eyes halfway blinking. "That's it?"
Again, he gets no answer. The boy's gone back to silence, staring at Cheng Xiaoshi like he didn't just flinch away because he thought he was gonna be stabbed.
If anything, he just looks slightly more amused now.
". . . You're kidding me." Cheng Xiaoshi breathes, lowering his hands.
The adrenaline hasn't quite left his system yet, his pulse loud in his ears. God, it feels like every system in his body was doing cartwheels; he thinks he's going to be sick.
He's glad it wasn't what he thought it was.
He drags in a breath and pushes himself upright, ignoring the lingering weakness in his legs. The boy's presence feels . . . heavy this close.
The bandaid remains held out for Cheng Xiaoshi to take, waiting and unmoved.
He wipes roughly at his eyes, more out of habit than anything, then exhales hard through his nose.
"You scared the hell out of me for that?" he huffs, equal parts incredulous and annoyed. Now he just looks stupid for overreacting.
He angles his head forward a bit, glaring weakly. "You do it."
The boy's expression cracks, his eyebrows raising in genuine surprise. "Me?"
"You scared me!" Cheng Xiaoshi scowls. "The least you can do is put it on."
In all honesty, he'd meant it half-seriously. If the boy had simply pushed the bandaid in his direction, refusing to get any closer, Cheng Xiaoshi would've snorted and thought, "Yeah, of course you don't wanna touch me."
That's all he's ever known, after all.
Not kindness from people just because. Not gentleness out of basic human decency.
So when the boy actually leans forward, adjusting himself just until he's properly within reach, something in Cheng Xiaoshi's chest skips.
He stares, frozen where he sits, and watches as the mystery before him peels the wrapper off with steady fingers, shoving the scraps back in his pocket.
He raises the bandaid to Cheng Xiaoshi's jaw, where one thin line of red cuts across.
This is . . .
Different. Strange.
The boy doesn't notice how his breath stutters, nor how he stiffens up when his fingers make contact with Cheng Xiaoshi's skin. A brief touch, where he presses and smooths down the sticky part like it's the only thing worth paying attention to here.
Not the fact that Cheng Xiaoshi is . . . well. Cheng Xiaoshi.
He's wearing their school uniform. He should know that Cheng Xiaoshi is the boy everyone likes to make jabs at because he's parentless and abnormal and easy to ridicule.
And although this unusual tenderness should make him feel better—
Cheng Xiaoshi's chest tightens uncomfortably.
I'm not gay.
The thought is fast, reflexive. He's not gay. He's just . . . not. He can't be. He isn't.
I'm not gay. I'm not—
Their eyes meet.
Up close, the boy's eyes are clearer. Light from god knows where catches in them, reflecting in a way that doesn't look natural, too clean, too bright, too steady. Eyes like silver catching blue at the wrong angle, eyes like silver moonstone— polished and beautiful.
Cheng Xiaoshi's never seen anything like it.
There's something in those eyes that makes all of his problems feel . . . distant. Like the burdens he's been carrying all this time have been lifted off his shoulders all at once.
It's relieving.
It's thrilling.
The second the boy pulls away, the space between them returns all at once. Sudden and jarring, so empty that Cheng Xiaoshi has to remind himself to breathe so he doesn't go lightheaded.
". . . There," the boy says.
Cheng Xiaoshi blinks, still half a beat behind. His gaze flicks back up to his face.
"There?" he echoes dumbly.
He doesn't get much of an elaboration. Of course, he doesn't.
The boy straightens, fixing the cuff of his sleeve before slipping his hand back into his pocket. The pocket that holds the bandaid wrapper.
Cheng Xiaoshi fidgets, fingers twitching at his side before he forces them still.
He needs to . . . stop. What's wrong with him? It's just a bandaid, just a stranger— how far is a little bit of kindness gonna take him? Honestly, this is so embarrassing.
". . . Lu Guang."
It cuts through his thoughts.
Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. "What?"
The boy's expression dulls a little, as if he's repeating something obvious. ". . . My name. It's Lu Guang."
Cheng Xiaoshi stares at him— dumbfounded.
A name . . . a name. He doesn't even know his bullies' names. He doesn't know anyone's name except for Qiao Ling's, because no one's ever trusted him with it.
Lu Guang.
"I'm Cheng Xiaoshi," he says finally, a little slower, a little quieter than expected.
Lu Guang watches him for one moment longer, with that same steady gaze, before turning on his heel. He doesn't say anything else, nor does he spare Cheng Xiaoshi another glance.
Off he goes, back on the trail to campus, leaving Cheng Xiaoshi in the grass, motionless.
Heart racing, replaying the past five minutes in his head, stomach churning, and almost giddy.
He lifts a hand, brushing his fingers lightly against the bandaid on his jaw. It feels as spiritually warm as the first day of spring— a promise of something better lingering just beneath the surface.
Could this be . . . ?
Is this what Cheng Xiaoshi's been hoping for?
A—
"—friend," he murmurs under his breath. Saying it any louder might make it disappear.
He scrambles up onto his knees and nears the edge of the pond, glancing back down at his reflection.
He still looks as bruised and messy as before.
Except now, not so much. There's something else there. Something strange, and different, and good.
He stares at himself for a second longer.
Then looks away first.