This story is rated T because of all of the foul language (a little bit of which I removed as of July 30th. ;) ) It also contains shounen-ai, which is boy x boy love. If you don’t like it, I really have no idea why you clicked on the link in the first place.

Please review! Reviews make me very happy. Every time I get a new one I swear I start dancing in my chair, which has earned me more than a few odd looks over time but it’s quite worth it because I love each and every one of my reviewers.

Much love from RedheadedPhoenix.

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Rush hour.

Everyone runs for their precious overnight vacation when their boss can’t open his mouth and take away another fraction of their sanity. Get in their cars- forget the stop signs, street lights. It’s all a matter of getting back home

because nothing else matters right now so leave me alone.

I leave them alone. Don’t talk to the strangers, crabby from their long day at work, don’t listen to the insults as I accidentally bump against the shoulders of complete strangers, nothing but the mad music blasting into my ears through the headphones and the CD player in my pocket. Hold it with one hand so no loser can make off with it.

Just listen to the music and get home.

The cars streak past as breakneck speed as if the world may end if they don’t get home fast enough. Dead brown leaves on the sidewalk, filthy gutter by the way of a black-paved street. To the sides, people waving for nonexistent taxis. In the middle, a boy standing on the white dotted strips like he’s patiently waiting in line.

I stop.

The /freaking-retarded-total-loser/ boy doesn’t even glance to the side. Both hands stuffed into his too-big-pants secured by a black belt with the end hanging out from under his forest-green shirt. His shoes are covered up by the bottoms of his /holy-crap-how-did-they-get-so-mangy/ pants. Is he glaring at someone?

I glance to the other sidewalk but I can’t see any particular idiot he could possibly be pissed off at. My eyes flicker back over to him. No, he’s not glaring. He’s sort of smiling. Or maybe he’s just squinting into the sun.

But there is no sun. The sky’s so cloudy it’s about to freaking rain.

Get out of the fucking street, you loser.

Stupid people shove me from behind and my headphones slide before falling off and hitting the sidewalk. I bend down and snatch them, thoroughly annoyed with the crowd and the wind and the loser in the center of the street, but then when I look up again I suddenly realize what the hell he’s planning.

/I-suddenly-realize-what-the-hell-he’s-planning./

Cars speed past in front of and behind him. His /dirty-silky-mid-neck-length-auburn/ hair is blown in his face but he doesn’t bother brushing it away. Hold that thought. One arm /God-it’s-so-skinny-what’s-the-matter-with-him/ appears out of his pocket and sweeps it back, sort of carelessly and nonchalantly and /bloody-hell-he’s-going-to-do-it./

I shove the headphones into my pocket. They don’t fit, so they fall back out, but I don’t give a crap as I dash into the traffic like the idiot I am. Brown hair flies in my face as /oh-my-God-I-made-it/ I dodge to the center strip.

My arms snake around the boy’s waist and we fall, and then my face is three fucking inches away from the tire of a car as it screams by /and-then-I’m-so-scared-my-breath-catches-in-my-throat-and-for-a-moment-I’m-suffocating./

I yank myself to my feet, dragging the boy along with me. He’s as light as feather and he looks even skinnier up close, and I can feel him- squeezed so tightly up close- shaking violently but all I care about right now is getting out of traffic and back to the land of the living /or-so-they-call-it./

My eyes search frantically for a gap in the traffic, and /long-endless-hours/ seconds pass before I spot one and leap through to the sidewalk opposite of the one I’d been standing on before. We almost trip again but I swear to God I won’t let us. I’m too pissed and sick and relieved. My CD player follows my headphones out of my pocket and together they hit the sidewalk, making a crash that nearly startles the daylights out of me, but I pretend to ignore it and shove the boy backward and up against the brick wall behind him.

Then I erupt. “What the fuck is your problem?” I yell at him, fingers curling around the front of his shirt as I want to beat him and kill him and hug him at the same time. “You could’ve fucking been killed, you stupid son of a bitch! We could’ve both been killed! Do you think I fucking want to save every nutcase in the middle of the road?”

Then the boy is crying and tears are running down his narrow face. There’s a big smudge on his left cheek as if he’d fallen on it into the dirt, and his right eye has a /purple-yellow-green-ugly-who-did-this-to-him/ bruise circling it. His hand is wrapped tightly around my upper arm where he’d grabbed it when we’d fallen on the street, and his grip intensifies as my fingers loosen and I just stare at him.

Then I don’t know what to say /and-for-some-reason-I-feel-like-an-idiot./

And I just look at the boy like the freaking loser I am. I just risked my life to save some suicidal teenager I’ve never seen before and suddenly I can’t talk. I don’t like this boy, I hate this boy /no-I-don’t/ but I feel sorry for him and I want to help him and I seriously wish none of this had ever happened.

I’ve got to say something. I want to cuss him out to the extent of my vocabulary but instead I say, “Look, just… just go home, okay?” It comes out in a low tone, but my voice cracks, damn it,

and he’s still crying.

“Stop it,” I command, exasperated and desperate. “What’s the matter with you? Look at me, you stupid son of a…”

I give his shoulder a rough shake and hate myself for it afterwards, but then he talks. God. I can hardly hear him; his voice is a mere whisper. “I’m… sorry.”

He keeps crying and I feel like an evil bastard- I want to get rid of him but I just can’t. “Stop crying!” I say in a firmer tone. “Just stop it, you big baby! God…” What did I do to deserve this? “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to scare you or anything but… but you’re… you’re freaking getting on my…”

The boy’s tears fall to the sidewalk. I’m mad at him and I’m mad at myself so I put a hand under his chin and force him to look up at me. If I had thought that that would make either of us feel any better, I was wrong, because then I almost regret yelling at him when there was no question he deserved it.

His eyes are wide and terrified and sad /and-sort-of-interesting-but-God-what-am-I-thinking/ and then suddenly I am regretting yelling at him. “Enough,” I all but growl, wanting to shake him as hard as I could and wanting to make him feel better at the same time. “Stop crying. Just stop it. I won’t yell at you again, alright? Just… just tell me where you live, and I’ll… I’ll…” I’ll what? Send him off? I can’t. I have to and I really want to but I can’t.

I sigh. “Maybe you could just…”

His eyes never leave my face; it’s like he’s searching for something, waiting, depending on my words.

“Maybe…” I really am an evil bastard. “We could just… have some coffee.” I don’t wait for his response, I just turn him around by his shoulder and half-lead him into the coffee shop we’ve been leaning up against.

I see the boy’s eyes linger for a split second on the ‘No shoes, no service’ sign on the door, and then I glance down at where I thought his shoes were and see bare toes instead, just barely peeking out from under the hem of his too-large pants. I sigh again but walk to one of the booths, feeling the boy’s thin body next to me staggering; still shaking but not nearly as badly as before.

The boy looks uncertain as he sits down across from me. I can see the outline of his sharp shoulders through the dark green shirt that just hangs on his thin frame. His face is hidden behind locks of his auburn hair, but then I can see it as he brushes it back behind one ear, and he’s looking at me again, as if he’s waiting for a bomb to go off when I open my mouth.

My throat is dry, but I know there’s no way the boy is going to speak first, so I do the honor. “Are you okay?” I say, sort of nonchalantly /as-if-I-don’t-care-which-I-do-but-I-don’t-but-it’s-a-lie./

He swallows but doesn’t answer. Is that a yes? A no? Is he not sure? Does he just not like me?

I make myself roll my eyes. “Coffee?” I ask him as the waitress walks by, and after a few seconds go by and he doesn’t answer, I just order two espressos and let it go at that. It’s not like I’m going to force him to drink coffee.

/But-I-am-going-to-throttle-him-if-he-doesn’t-say-something-soon-damn-him./

The waitress walks away. I watch his expression carefully; he seems to be doing the same to me in an oddly practiced manner. “What’s your name?” I ask.

He doesn’t want to answer- I can tell from the way he shifts uncomfortably and the way his forehead creases as if I’m bloody interrogating him. Which I’m not; I just want to know his name is all.

I frown. “What is your name?” I almost snap. “Talk to me. You’re really getting on my nerves.”

His expression doesn’t change but I know I shouldn’t have said that, and I’m more pissed than ever at him and at myself. “I…” His voice is barely audible. “I’m… Erik.” It’s so brief I can hardly detect the faintest traces of an accent.

Finally, I’ve gotten some information out of him, but for some reason I feel like I’ve spent hours beating it out of him and I haven’t, damn it, what the hell’s the matter with me? I’m not being mean to him, he’s pissing me off. “My name’s Cae,” I tell him. “Now, I want you to tell me what you were doing in the middle of the street.”

He shrinks back into the padded seat as if I’ve hit him, and my temper flares. “You were trying to commit suicide,” I snarl. “It’s shit like that that pisses me off and you are pissing me off right now with all your crap. Why won’t you talk? I saved your fucking life. The least you can do is… is…” I break off as I watch his head drop forward, his hands reaching up to grasp his forehead and his elbows thudding onto the table, and then he’s crying again and I feel like crap /why-is-he-making-me-feel-this-way./

“Your coffee, sir?” a voice says. The waitress glances nervously at Erik as she sets down the two cups. She looks over at me, as if asking You do know you’ve upset him, right? and hurries away

because she sure has nothing to do with it and I’m alone with him again.

There are people muttering in the booths around me and I can’t help thinking they’re talking about me, even though I know they aren’t. I clear my throat. “Hey,” I say uneasily. “You have stop crying. Do you hear me? You’ve got to… God, look at me!” I nudge the boy’s head and he looks up so suddenly that

I know something’s wrong.

“You’re not okay,” I say, staring at him. “Talk to me. Say something, damn it. Tell me what’s wrong with you. You’re skinny as hell and… and you act like I’m about to kill you or something.” I wouldn’t kill him. God, I just saved his life. His /brown-passionate-scared-angry?-anxious-beautiful-no-I-didn’t-just-think-that/ eyes are boring into me as he looks at me, his breathing slightly heavier from the crying and /God-knows-what-he’s-thinking-right-now./

Then I remember something and it irks me so badly I can’t keep my mouth shut. “My CD player,” I get out. “You made me break my CD player. If you hadn’t… if I hadn’t…” It wasn’t as if he’d been yelling for help out there in the middle of the street. “My CD player…” I don’t know if I’m glaring at him or not but I sure as hell am angry. “You’ve really pissed me off, you know. Start fucking talking. I-”

The crash of mugs falling to the ground breaks me off mid-sentence, and I start as I turn slightly in my seat to locate the cause. The waitress has dropped the bucket of dirty dishes in the middle of the floor several yards away and she’s panicking and scrambling to her knees, and people are grumbling and her boss is shouting.

I glance back over at Erik, who looks around for several fleeting minutes before his eyes come to rest on the accident. He’s completely drawn in, his gaze flickering as if he’s sucking in information like some kind of…

“Erik,” I say.

He doesn’t turn back around. He’s bloody ignoring me. “Erik!” I snarl, and grab his shoulder to force him to look at me. He jumps as if I’ve slapped him and whirls back around, his eyes wide, his expression wavering between fright and nonchalance and anger.

There was definitely something wrong.

“Erik,” I say carefully. “What’s the matter with you?” No reply. He’s just staring at me again. “Don’t fucking think I’m just going to brush this off because I’m not fucking joking. There’s something wrong with you and I swear to God, if you don’t start talking right now I’m going to-”

His limp fist closed suddenly on the edge of the table, his eyes wider and his expression intensely frightened and even more angry. Angry? He gasps something out, but I can’t hear him and I’m angry.

“Talk to me,” I bark. “Effing talk to me and tell me-”

His fist collides with my mouth and then I’m bleeding and looking at him incredulously and sputtering out profanity. It happened so fast I’m in shock; I would never, ever have expected him to hit me.

He hit me.

“Damn you, you, you fucking Cae,” he rasps. Again, I hear the accent, but it isn’t an accent. It’s more of a lisp. He’s not quiet any more. He’s mad and I’m staring at him as he half-rises from his seat. “Damn you! You and your fucking questions. Why the hell did you save my life?” He leans closer, his knuckles unsteady against the tabletop and his expression one of sheer rage and almost hysteria. “You want to know I don’t- why I can’t freaking- talk to you? Do you think I don’t fucking want to be normal?”

“E- Erik,” I stammer, stupefied. “I just… I just wanted to know why you…”

“I’m deaf, Cae,” he says, his voice hoarse and much louder and slightly hindered by the lisp. “It’s because I’m fucking deaf.”

And then he gets up, his arm jerking out and accidentally knocking over one of the coffee cups. Coffee spills everywhere, but I don’t even notice as I watch him leave. The door closes with a crash.

And then I’m alone. All fucking alone. And wishing that I’d never been born.

There’s coffee dripping onto my lap.

“Sir…?”

The waitress hovers, asking what’s wrong and what happened and could-I-get-some-napkins-for-you but I ignore her and throw some money on the table and just leave.

Rush hour again.

The first sight that meets my eyes as I stumble out onto the sidewalk are the cars flying past. I stagger /hating-myself-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do/ and bring one hand to rest on the bricks to my left.

God, what do I do. What did I do? What the hell happened?

The boy with the lisp. The slight-but-noticeable lisp /because-he’s-deaf-and-can’t-speak-right-and-I-probably-made-him-feel-like-crap./ What did I do? I just saved his life. All I did was save his life. So why do I feel like shit?

My foot hits something and pits of plastic fly across the sidewalk. It’s the remains of my stupid CD player, after having fallen from my pocket and enduring the careless trampling of the crowd. I stare at the pieces, wondering what could have possessed me to get mad at him over a thing like a CD player. What the hell does it matter anymore?

And then I’m thinking /I-guess-that’s-why-he-didn’t-care-when-I-yelled-at-him-on-the-sidewalk./

/Because-he-couldn’t-even-hear-me./

God, I hate myself.

I reach the end of the bricks and walk into the alley on the other side, kicking an empty tin can so hard that it bangs against a nearby garbage can and bounces back.

/And-I-guess-that-stupid-lisp-is-why-he-didn’t-want-to-talk./ And I forced him to talk. Why the hell can’t I ever leave things alone?

And then I turn a corner and just crash into him.

It’s him, the last person I want to see at the moment but the person I’m so freaking relieved to see, I can only stare at him as I barely catch myself before falling. He staggers backward and nearly trips over a garbage can, but he grabs onto the edge before he does and glares at me. His expression is one of sheer bitterness but I’m so surprised to run into him again that it takes me a moment to notice it.

“Erik?” I manage. “I- I didn’t think I’d-”

“Hello, Cae,” he interrupts, his dry red lips twisting into a cynical smile. “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?”

And then he punches me. For the second time. And I didn’t even see it coming. He just hits me, and then I do fall backwards and my butt and elbow hit the ground painfully. /Not-that-I-don’t-deserve-it./

I scramble up and dodge to avoid another punch, grabbing his wrist and shoving him backwards. He’s struggling with all his might, elbows digging into my stomach, and bare feet knocking against my shins. “Stop it, Erik!” I yell. “Stop it!”

But he’s not looking at me so he doesn’t even know I said anything, and he’s still fighting like he wants to kill me. No doubt he does, and I don’t blame him after I was such a bastard. /But-I-saved-his-life-didn’t-I?/

He’s so light and thin that warding off his blows isn’t hard. I grab him by his upper arms and shove him up against the wall like I had the first time, only harder, trying to suppress him. “Erik!” I barked. “Stop fighting! I don’t want to fight, I want to talk!”

Suddenly he goes limp. “I don’t… want to talk,” he rasps, and /oh-please-don’t/ he starts crying again.

My grip on him loosens, but I don’t let him go. My heart’s in my throat.

Then I really, really regret yelling at him.

“Erik,” I say, my voice breaking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

He shakes his head, his shoulders shaking. “Of course you didn’t,” he says. “I wanted to kill myself but you ruined it. God, why did you…”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I’m really sorry.”

When he speaks again, his voice is even lower. “I know,” he says, and lets out a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to… I’m just… kind of… God, upset.”

/Of-course-he-is-Cae-you-bastard-and-now-he’ll-hate-you-forever./ I just wait. After a minute, he takes a deep breath, and with an effort, stops crying. His face is tear-stained and his eyes painful but not angry anymore. Making me feel even worse.

“Are you okay?”

Pause. Then he nods very slowly.

“I’m really sorry,” I say again.

“I know.”

There’s silence. I let my arms drop to my sides. Then I ask, “How can you understand me?”

He has to take a deep breath before he can answer. “I can read lips.”

I should have guessed. “So, if you’re not looking at me…”

…then you can’t understand me.

I’m really sorry.

“Yeah,” he answers softly. He steps out from the small space between myself and the brick wall, and I realize with embarrassment just how closely I had been pressed against him /although-it-felt-really-nice-and-I-sort-of-wish-he-wouldn’t-move./ He half-smiles, rubbing a sleeve across his face to make sure all the tears were gone. “Thanks for saving me,” he says. Then he turns, and I watch with alarm. “Goodbye.”

And he starts to walk away.

/Oh-God-please-don’t-go-or-I-may-never-/

“Wait!”

Of course he can’t hear me. I run after him and grab his shoulder. He looks at me with surprise. “Let go,” he says.

“But… but…” But what? I said I was sorry, he accepted it, game over. “But… I just wanted to know if…”

He waits.

“If… maybe…” I’m such an idiot. “If you like coffee?”

He looks at me.

“You… you spilled the last one…”

Erik’s gaze flickers to my shirt, which has coffee drops flecked across it. And he actually has the gall to look amused. He smiles. “Yeah.”

Yeah, what?

/He-is-SO-not-making-me-blush…/

Damn. Yes, he is.

“Then…” Whatever happened to my verbal abilities? Why on earth am I speechless?

“Then what?” he prods, knowing very damn well what then what.

I reach out a hand and touch his auburn locks. “Your hair is fucking awesome.”

So then he doesn’t mind when I dip down a few inches and lay my lips across his parched hot ones and /what-am-I-doing/ kiss him.

And I don’t have to explain to him out loud exactly why the hell I’m doing this.

I don’t think I’d be able to.

So I just /God-he-tastes-so-freaking-good-what-am-I-doing/ don’t.