fruityutas - Tumblr blog

fruityutas · 3 years

Text

Right Side of Town

Will an age-old rivalry stop him from listening to his heart?

for @fruityutas ’s ‘the outsiders’ collab

member: chenle (featuring wayv)

au: soc!chenle x gn!reader, ‘the outsiders’ au, ‘grease’ au, 1950s/60s au

word count: 12.0k

genre: angst, drama, action, romance, suggestive, fluff

warnings: underage drinking and smoking, profanity, unhealthy mindsets regarding status and wealth, mild violence (verbal conflict + mentions & very brief descriptions of weapons/blood/injury), suggestive content (vague allusions to & implications of sex which are neither graphic nor between chenle/reader + kissing/making out), mentions of food, use of slang from the time period, hospitals

author’s note/disclaimer: This story is entirely fictional, and the actions of the characters do not depict their actual personalities in any way. I do not condone this behavior. Also, this is the first ever collab piece I’ve written and I’m very thankful to be participating! Feedback is encouraged and appreciated.

taglist: @nakamotocore @navyhyuck @chicksung @mrkcore @mieohmy @rouiyan @sicluvz @kunrengui-reblogs @luvdhl @berrysungie @rousrxxn @m1ss-foodi3 @hyuckefi @angelhee @jisungsmochi

Zhong Chenle has everything, and what he doesn’t have, he gets. From money and a flashy car to a tight circle of friends that will stop at nothing when it comes to defending their high-class clique, what more could he possibly want?

Simple: he wants to make life as miserable as possible for the town’s rivaling gang of greasers.

Miles away from Chenle and this divided community, you’re anxiously awaiting the life that lies ahead of you within it, shifting nervously in the backseat of the family car. With everything you’ve ever known packed up and sealed inside several cardboard boxes, you’re at the mercy of the highway as it rises and falls, twists and turns to take you to the place where a new chapter in your story will begin. In the front seat, your parents are gushing over the flourishing suburbs you’ll be living in, but you’re sick to your stomach.

The uneasiness you feel only grows once you get there. From chain-link to white picket fences, they both look equally uninviting, with razor-sharp edges and rusted locks or pristine latches shut tight, as if they contain something sinister. Every shadow looms like it’s someone’s darkest secret, and there’s a palpable tension lingering in the air when you step outside. You can breathe it in, lungs inundated with something that’s not unlike smoke. You wonder what’s been burning. The ominous stench weighs you down like a ball and chain.

In this town, you have nothing. No past, no reputation, no expectations. Any other person your age might feel free, but you? You feel lost.

Little do you know that moving into a house on the west side will become your one-way ticket to fitting in, to belonging. And when a certain boy takes notice of his new neighbor, you eagerly accept the security he offers.

The ‘sold’ sign has been removed from your freshly cut lawn for a few days now, so Chenle decides that it’s time to scope out the latest additions to the picture-perfect suburban streets. He definitely doesn’t ignore the sleek Ford Thunderbird that’s parked in the driveway, undoubtedly an indication of the kind of people he’s dealing with. But what was he expecting? You live on the west side of town; you’re automatically the most superior of socialites.

Chenle’s smooth strides take him all the way to your front porch, and he rings the doorbell just after putting on the most welcoming expression he can muster.

“Would you get the door, please?” Your mother doesn’t even bother answering it herself, instead calling out your name as soon as she looks out the kitchen window through the patterned curtains and sees a boy around your age. It’s about time you made a friend, anyway.

Timidly, you turn the knob and step back to let the door swing open, meeting the eyes of your visitor.

“Hey,” he purrs out a deep, suave greeting. “You must be the new kid. Welcome to the neighborhood.” When you only smile and give a well-mannered nod, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, stuffing balled-up fists into his jean pockets as his mouth opens again.

“My name’s Chenle, by the way. What’s yours?”

You tell him, and he raises a groomed eyebrow at your confirmed ability to speak.

“So that’s what you sound like,” the boy smirks a bit. “You’re a quiet one, huh? Well, don’t be nervous. Nothing to be scared of around here.”

You think otherwise. It seems like there’s plenty to be scared of. And what’s up with him treating you like a pet that just learned a trick?

With a slight frown you ignore his patronizing comment, changing the subject entirely. “I don’t suppose you go to the high school down the road?”

“Yeah, I do. You going there too?”

“Sure am. What’s it like?”

Chenle shrugs dismissively, tapping a foot. “Like any other school, with your typical hierarchy and all. You have us, and then you have the greasers.”

“Hold on,” you cut in. “What do you mean, ‘us?’ Who are you, then?”

“The Socials, or Socs for short. You’re one, too. We all live on this side of town, and all the greasers live on the east side. Don’t even bother associating with them, though. You stick with me and you’re golden. Unless… you don’t want to.” His voice lowers with the last syllables.

Great. There’s always a catch. According to what Chenle’s told you, instead of getting a valuable education at the highly-esteemed school your parents heard about from all the way across the country, you’re being sent into a raging battle between two competing socioeconomic classes. You start picturing corridors full of confrontations, insults and rogue punches flying. A social bloodbath of sorts. And Chenle’s offering to let you join his side.

You consider your options. He’s all you have right now, and the last thing you want to do is get on his bad side by doing the opposite of what he just advised. You’re not exactly sure what he’s capable of, but you don’t want to find out.

“...Okay,” you eventually respond, failing to conceal the fear both in your voice and on your face as well as you had hoped. “As long as I don’t have to fight anyone.”

He snickers at this and at your obviously distressed expression. “Oh, don’t worry about that. No one’s gonna drag you to a rumble or anything.”

Chenle’s shrill laugh, despite being at your expense, contrasts his demeanor and lightens the mood, so you try to smile.

“But I hope you like parties. There’s one almost every weekend.”

“I’m not sure… my parents probably won’t—”

“They don’t have to know,” he waves a hand. “Just tell ’em you’re going to the Nightly Double. They show 4 movies a night on weekends, so you’ll be covered for hours. Speaking of which, we should go.”

“Huh?”

“To the Nightly Double. It’s a drive-in, you’ll like it. How ’bout I pick you up on Friday? You can meet my friends.” He’s talking so fast that your brain struggles to keep up. Is he seriously asking you out?

The front door has been closed for some time now, but it’s at this moment that your mother pokes her head outside to check on you. Upon seeing Chenle’s tall frame leaning against one of the porch’s columns, she asks, “Who’s this?”

“Zhong Chenle. I live a few streets away,” the boy extends his hand and she shakes it, approval in her eyes, before she turns to you for an explanation. “He invited me to go to a drive-in movie with him this Friday. May I?”

“Of course, dear, but we’ll need to discuss a curfew with your father.”

Chenle’s used to hearing this. He suddenly interjects as politely as he can, the confidence in his voice compelling. “If I may, I should tell you that this is a very safe neighborhood, and most everyone here agrees that a curfew isn’t even necessary.”

Her gaze turns inquisitive, though more scrutinous than critical. “Your parents let you stay out late?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And his practiced persuasion works like a charm, because she agrees without any further interrogation.

“That’s fine, then. I’ll leave you two be,” your mother excuses herself with a smile, disappearing into the house just as quickly as she emerged from it a minute ago. “Easy,” Chenle grins. “Now you can get away with just about anything.”

But should that relieve or frighten you?

Before you can decide, Chenle’s already starting down the steps. “I’ll see you on Friday. It’s a date,” he winks.

You retreat back inside once he’s gone, marching upstairs to your room and all the while trying to process whatever the hell just happened.

When that day rolls around, a car you’ve never seen before pulls up in front of your driveway. Even as the twilight sky above begins to fade, you can still identify the model: a Mustang, coated in shiny red paint and seemingly without a scratch anywhere.

For a moment you’ve completely forgotten your commitment, but one glance at the driver’s seat and the memory comes flooding back to you instantly. A halfhearted promise to be back at a reasonable hour is made and directed towards very unconcerned parents before you’re off. Maybe too unconcerned.

Three others are haphazardly piled into the backseat of Chenle’s car, presumably the friends he mentioned a few days ago. The passenger seat has been left empty for you, so you slowly climb in next to the boy behind the wheel.

“Glad you could make it,” he hums. A hand motions to each of them in turn, then shifts the cramped vehicle into gear. “This is Sicheng, Ten, and Yangyang. We’re all tight.”

“Hey.” His friends greet you in something close to unison. You note that they appear to be at least a year or two older than Chenle, but it’s like he reads your mind before you can even open your mouth and ask, informing you that it’s not unusual for students to get held back at least once, or even multiple times.

Deciding it would be rude not to, you briefly return the favor by introducing yourself to them over the top of the seats that separate you, and are met with smiles that seem to mask an underlying intention. Good or bad, you can’t decipher. This is quickly forgotten, however, because a few minutes into the drive they’ve become totally absorbed in their own rowdy discussion. The volume of noise emanating from behind you is deafening, and any conversations that you might try to strike up with the other occupant of the front seat are rendered useless, the sound of the radio only adding to the chaos as it grapples for dominance against their voices.

By the time you reach the drive-in theater, a large amount of the lot’s parking spaces are filled, mostly with cars that look just as expensive as the one you’re in. Chenle isn’t phased by this, taking his time, and he swiftly puts on the brakes when he finally manages to secure a good spot in the middle. As soon as the vehicle rolls to a halt, the rest of his friends scramble to exit, backseat doors flinging open and narrowly missing the side of a Corvette that pulls in next to them.

“Son of a bitch, Yangyang! I give you a ride and you give me a heart attack by almost denting another car? That’s the last time I’m taking you anywhere.”

The boy offers a half-sheepish, half-smug apology, since he knows Chenle doesn’t really mean it.

“We’re getting popcorn,” one of them declares, and the rearview mirror’s placement allows you to see a few more people joining the three as they walk off towards the concession stand.

“Grab two sodas for us!” Chenle shouts hastily, before they’re out of earshot. Ten’s hand raises in acknowledgement of the request.

He digs through his wallet for some money to pay them back, placing it on the car’s dashboard, then leans back and directs his attention towards the supersized screen. The first movie of the night has already started, but there are plenty of kids just milling around the lot and talking, only there for the social scene.

“What do you think?”

“It’s—”

“Well, what do we have here?” A harsh knock on the open passenger windowsill interrupts, startling both of you. “Look at this, boys! Zhong’s got himself a sweetheart.”

The perpetrator looks different than Chenle and his friends. He’s clad in a leather jacket with gelled-up dark hair, wearing a mischievous smile on his face. Something tells you he isn’t a Soc.

Chenle sneers and confirms your assumption. “Beat it, greaser.”

“Aw, you want me to leave so you can neck in the backseat?” He chortles, his booming laughter attracting more attention than either of you would like.

“Cool it, Lucas,” another voice cautions. “You don’t wanna scrap with that one.”

“Actually, Kun,” he hisses, cracking his knuckles. “I’m just trying to have a good time here. He’s the one that’s looking for trouble with us, don’t you think? I’d love to give him a taste of his own medicine.” The second greaser comes into view, frowning and tugging harshly at the taller one’s collar.

Chenle currently sports the most menacing facial expression you’ve ever seen on anyone. “Your friend there’s got a point. Better back off now,” he growls.

Lucas smiles coldly, “What you gonna do, pretty boy?”

His last comment must have struck a nerve, because before you know it Chenle is swinging the driver’s side door open and angling his wrist to throw a punch. “Get lost before I skin you alive, hood!”

With the verbal threat of violence in play, both boys whirl around and run, being joined by two more figures in the distance and disappearing into the eerie darkness of the streets, where only the stars remain to light their way.

“Those bastards,” he seethes through clenched teeth once back inside the car. “Now you’ve seen it for yourself. Greasers are just lousy, good-for-nothing bums, always asking for a fight.”

You say nothing. Though the encounter did make you uncomfortable, you feel like there’s more to this story, more that Chenle isn’t telling you. It’s going to take a lot for you to trust him, and he knows it, too. But for now, you both turn back to watching the flickering film.

At some point he asks if you’re cold. Despite the shake of your head you still feel him reach over to drape his letterman jacket around your shoulders. His hands graze over your skin for a moment, and they’re warmer than you would have expected.

Yangyang and Ten return shortly after, one bearing a soft drink in each hand and the other with a palm outstretched in Chenle’s direction. He hands over the loose change he had gathered earlier while wondering aloud, “Where’s Sicheng?”

“Probably making out with a girl he met in the concessions line. She dragged him to her car and we haven’t seen him since.” Your cheeks suddenly heat up as you remember Lucas’s remark. People really do things like that at a drive-in?

“You’d be surprised by what goes on back there,” Chenle adds, seeming to sense your shock. How does he keep doing that?

Gesturing with a thumb stuck out in said direction, the boy draws your eyes over to the lot’s far end, slightly less illuminated and with the poorest view of the movie screen. Only a few vehicles fill those spaces, but it’s too dark for you to see anything else. You don’t think you want to.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

There’s silence for a while. It’s broken when Ten reaches into his pocket for something, and you instantly recognize the small objects he procures from within the fabric compartment as cigarettes.

“Light me up, will you, Liu?”

“Sure thing.” Yangyang extracts a shiny box from his own pocket and flicks open the cover, a small flame igniting the end of the paper tube. “Want one, Chenle?”

“No, thanks.” He shoots you a glance from the side, asking the same question with an eyebrow quirked.

“I don’t smoke,” you defend quickly.

“You don’t smoke, or you never have? There’s a difference.”

Yangyang’s smart-mouthed reply is nearly enough to make you lose your temper, but Chenle’s abrupt grip on your arm stops you from acting rashly. “Shut your trap and quit bugging them already.”

“I just asked a question! Damn, what’s got you all considerate lately?” He scoffs at the younger boy, indignant.

Ten suggests the two of them roam around to try to find Sicheng, and if they’re lucky, maybe someone with a convertible so they can sit and enjoy the remainder of the second movie. Once again you’re left alone, but thankfully no slick-haired strangers approach you this time.

What encroaches upon you, however, is Chenle himself. He must think he’s being smooth when he reaches across you and into the glove compartment for something, yet you see through every last gesture. It’s almost laughable, how bold he is. But Chenle doesn’t do subtleties, a fact that’s evident in the hand he leaves behind to rest lightly atop your thigh. Not in the slightest.

Even so, it works. You don’t brush his hand away, and neither do you shrug off the arm he tosses over your shoulder in the midst of a highly exaggerated yawn. He knows he’s triumphed when you slump against the back of the seat, head resting against his shoulder and cheek pressing into his thin shirt. You’re relaxed, no longer on edge. And that spurs something within Chenle. He’s always wanted to be feared instead of adored, but you are slowly becoming the lone exception to this golden rule, one that he’s lived by all his life.

The film ends, and it’s only when his friends come into view that you break the physical contact. Sicheng has rejoined them, with hair askew, plaid shirt untucked, and the faintest print of lipstick adorning his jaw. He doesn’t seem the slightest bit flustered, either, which is odd considering you all know exactly what he’s been up to. Actually, he looks rather pleased with himself.

“How was the movie?” Sicheng inquires breathlessly.

“Why don’t you know? You were here too.”

He scoffs, “Um, I was a little busy in case you forgot.” Sicheng punctuates his sentence by pulling his undershirt to the side and revealing more of the crimson marks, smirking at Chenle with mirthful eyes the whole time. Everyone save for you and the latter of the two boys erupts in obnoxious hoots of praise and congratulations.

“You sly dog,” Ten murmurs proudly to him while delivering a firm pat on the back. Yangyang wolf whistles, doing the same. He glances over his shoulder at your indifferent gazes, “Some fun you two are.”

Chenle remains unamused.

“I’ll take that cigarette now.”

After celebrating Sicheng’s score for a much longer amount of time than he deemed necessary, the night’s designated chauffeur finally wrangles his three friends back into the car and sets off for each of your houses. Somewhere along the way, in between puffs of tobacco, Chenle misses a turn.

“Hey, what’s the big idea, Zhong? The suburbs are that way.”

“I know, Lee,” he snarls. “You trying to tell me how to drive?”

Ten subsequently quiets down.

But by now, they all know where they are: the east side. You pick up on the change in scenery as well, noting the run-down homes and desolate parks. Sitting there in the front seat and expecting him to turn back around at any moment, you’re puzzled when he only continues on, his speed lessening but foot never leaving the gas pedal.

The truth is, Chenle’s spotted the same gang of greasers from the drive-in, and he’s watching them like a hawk from behind the wheel as they amble down the sidewalk, then turn down a smaller street narrowly separating two buildings.

He makes one more loop around the central grassy area that resides between several blocks of homes, giving them just enough time to disappear between the shadows and lull themselves into a false sense of security, but not too much time. They won’t get far, he’s certain of it. Sure, it may be their territory, but when Zhong Chenle has an idea in mind, nothing and no one dares to stand in his way.

It’s only when he skids to a stop next to this same alleyway that you speak, still partially afraid you’ll be scolded just as Ten was.

“...What are we doing here?”

Chenle doesn’t answer you right away, instead glancing at the passengers in the backseat with an expression that says trust me. They look just as confused as you feel, but they follow him out nonetheless.

“It’s nothing, baby. The boys and I just have to take care of something. We’ll be right back,” he leaves you with a reassuring smile that isn’t very reassuring at all. You suddenly wish this Mustang had actual windows.

The four of them circle up just in front of the hood of the car, where Chenle explains his plan. His back is to you, so you can’t see his eyes darken dangerously, as if they and his words are infected with a fatal poison. All that’s visible to you is the image of them nodding in mutual understanding, vanishing into the gloom shortly after.

You contemplate doing something stupid like running away, but that idea is quickly thrown out the window considering you don’t even know where you are, much less which way is home. The same wave of uneasiness that had settled over you when you first set foot in this town is returning, comes flooding back as you’re abandoned entirely, with only your thoughts to keep you company.

Chirps of crickets and the mechanical hums of flickering streetlights pass through the air, ultimately obscuring a few distant shouts and the sickening thump of fists against skin. Switchblades flip open, high-top sneakers pound against the pavement, and though an even match, the skirmish ends with one party far less fortunate than the other.

There’s something disturbing, something artificial in the smile Chenle flashes at you as they return. It’s too dim in the car for you to see his hands gripping the steering wheel, much less his bloodied knuckles. You aren’t even looking. You just want to get home.

When the following week begins, so does the school year. The main courtyard is buzzing when you reach the campus that bright Monday morning, filled with students milling around and talking to their respective cliques. Once the bell tower produces a resounding chime, all the small friend groups combine to form a horde of teenagers, and you fall in line among the mass of complete strangers as they rush past the doors, swarming the corridors like moths to a flame.

Nothing inside the building appears to be out of the ordinary. Lockers line the walls, the lights overhead glow a harsh, blinding white, and the classrooms are seemingly the only places where Socs and greasers can coexist without being at each other’s throats. Though you suppose it’s not by their own volition, and more due to the threat of a teacher’s punishment.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” are the words that reach your ears just as an arm slings itself around you, and you’re not at all surprised to see that the voice in question belongs to none other than the supreme Soc himself, whom you’ve been avoiding all weekend.

Ever since Chenle brought you home Friday night, you had stayed cooped up inside, trying to make sense of every last encounter the evening had entailed and ceaselessly replaying every moment in your mind like a broken record. The way his demeanor switched from one extreme to the other so quickly was off-putting, as were Lucas’s words about the boy and his mysterious venture to the east side. Top it all off with the vague excuses about his strange disappearance into that ominous alleyway, and you’re thoroughly unnerved.

You never should have doubted your first impression of the place, because somewhere, somehow, it’s not quite right. You’re sure of this. Below the surface something is lurking, and now that your curiosity has been sparked for better or for worse, there’s no backing down.

“Hey, Chenle,” you reply, hoping the reluctance in your voice isn’t too evident. In an instant it seems like all eyes turn towards you, as if your association with him is a coveted rite of passage. Greasers and Socs alike stop to stare at the two of you, gazes sharp and shrewd.

The attention doesn’t faze him whatsoever. “Don’t mind them, it’s normal. You’ll get used to it.”

You shrug, fixing one of your sleeves and opting to regard the tiled floor with excessive interest, thinking solely about how you can’t escape this hallway soon enough.

“Where’s your first class?”

So you tell him, and he walks you there, undoubtedly earning a few looks from those already inside. The teacher is nowhere to be found, and two boys linger by the large window at the back of the classroom, sneaking a few cigarettes. At first you don’t believe you’ve ever seen them in your life, but your opinion changes abruptly upon laying eyes on their non-smoking companions: you recognize them as the same greasers from the drive-in, Kun and Lucas.

They must have gotten into some sort of trouble, because the former of the two has a black eye and a busted lip. The latter clearly didn’t fare much better, attested by the scrapes visible on his exposed arms and littering the sloped curve of his throat, and the unnamed greasers display similar afflictions on the parts of them that aren't concealed by shiny dark leather. That makes four, you conclude, so they’ve got to be the owners of the other two silhouettes that joined Kun’s and Lucas’s as they bolted from the lot.

Resentful scowls are briefly exchanged between the rivals, and Chenle’s hand leaves the small of your back when he turns to go. This leaves you to find an empty desk, but by the time their silent staring contest had ended many more students had filed in, so now you’re stuck in a seat that’s much nearer to the greasers than he would approve of.

You’ve decisively learned their names once the teacher finishes calling roll, Xiaojun and Hendery being the two new additions. All four of their voices sound much gentler than you had anticipated, but maybe it’s just the setting. You can still recall Lucas’s thunderous tone from the other night and its occasional ringing in your ears.

The class itself goes by rather quickly. In what seems like the blink of an eye you’re packing up your things and starting for the door, but the greasers’ formidable figures block your path, preventing your exit.

“You,” the one named Hendery glowers. “You see these bruises?” He rolls up one sleeve to unveil a sickly-colored canvas of black and blue spots, embellishing his flesh like souvenirs of the pain he felt upon their infliction.

Hendery keeps his eyes on you all the while, even when yours lower to glance at his injuries. “Know how we got ’em?”

Chenle’s constant warnings to you about not so much as conversing with what he deemed the inferior social class seem relatively void now, since you suspect you won’t get anywhere without providing a response. You shake your head.

“No?” He shares a look with the rest. Of course you don’t. “I’d love to tell you, but I’m not sure you’d believe me if I did.”

Xiaojun leans over slightly as if to murmur something in Kun’s ear, though his words end up sounding anything but discreet. “He’s probably brainwashed them already.”

Growing impatient with their cryptic statements, you huff, folding your arms across your chest. “Just spit it out, would you?”

“Since you’re dying to know,” Lucas snickers threateningly, “your boyfriend and his little posse did this to us. Surprised?”

“We fought back, of course,” Kun adds. “But it’s not exactly fair when they pull switchblades on us.”

You’re caught in a stunned silence, not even bothering to correct his inaccurate reference to Chenle. They really got out of the car on Friday night just to jump these guys? Surely you could have prevented it somehow, right? Perhaps he would’ve listened if you’d said something. Or perhaps it wouldn’t have made any difference.

A sincere “I’m sorry” is about all you can muster, and it dawns on the greasers then that maybe you’re not too far gone. Xiaojun steps forward, gaze suddenly warm, and places a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t look like the type, anyway.”

“...What?”

“You don’t have to be like him and all the other Socs, you know. No one’s forcing you,” he imparts, palm lifting and moving towards your face now. “You can be different. Set an example.”

The moment his fingertips make contact with your cheek you jerk away, wide-eyed. He must mean well, but you feel like you’re falling into the hands of the enemy. You notice that his steps forward have created a gap in the broad-shouldered wall that surrounds you, so you don’t hesitate to dart past them all and out the door, seeking the boy in question. The promise of the moment passes; you’re already lost to the current.

To the greasers’ dismay, the dynamic hand of time begins to mold you into someone else. You no longer represent their hopes of ending the bitter rivalry that envelops this small town, a rivalry they don’t even know the origins of in the first place. These hopes are far-fetched, they’re well aware, but who can blame them? You can’t, for you once wanted to do the same.

As days blur into weeks, your grip on Chenle’s hand in the halls gets tighter, your actions grow less good-natured and your attitude sours. If you’re being honest with yourself, Xiaojun’s words never leave your head for one second, although they’re concealed by the public persona you had felt so much pressure to acquire. You gave into it, and you gave into everything that came with being a Soc.

Well, almost everything.

Chenle shows up on a chilly Saturday evening to take you to one of their notorious weekend house parties. It’s been months since school began, and yet you’ve never attended. In a way, you’re holding onto a piece of your former self by way of your abstinence from experiencing such a thing, but you suppose he’s not going to let you make any more excuses tonight. So you leave your true self at the door, slipping into the disguise of malice and conceit you’ve fashioned for yourself ever since you discovered its necessity in your everyday life.

“C’mon, it’s gonna be fun,” he drags out the last syllable childishly, tugging on your arm as he leads you to his car. “Promise I’ll take you home if you don’t like it?” He attempts to compromise, and it seems genuine enough.

“...Fine, but I’m holding you to that, Zhong.” You grumble, shoving his shoulder across the Mustang’s center console. He catches your hand before you can withdraw it and plush pink lips meet knuckles in a spontaneous kiss, the boy’s sly smile never faltering.

The smile reappears when you pull up to the event’s location, and he spots your slack-jawed reflection in his rear-view mirror. You had thought the homes in your neighborhood were nice, sure, but they all pale in comparison to this one. If they’re mansions, then this is a whole damn palace.

Clearly, you’ve still got a lot to learn about this place.

It takes a few minutes for him to park somewhere, seeing as the gigantic driveway is full and the small suburban lane is crowded with cars on either side. He eventually engages the manual brake a few blocks down and offers his hand as you start towards the luxurious residence, sauntering next to the road. This casual pace is quickly interrupted, however, because without warning a car speeds by and startles both of you.

Of course Chenle barrels down two-lane streets at high speeds from time to time, but in an act of blatant hypocrisy he curses out whoever is behind the wheel for nearly running you over. You crash directly into his chest when he yanks you backwards by the hips, and gasp, though it’s more due to his immediate reaction than the peril you had just narrowly avoided. His breathing feels labored against your shoulders, and the fact that he seems more shaken up than you is inappropriately comical, since a near hit-and-run is no laughing matter.

“Asshole,” he rasps, and his eyes flash with contempt as he glares at the retreating tail lights, steadily fading into the distance.

A bit unaccustomed to his touch, you pry Chenle’s hands from their position and shrug, “I’m okay. Let’s go.”

You don’t have the energy to repeat these actions when his wrist slithers around your waist one stretch of sidewalk later, simply allowing him to hold you close. Upon approaching the front yard, you can start to hear the muffled roar of rock and roll blaring inside, but your eardrums are unprepared for the sheer volume of all the improvised guitar riffs and drum solos that flood the night air when the door opens.

The person standing behind it is someone you recognize from your high school’s hallways but nothing more. Despite living here for quite some time now, you’ve never really gotten close to anyone besides Chenle and his friends.

A cold breeze nips at your skin and you’re eager to be let inside as soon as possible, but as your luck would have it this acquaintance decides to strike up a conversation with Chenle, talking about his folks hardly ever being home and how he’s always able to throw these parties. You watch warily as the host takes big swigs of the beer bottle in his hand between each sentence, nose wrinkling at its pungent odor.

It’s like you aren’t even there for a few moments, but his peripheral vision is probably hazy from the alcohol he’s consumed, and finally he steps to the side to let you and Chenle into the foyer.

Solid purple lights glare down at the partygoers from the ceiling, making every figure inside glow a blazing violet. You hear a familiar voice approaching, and Ten appears in front of you just seconds later.

“Hey, guys,” he greets, speech slurred and smile vacant. “Drinks are in the kitchen.”

The older boy begins to lead you two from the entrance and down a hallway, passing dozens of delirious bodies swaying to the deafening music along the way. It’s so loud in here that you can barely hear yourself think.

Someone drags Ten off in another direction mid-escort, but fortunately Chenle doesn’t seem to get lost, only clutching you tighter and continuing to navigate through all the crowded rooms. You reach the liquor cabinet soon after, with its contents raided and doors already ajar.

Glossy flasks of whiskey, wine, and everything in between litter the adjacent counter, along with discarded cups, some still half-full of god knows what. He manages to procure an empty and seemingly unused one from somewhere nearby, and reaches for an undisturbed bottle of vodka.

The liquid bubbles up and he takes a languid sip, letting it slide down his throat with an acidic burn he’s well accustomed to by now. He’s distracted for a moment, a moment in which you decide to snatch a cup for yourself and do just the same. You don’t smoke and you don’t drink, but to hell with that. Everyone’s always telling you to live a little, so tonight you will.

It’s darker in the kitchen than in the rest of the house, meaning that Chenle doesn’t notice you’ve grabbed the vodka until you’re lifting the rim of the cup to your lips and, consequently, coughing once you taste its contents.

“Shit, you know that’s booze, right?” He plants a slap on your back, hard enough for you to regain your breath but not quite enough to hurt.

“Of course I do, wiseass.” The chagrin dripping from your voice nearly makes him flinch, so he doesn’t ask any more questions. All he knows is that you’re bound to get wasted much faster, being a novice drinker. There’s no telling how you’ll act when you’re all boozed-up, and in a twisted sort of way, it thrills him.

You reluctantly digest more of the substance, pinching your nose in order to avoid its pungent flavor as much as possible while dealing with the unpleasant buzz it leaves behind on your tongue. But Chenle remains largely unaffected, appearing much more clear-headed in comparison to you as you begin to stammer and stumble, rapidly losing your grip on sobriety.

The alcohol makes you loosen up, and he can’t help but chuckle when you stagger into another room with him in tow, beginning to twist and shout to the Beatles song that just came on the radio. Everyone around you spins and bounces to the rhythm, crowd pulsing like a heartbeat. There’s a wide smile blooming on your face, and Chenle absolutely loves it.

He loves when you pull him in by the shoulders, loves the blissful elation glimmering in your eyes, loves how you dance like you’re the only two people in the world. This is a side of you he wouldn’t mind seeing more often.

A familiar tune by the Beach Boys follows and has everyone shouting along in tipsy delight, then the tempo relaxes. It’s a slow song.

You clasp your hands behind his neck, fingertips brushing over the soft locks of dark hair at the nape, and it feels euphoric. The way you lean your head on Chenle’s chest makes his inebriated heart race; his hands begin to sweat at the tenderness of your every breath. But no feeling is quite as euphoric as the sensation of your lips, rising to meet his own after delicately departing from their idle place against the elegant curves of his collarbones.

Awestruck, the boy freezes, yet melts at the same time. He’s heard the sayings, heard how drunken words reflect sober thoughts, and by extension he gathers that drunken actions must represent sober desires. If you’ve wanted this all along, why haven’t you said so?

Truthfully, you’ve resented yourself for it from the beginning. Developing a crush on someone so reprehensible in thought, word, and deed was never an aspiration of yours, yet here you are. Perhaps fate knew what your heart wanted before you did, but why him? He’s so…

He’s so him, but you’re you, and you suppose that’s not much better. The vows you made to uncover the secrets and the stories behind this mysterious town were broken, and you relinquished them for a fabricated identity that’s a burden to display. You did just what you said you wouldn’t and fell right into the trap.

In spite of these mistakes, hope still remains, and not just for you.

Most of the time, Chenle appears cruel and uncaring, but no one is truly and completely evil. Not even him, an Elvis-esque devil in disguise who’s polite at first but shows his true colors when he’s around the rest of his preppy, madras-wearing gang. You know this, and you’re reminded of it through his occasional gestures, miniscule but nonetheless meaningful. You remember when he holds the door or lends you the coat off his back that those parts of him are the parts you fell in lov—well, you’ve learned to appreciate. In due time, you feel as though redemption could come within Chenle’s grasp. It’s up to him to accept the invitation.

But redemption isn’t something either of you are looking very worthy of right now.

Not when mouths and hands and eyes are wandering in the middle of this makeshift dance floor. Not when you’re kissing him like this, movements so full of haste and impatience that they might just tear the very fibers of your soul apart.

He doesn’t hesitate to match your pace, easily pressing against your lips with an addictive vigor and wrapping his arms around your body. The lights, the music, and the people all fade away, becoming mere supporting roles in this romantic scene while you two steal the spotlight.

After what seems like an eternity, your lungs begin to yearn for air, so you break away just for a moment to satisfy their demands with a few gasps of oxygen. You’re all too keen to bestow more of your frenetic kisses upon Chenle’s skin, and this time your gaze falls lower than his lips, ravenously eyeing the area beneath. You don’t get very far down his neck, though, because a better idea comes to you, and now you’re all but tripping over your own two feet as you haphazardly guide the boy out of the crowd.

It’s true that Chenle is no stranger to what goes on at Soc parties. He’s seen it all, so he’s quite familiar with the visual of couples coming and going, sneaking in and out of spare bedrooms to fool around. Chenle is also smart enough to know that such a short-lived impulse is far from a good idea, and if his gut feeling is any indication, he has a pretty good idea of where this is going—or where you want it to go, at least.

He lets himself be stolen away and follows your shaky footsteps down one of the house’s many corridors, your grasp on his wrist shockingly firm given your current state of mind. He lets your lips meet his once again, not even two seconds after you fling open a random door and slam it shut behind the both of you. He lets your warm breath fan over him and he lets your hands roam his torso. But the moment he feels you pull on his shirt, as soon as it comes untucked from the waistband of his jeans, he intervenes.

Chenle’s moral compass may be skewed, but at least he knows better than to let that happen.

“Easy, easy,” he cautions, escaping the position of being caught between your figure and the wall. “We both know you’d regret it in the morning.”

You only hum in protest, reaching out a stray palm to tug yourself closer so you can plant more kisses along his jaw, but it’s obvious that you’re fighting a losing battle. He proves resolute, despite it taking nearly all of his strength and self-control for him to push you away a second time. Reluctant as you may be to suppress such newfound and passionate displays of affection, you comply, touch melting into a more innocent one. “Fine…”

Context is crucial, however, and it’s something that Sicheng severely lacks. He happens to be passing through the hallway when he glimpses one of the bedroom doors opening up, and the sight of both of you exiting is enough to make him assume the outrageous.

In a mix of disbelief and amusement, his eyebrows arch beyond his bangs. You look dazed, eyes glassy as you cling to Chenle’s side, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all, placing a casual arm at your waist. What else is Sicheng supposed to think?

So he only laughs at the younger boy, dismissing his attempts to explain. “Dude, we didn’t—”

“Sure, you didn’t. I’m not stupid, Chenle, I know that look.”

Realizing the effort is useless, he decides it’s easier to agree than continue to argue. Chenle sighs and returns Sicheng’s insistent remarks with a shrug of resignation, “Yeah, but I’m gonna take them home.”

“You had booze?”

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

It really isn’t that far between this house and yours, plus the roads are virtually empty in the middle of the night. Except for a close call or two in the form of nearly driving up onto the sidewalk or colliding with a street lamp, you both make it back safely, though Chenle isn’t looking forward to your admonishments for being under the influence.

On the bright side, you’ve sobered up slightly by the time you get there, your body having had several minutes to process the alcohol it’s been flooded with. After being brought along on so many late-night escapades by his group of friends, you obtained a spare house key in case of any possible emergencies. With droopy eyelids you manage to recall where said key is located, and though the term ‘emergency’ is ill-defined at the moment, you deem it necessary for the current situation. It’s at least a small stroke of luck in this atypical evening.

He watches you dig through a potted plant on the side of your porch until you remove your hand from the dirt, triumphantly hoisting the small metal object into the air.

Sure enough, the lock turns. So does your companion, but you catch him by the jacket.

“Stay.”

You’ve never been more glad that you come from a family of such heavy sleepers. Even in the darkness of the house you can see Chenle’s eyes, as round as saucers in frightened anticipation of a discovery that never happens. The creak of the stairs makes no difference, and you easily reach the second floor without incident.

All that’s left for him to do is remove his outerwear and crawl underneath these unbelievably soft-looking blankets of yours, so warm and so tempting. The added heat from a second occupant, namely you, doesn’t hurt either. But he stops short, an unfamiliar sentiment clawing at him from the inside.

Is he, the Zhong Chenle, actually nervous?

It may sound absurd, because of course he’s been nervous before. What makes this particular instance different is that he’s never had the time to actually acknowledge such a feeling’s presence in his own heart like he does right now. He’s nervous to be close to you in more ways than one, and to label you as anything more than a friend to him. He’s nervous, and it’s all because of you.

You. You bring out something new in Chenle, something that’s like fabric snagging on a roughened edge. He’s caught, entangled in you. You’re the best kind of thorn in his side, giving him an aching feeling that perhaps the life he’s always known isn’t the only life to live.

His friends say he’s going soft, which they never do without also casting a pointed glance in your direction. It’s a fact, unavoidable and undeniable, that you’ve rubbed off on him.

Most stunningly of all, Chenle is starting to think that’s not such a bad thing anymore.

But this sort of intoxicated self-reflection is hardly an instantaneous process. More thoughts soon begin to infiltrate his head, pertinent and irrelevant alike, and Chenle finds himself pondering more deeply than he ever has before. He sits there on the edge of your duvet, listening to your breaths level out as you presumably drift off to sleep, still clad in the same clothes you had worn to the party.

Maybe it’s the vodka talking, but if you had asked him to give up everything then and there, he would have listened.

Too bad you’re passed out cold when he’s just reached his most persuadable mentality.

At last the act of contemplation becomes too overwhelming for his dwindling consciousness, so he gives in to the sweet embrace of rest. Tomorrow will bring a headache, for sure, but a part of him hopes it will also bring some recollection of these revelations.

And bring a headache it does. Except it’s not the kind he was expecting.

“Chenle!”

His ears ring and his forehead throbs with the volume of your harsh warning, albeit a whisper, but it’s loud nonetheless. There’s barely any time for the boy to register what the hell is happening, his only explanation coming in the form of a singular, second-long image: his discarded jacket flying across the room and a satin avalanche of pillows drawing near, about to obscure his vision.

The cushions produce a soft thump against Chenle’s figure, and he’s about to open his mouth to speak when another voice that definitely doesn’t belong to you sounds throughout the room. Oh.

“How was the party?”

“Fun,” you assure your father with an authentic but strained statement, trying to hide the exhaustion and apprehension in your voice. He seems to buy it, and makes a few offhand comments before resuming his strides down the upstairs hallway.

Realizing that the door’s been left ajar, you move to close it, but out of nowhere he appears in the entryway once more. Your very own surprise sends you tumbling backwards onto your bed in order to hide the suspiciously human-shaped lump covered by the sheets. Chenle winces underneath the abrupt pressure, his sleepy mind and body still adjusting to the jarring surroundings in a way that’s far from desirable.

“I almost forgot, honey. Your mother and I were thinking—are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Your words begin to slur as panic builds in your chest, all while you mentally apologize to the boy you’re currently and unwillingly smothering for all the early-morning commotion.

Your father can’t leave the room soon enough, but thankfully he shuts the door this time. Chenle is nearly gasping for air by the time you snatch the blankets away, letting out a sigh that’s just slightly overdramatic.

“Geez, what was that for?”

“I had to! You know my folks would kill me if they knew I brought a boy home from a party, much less saw him in my bed!”

“But they know me,” he counters.

“…Not really.”

Chenle is confused by this. He studies your downcast expression regretfully, the space between you instantly filling up with a thick and brooding tension.

Like most parents of west side kids, yours have remained blissfully ignorant of the Socs’ antics thus far, and you hope it stays that way. They’re quite possibly the only ones who know the true you, for that matter, seeing as you’ve never once altered your demeanor at home. It’s always been an escape from the demands of having a vivacious social life over the course of these past few months.

So they don’t really know Chenle, and when you’re outside their walls they don’t really know you, either. You’re living a lie, an illusion that’s wearing off and wearing you down. Sooner or later, the wool’s bound to be pulled from their eyes, and the eyes of everyone else.

Ultimately the memories of last night that came crashing down as soon as you opened your eyes this morning, however hazy they may be, are more than sufficient to convince you of one thing: your little charade has gone on for far too long. You simply can’t keep it up. “I need to tell you something.”

“Oh?” He breathes out with large, curious eyes, tinted red and the tiniest bit puffy from his hangover. Oh god, you must look far worse. Your dad didn’t notice, did he?

It’s no matter; Chenle commands your attention again as he moves the conversation along with an admission of his own. “Well, I do, too. You first,” the boy insists, in a voice that’s far too cheerful for what you’re about to reveal.

“I don’t want to be a Soc anymore.”

There’s a pause. For a moment, he’s baffled by the initial shock of the sentence, as its words completely oppose his entire perception of you. Or it seems like they should.

But he’s no fool. Chenle has undoubtedly picked up on your reluctance to join his and his friends’ schemes, yet you always give in. You’ve likely undergone the same sort of character transformation he felt like carrying out the night before. Unless…

A fear, irrational and ridiculous as it is, worms its way into his thoughts, injecting an unchecked fury into the response he gives before you even have a second to elaborate. With a start, he pushes himself upwards to stand, towering over your slouching figure that still remains seated on the fluffy mattress.

“What did they say to you?” He seethes, already forming a mental hit list that contains the names of four certain someones. They must have put you up to this. He’ll kill them. He’ll—

“What are you talking about, Chenle? Who?”

“That crowd of hoods!” His tone is assumptive and bitter. You’ve never heard such a sting in his words, even with all the risky confrontations he’s gotten into. “You’re just like them. They put you up to this, right? They’re only using you to use me—”

“Calm down,” you stutter out, not used to dealing with his volatile emotions when they’re directed at you. “No one put me up to anything!”

A breath of relief leaves you when he stops throwing around such accusations, and instead stalks over to one of the windows in your room. It’s silent, and oddly so, while he inspects its view as if he’s anticipating the sight of a few leathery figures beneath, huddled behind some bushes.

“I’m telling you, there’s no one there.”

“Do you swear?”

You fail to suppress a disapproving scoff; you shouldn’t have expected anything less from him. “Yes. I swear.”

He turns around, pacing back towards the bed and reclaiming his spot beside you. The fire in his eyes dissipates.

“This is exactly what I mean,” you admit softly. “I see how you act, and it makes me realize that I’m tired of pretending.”

“What?” His voice is timid now, cautious, as if the indestructible walls he’s built up around himself for so many years have come tumbling down and he’s left powerless, vulnerable.

“It’s like all you want to do is pick a fight or drink and smoke and party. I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay with the way you live, and I’m tired of pretending I wasn’t stupid enough to fall for someone like you. But I need to stop telling myself that you can change because it’s clearly too much to ask.” The conviction in your speech is remarkable, and it makes Chenle wish he was more like you instead of himself.

The question he asks next is probably—no, definitely stupid, but he does it anyway. For peace of mind.

“So… you’re not a greaser?”

“God, no. And I don’t want to be one. All I’m trying to say is that I’m not fond of how you spend your time, and I’d rather not be involved in it.” Gaze meeting his, you return the questioning look on the boy’s face with a sad smile of your own.

“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but—”

Before you can get another word out, you feel two strong arms envelop you in a hug.

The sudden embrace lasts for a few minutes, or perhaps for just a few seconds; you aren’t sure. It feels like heaven either way. Soon you feel a vibration against your shoulder, right where his face is buried. Upon asking him to repeat himself, you finally make out a small “I wanna change,” and you think you might be dreaming.

“Really?” A nod. “How do I know you’re not still drunk?”

“I’ve been sober since I woke up, I swear.” Chenle lifts his head, eyes shining under the light emanating from your ceiling. “I’m starting to see that I’ve done a lot of bad things. You’ve helped me realize that. But I don’t really know how to do good ones. Can you…”

“I’ll help you,” you pledge, arms still wrapped around his middle and hands absentmindedly toying with the fabric of his undershirt. He smiles, warm and true, and your heart is now fluttering for multiple reasons.

Actually, you have a request of your own, and it’s a bit impromptu. You can’t help it. Your feelings for the boy have swelled and reached a new level after hearing him accept some accountability by admitting to such things. To say the least, you’re proud of him.

“Since we’ve gotten that out of the way,” you change the subject almost inappropriately quickly, taking a shaky breath prior to speaking again. “Can I…”

The way you trail off and glance downwards to trace the angles of his face with your vision is enough to reveal your intentions. His lips have never looked more inviting, and this time it’s his turn to approve with a small tip of his head.

“Are you still drunk?” He questions, raising an eyebrow.

You hum and look away, flustered by the suggestion. “No! I really like you, Chenle…”

“Then yes. As long as you don’t try to take my clothes off again,” he teases. Just because he’s willing to give up messing with others doesn’t mean he’ll stop messing with you. You’re too cute and you make it far too easy.

“Don’t remind me," you cringe.

Chenle bursts into laughter at the reaction, but the eagerness of your kiss swiftly cuts off the sound.

It’s somewhat different from when you kissed him last night. Now you’re fully aware, more deliberate in your movements, but the same amount of zeal remains. His hands come to rest gingerly behind your head and yours grip his sides in desperation, the moment in itself a mix of soft and strong. Once again he mirrors your speed and uses just as much force, enough to send you backwards at one point.

The image of you crashing onto your bed urges him to take more drastic action, so he wastes no time in leaning down to pepper light pecks along your skin. Chenle allows you to return the favor some moments later, delighting in every feeling, every sensation, and only stopping when the rhythm between you slows down naturally. You hold him close, lazily nuzzling into his chest as you press kisses wherever you can reach.

With the morning’s sunshine filtering in through the windows and your arms around him, a new day has begun for Chenle. If he’s going to change his tune, it has to be now. He may have everything, but the one thing he can't stand to lose is you.

He just didn’t expect it to be this difficult.

While Chenle’s trying so hard to make a change, everyone else at school isn’t. The dynamic is tense as always, and corridors and classrooms are full of students with glares so piercing they could bore holes into the steel lockers.

Other Socs flock to his side, not even uttering a greeting and instead launching into conversations about their next act of hostility against the greasers to establish some sort of superiority. No matter what they do, it’ll never be enough, they’ll never be satisfied. The closest they could ever get to having a ‘last laugh’ would entail eradicating the east side itself.

If someone had asked Chenle a few months ago, he wouldn’t so much as hesitate to endorse such a plan. But now, he knows better. Much better.

Anytime he feels his long-ingrained social instincts start to kick in, he squeezes your hand, an action that passes under the radar of all except you. Or so you think.

Yangyang notices his uncharacteristic denial of a cigarette. Ten is shocked when he passes up the chance to jump a couple of younger greasers walking home. Sicheng can’t believe his refusal of a party invite. His three closest friends could become your biggest obstacles.

So when they all insist that both of you join them at a local diner after school one day, you know exactly what it’s about.

By the time you arrive they’re already occupying a booth in the corner, each boy holding a cherry-topped milkshake or an ice cream cone. The oldest spots you first and the rest follow suit, gazes as cold as the desserts in their hands.

After ordering treats of your own, Ten waves you over, motioning to the empty side of the table. No one speaks at first, until Yangyang gets impatient enough to slam his chocolate shake down with a huff.

“What the hell is up with you, man?”

Chenle feigns confusion with a clueless expression, but it fails. “Don’t give me that look, Zhong.”

Sicheng echoes the younger’s question. “What’s going on?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll talk.” He feels your foot nudge his beneath the table, giving him a boost of confidence.

“I just don’t like living this way anymore. It feels wrong and I’m not proud of the person I’ve been, okay?”

The boys stare blankly, dumbfounded.

“...Living as a Soc, you mean?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

A chorus of protests erupts, everyone at the table beginning to shout except for you. The other customers look over with contempt, rolling their eyes and trying to return to their private discussions. Kids will be kids.

“You can’t do that!”

“Are you crazy?”

“You’re practically king of the school!”

“I know, I know! I don’t care,” he declares. “I’ve decided I don’t want any part of this. If I’m labeled an outcast, so be it.”

“Oh really?” Ten turns his gaze towards you, and you instantly feel small. “Tell me, Chenle. Did they have something to do with this?”

“Yeah, what’s with that?” Yangyang jumps in. “They come along and all of a sudden you have a conscience?”

“Hey, don’t blame me,” you argue adamantly. “It was his decision, not mine.”

Confirming your words, the aforementioned boy nods. “I may have gotten a bit of a wake-up call from them, but this is what I want to do.”

The three hum, exchanging glances in the silence that encompasses your five-person group. Distant chatter fills the rest of the room, but it doesn’t interfere. They’re all starting to follow his logic, but whether or not they’ll follow in his footsteps is still up in the air.

“What about us, then?” Sicheng inquires stoically.

Chenle takes a final sip from his milkshake glass. “If you ever come to the same realization that I did, you’re free to join me.”

At his signal, you slide out of the booth and he does the same, displaying his newfound habit of holding your waist shortly after.

“But it’s your call.”

Ten, Yangyang, and Sicheng look on, open-mouthed and astounded, as you both stride out of the doors.

What just happened?

You’re asking yourself the same question weeks later, when you’re sitting in the familiar front seat of Chenle’s car. He’s walking out of the school’s main entrance, beaming from ear to ear.

“You’ll never guess what I just did,” he chatters, settling in behind the wheel and beginning to back out of his parking space.

“Hm?”

“I asked Kun and his gang to meet me downtown this weekend, to talk things out.” Chenle sounds pleased with this arrangement, but your gut twists. “Are… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why not? It’ll be like making a truce; I’ll just say we’re square.”

You explain that you have a bad feeling about the whole thing, but he continues to assure you, saying that it’ll be fine. Eventually you relent, but only after he promises to bring you with him.

“You should ask the other guys to come with you, too. Safety in numbers.”

“Ah, I dunno. They’ve barely spoken to me since that day at the diner.”

Though Chenle’s a happier and much less hostile person now, you see the flicker of hurt in his eyes when he remembers how his friends chose to stay behind, to cling to their old mindsets as they’ve always done. He doesn’t hold it against them, but he wishes things could have been different.

And his altered demeanor hasn’t gone unnoticed by the greasers, either. They find it off-putting, since they’ve never known a Soc to treat them like they’re anything more than an inconvenience. Lucas especially doesn’t like the sound of Chenle’s request. None of them do, really, but he’s the only one that’s able to get his hands on a surefire way to make sure the boy doesn’t try anything.

On the selected day, almost every street is bustling with activity. Every street except the block the two parties agreed to meet on, conveniently. As you near the location, the rate at which your stomach turns begins to increase. You can feel something heavy lingering in the air, and your brain is screaming at you to turn around. You have half a mind to reach over and yank the wheel in the opposite direction, but this will be good for Chenle.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself for the rest of the drive, and the words keep repeating even when you step out of the Mustang. A clock tower tolls nearby, signaling the top of the hour, and just like that, it’s time.

“Just stay here,” Chenle advises. “I didn’t mention that you were coming, so if they see you they might think I’m up to something.”

Pretty sure they already do. That’s what you want to say, anyway, but you remain quiet.

Four figures await at the end of this chosen alleyway, which lets out onto an equally empty road. One of them peeks around a shallow corner between the buildings and alerts the rest as soon as they see Chenle making his approach. Lucas slips a large hand into the pocket of his jeans.

You're anxiously leaning against the side of his car, where he had told you to wait. Once the boy turns down the thin passageway and you become unable to see him, the pounding of your heart grows louder in your ears, now overpowering the buzzing sounds of the town’s center. You can’t help but notice how narrow of a space it is. Surely he wouldn’t have much room to turn around and run? If need be, of course.

But as time goes on, the unlikelihood of that scenario seems to shrink.

This was a bad idea from the start, because how are they supposed to recognize that his intentions are good? After years of only having only bad ones, surely they’re jaded enough to think it’s all a ruse.

You don’t know why you start to run, why your legs begin to carry you faster than they’ve ever carried you before, but a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach guides your accelerating footsteps.

“Look, guys, I don’t want any trouble.” He’s trying his best, but Chenle’s efforts to explain that he’s got nothing to hide, no tricks up his sleeve, are in vain.

“Right.” Hendery deadpans. “What’d you say… you wanna talk, right?”

They have him backed up against a dumpster and facing the street he entered from, meaning that the quartet’s backs are turned to you. Even Lucas’s frame is tall enough to temporarily obscure the sight of a lone figure, your figure, charging down the alley and towards the group. None of them see you coming.

A glint of metal catches your eye. You run faster.

“Yes! Yes, that’s all. Just talk.” He takes a step forward, one stupid step. One too many. “Gimme a chance to—”

Bang.

Several things happen then, all in the span of about half a second. With a strength you weren’t even aware of possessing, you burst through the gang’s barricade-like stance to tug Chenle to the side. Unfortunately, it’s at this moment that your footing decides to fail you, and you end up essentially switching places with him.

The tallest of the five boys looks on in pure horror as the lead bullet punctures not Chenle’s arm, but yours.

What’s most surprising to you, though, is the fact that you don’t fall to your knees or pass out. Not at first. You just stand there, trying not to look down at the place where your shirt’s been torn by the projectile, leaving behind a scarlet wound that smells distinctively of rust.

Movies always made it seem much more dramatic.

Someone’s screaming. Maybe it’s you. Everything is muffled, your vision is fuzzy. Chenle’s next to you and his mouth is moving but you don’t hear any sound come out, feeling only a dull pain in your ear from the presumably high volume.

The pain. It reaches you slowly, like paper absorbing a droplet of ink, flooding your left shoulder and surging all the way down to the ends of your fingers.

So much for managing his hostility. Chenle is spewing obscenities at all the greasers while simultaneously recovering from his own wave of shock, stunned by what he so narrowly avoided and by what you put yourself in imminent danger of.

By now, the gun has clattered to the ground, and Kun turns his attention to his companions. It doesn’t take long for him to figure out who brought the weapon as it’s laying right next to a pair of distinctive shoes, some dirtied high-tops that he knows belong to Lucas. The man’s face is nearly ashen, struck with regret.

“Bringing a heater? Really?” Kun reprimands him. “You didn’t even think to mention that, did you? I know we all had our doubts, but this?” Xiaojun reinforces the admonishments, sticking close to Hendery while they decide whether or not to offer help.

Lucas doesn’t respond, his only movement being when he kneels down next to Chenle as he tends to your now-crumbling form, but the hand he extends is quickly swatted away. Curses are still flying under the youngest’s breath in order to keep his mind and mouth busy, too busy to cry, while he wraps his letterman jacket around your upper arm.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, trying to reassure you and himself at the same time.

You retain no memory of the ambulance ride or of your arrival at the hospital. The next time you open your eyes, you’re told that two days have passed, and you’ve already had surgery on your shoulder.

An off-white ceiling glares down at you, but the presence beside you is far more comforting. Along with a nurse, Chenle’s face is visible in your peripheral vision, and you can see your whole family standing at the foot of your bed as well.

She notices the way your face brightens a bit, some of its normal color returning. “He’s been here holding your hand the whole time. Except during the surgery, of course.” The nurse finishes her thought with a smile, expression warm and kind. Chenle squeezes your palm in his, standing up and stepping outside into the hall to let those you’re closest with have some time with you.

As the door opens, seven sets of eyes snap towards it, only three of which Chenle was expecting.

“What are you doing here?”

Xiaojun, Hendery, Kun, and Lucas appear the most apologetic he’s ever seen. Granted, such an emotion doesn’t make its presence known on their faces very often, but there’s a first time for everything.

“We came to see them.”

“And to say sorry.”

“I don’t think so,” he starts, but Ten catches him by the wrist. “Give ’em a chance. We’ve been talking.” Chenle looks to the others, and Yangyang nods, followed by Sicheng.

So when your family exits the room and your mother waves Chenle back in, all seven of the boys follow him.

It’s a bit overwhelming to see eight faces peering down at you, but even more puzzling to you in your groggy state is their dynamic. No one’s arguing or trying to start a fight, and if it weren’t for the difference in attire, you’d believe they were part of the same friend group.

Apologies are given, though they’re not just from Lucas. Among the rest of the guys, numerous expressions of shame and remorse are exchanged, too. It’s most likely the direness of your situation that’s to blame for their heightened awareness of emotions, but the incident itself seems to have been the incitement of change that they all needed. If it can happen to them, what’s stopping the effects from rippling throughout the whole town?

A contented grin on your lips, you lift your good arm to wave at the boys as they exit. The sun has gone down at this point, and your family just returned with dinner for themselves. Your food rests on a tray that the same nurse from earlier brought a few minutes ago, and Chenle has reclaimed his spot at your side, as faithful as ever. He knows he'd be the one in a hospital bed right now if it wasn’t for you.

The boy gently pecks your cheek, his loving gesture enough to melt away any pain that might have remained.

“Thank you, Chenle.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” You chuckle a bit, “There's no one I’d rather jump in front of a bullet for.”

“Don’t say that!” But he laughs along.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Chenle whispers softly, just like he did some 48 hours prior. And this time, he believes it.

#oh my god hannie this was so good pls!!!#u amaze me fr fr

308 notes · View notes