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Jackson sighs heavily as he lowers himself slowly to his knees, at the request of the three boys crowding in front of him with a full bowl of spaghetti. The usual insults follow, calls of "ugly" and "dirty" and "worthless" and "loser" and every other cliché they can throw at him. Other students join in once they get to pathetic, the quiet snickering beginning to crescendo into loud laughter. Jackson shrinks down even more, folding his torso over his legs so he's practically bowing at the feet of the bullies. Someone in the crowd yells about how pathetic it is for him to just lay down for them, how he should stand up and fight, but Jackson stays on the ground.
As the middle boy, Tommy, the leader of sorts, finally finishes rambling about how Jackson is worthless and they're only giving him what he really deserves, he begins to slowly tip forward the bowl. Jackson can see the noodles peeking over the edge, kept in where they're tangled in thick clumps. A stray piece falls on the floor in front of him and Tommy moves the bowl so it's perfectly centered over Jackson's head, getting ready to dump the whole thing. Jackson squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face back towards the ground because spaghetti sauce in the eye is really, truly an uncomfortable experience he doesn't want to have ever again. Silently waiting for the impact, for the way sauce will somehow still splash onto his cheeks despite the brim of his hat being pulled up to catch the brunt of the hit, the way the already loud laughter and whispering will explode into something even more humiliating Jackson squeezes his hands into fist so tight he can feel his short nails digging into the skin of his palms. He waits and he waits and instead he feels a brief, faint rush of air and then the cafeteria falls into a strange quiet, which is somehow even scarier than the raucous laughter he expected. He keeps his eyes closed, wondering what new hell could've caused such an unusual response. Eventually, the quiet is broken bit by bit with gasps and whispers, and then the sound of feet stomping past as, presumably, Andrew, Kyle and Tommy make a run for it. Jackson assumes the principle or some other staff, one of the few teachers that may actually do something about their actions, not the ones who have watched it happened every day and done nothing but offer vaguely sympathetic looks in Jackson's general direction, have entered and scared the bullies away. The quiet hush turns into a dull roar, everyone in the room making noise over each other so nothing can be heard but the buzz of too many voices speaking in sync. When he finally does open his eyes, though, he doesn't see a teacher or an administrator, just the back of a jean jacket.
His savior turns around and kneels in front of Jackson, thick red sauce streaked across his cheeks and staining his white shirt, noodles piled in his hair and strewn over his shoulders. Jackson can only watch in awe, mouth hanging open to display his shock, as the prettiest boy he’s ever seen, who’s just taken a hit of badly made Italian food for him, gives him a small pleased smile. The boy, this strange, wonderful boy, tweaks the brim of Jackson’s ridiculous hat, the one that spells out his last name in big, shiny silver letters, and tugs it a little further down over his forehead, “Wouldn’t want to dirty something this cool, would we?”
He gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder, asking if he’s okay as he stands and offers out a hand.
“You’re not going to knock me back down after you help me up, are you?” Jackson asks, voice coming out far more nervous that he intended, and he kind of really hates the sad, sympathetic look it earns him. The boy just glances down at his newly stained shirt and shakes his fingers towards Jackson.
“Right, why would you do that and then push me down, you’re right,” Jackson agrees, rambling unnecessarily and taking the offered hand. Pretty Boy hauls him to his feet with surprising strength, grabbing his shoulders once he’s up to make sure he keeps his balance, “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“Yeah, I did,” he replies, then lets go of Jackson’s upper arms just as Jackson notices that his hands are shaking and walks right back out of the cafeteria without even telling Jackson his name.
x
Jackson jerks awake when the bell rings, a thin line of drool staining his light gray sweatshirt where his head was resting as he slept through the physics lecture. Disoriented, he rubs the sleep from his eyes and watches kids shuffle slowly out of the room, all of them watching him with Tommy sneering towards his desk from the back of the pack. He realizes after a moment that it's not him on the end of Tommy's disgusted look, but the boy kneeling next to his desk. He recognizes the soft, reddish brown hair from the week before, and the voice that tells him to wait when he tries to get up.
As he becomes more aware, mind waking up far slower than his body, Jackson can feel a series of little tugs on his feet. He ducks his head enough to see under the desk, to see Spaghetti Boy untying his shoes from the metal legs of his chair and retying them the way they should be. It's not the first time, and it probably won’t be the last. He’s had his shoes tied together, tied to his chair, tied to his desk, tied to his back pack, once, tied to another kid’s shoes who let Jackson chase him down three different hallways before skirting into a bathroom to drop them into the toilet, he’s had his shoes taken, tied together and thrown up to hang from a high rafter in the gym that he had to spend a full hour throwing basketballs at before the school basketball team’s afternoon practice had started to finally knock them down so he didn’t have to ask his mom for a new pair of shoes just three weeks after Tommy had stolen his and done who knows what to them.
Spaghetti Boy stands without a word, stoically ignoring the dirty looks from the cruel students who were hanging back to watch Jackson trip and, hopefully, fall on his face. He offers Jackson his bag with trembling hands, and leaves, again, with nothing more than a kind smile and a mumbled, “Stay awake next time.”
Later, when Jackson goes to pull his math textbook out of his book bag, he finds it’s no longer in the largest pocket but shoved haphazardly along with his keys, phone, and half of his notebooks into the middle pouch, despite all but some of the notebooks being in other sections. Everything, actually, is in the wrong place. Every single item in his back pack has been moved or rearranged and it takes him twenty minutes to get it all back to his liking, but he’s pretty sure that Tommy, for the eighth time, took all his supplies out of his bag, and he’s also pretty sure that his mostly silent savior was the one to put it all back.
x
Jackson comes out of the shower and he's not surprised that every single piece of clothing he has at school is missing, but it still sends a rush of panic to his heart as he searches frantically through his locker and all the other open lockers and his bag and around the small room that leads to the showers where he knows he left his shorts and boxers and gym tee shirt when he got in after staying after class to help the teacher retrieve basketballs from the day's games and put them back in the closet. He quickly ducks back into the showers and presses himself against the cold tile wall when he hears someone open the door to the locker room, almost positive it's Tommy or Andrew or Kyle or all three coming back to take a picture or do something unsavory to him while he's got nothing but a thin, short school towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist.
Whoever came in leaves just as quickly, and Jackson jogs, nearly slipping on the water slick shower floor, back towards his locker to see if it was someone returning the stolen clothing. He's also not surprised to see that the clothes he wore to school, disappointingly, his favorite jersey and one of his two pairs of jeans, which perfectly hug his thighs to show off the strong muscles he's spent hours of running building, are still missing.
He is surprised, though, to see that there is a small pile of folded clothes on the end of the bench that separate the long rows of lockers. He knows that they aren't his and he knows that they weren't there before he heard someone enter the room, but he's also pretty sure that they were put there for him. When he edges closer, nervously, like maybe there's going to be a trick, he recognizes the jean jacket resting on top of the new white tee shirt and baggy sweat pants. It definitely belongs to Spaghetti Boy. While there's a high chance more students in the school other than just the boy who stood up for him just a few weeks earlier own jean jackets, he can see faint sauce stains still stuck in the fabric near the collar.
Luckily, the clothes do fit, even if the shirt is a little too big, like Spaghetti Boy wasn't sure what size he wore and wanted to err on the side of caution when he brought it in. The pants, though they don't do quite as nice a job of showing off his assets as the jeans Jackson had originally been wearing, are snug against his thighs. They’re a little too long, hanging past his feet and then bunching up awkwardly around his ankles once he puts on the shoes that, thankfully, were untouched during the theft. He throws on the jacket too, even though he could do just fine wearing only the shirt and it's almost uncomfortably tight around his shoulders. It's really unnecessary to wear, considering the rest of his outfit, but for some reason, Jackson really wants Spaghetti Boy to see him wearing all of the clothes that he brought in for him
x
Later on, when Jackson is washing the borrowed clothing, after changing quickly before his parents return home and can wonder why the outfit he left home in is not the outfit he arrived home in and why all those clothes he is wearing fit so awkwardly on his frame, he finds something interesting in the pair of boxers Spaghetti Boy left for him to wear. Across the inside of the waistband, written in thick, black letters, is a familiar name. While he'd never actually seen Spaghetti Boy prior to his heroic moment in the cafeteria, the name on the underwear is one he's heard over and over again. He laughs for a long time, at first, because Mark Tuan is almost eighteen years old and his underwear still has his name written on it, which, no matter how kind he was to lend them to Jackson, is too hilarious to be ignored.
Mark is the captain of the basketball team for two years running, the first sophomore to ever be voted Captain and had led his team to win the first trophies the school had seen in years. Jackson had heard his name countless times and seen it written on posters. He even knew where Mark's locker was, considering it was ostentatiously decorated on every game day and every day after a game was won - which was frequently - boasting his name and captain status and jersey number.
Still, despite Mark's visibility among the hundreds of students they attended school with, Jackson had never actually seen the boy himself until that day in the cafeteria, and he hadn't even known it was him until he saw the name in the underwear. It did make everything make a whole lot more sense. Tommy and Andrew and Kyle running off, no one stopping him when he was aiding Jackson in the classroom, getting past the gym teacher into the locker room during a free period when, technically, even Jackson shouldn't have still been in the room.
x
Jackson had been waiting outside the gym for almost two hours when Mark finally came through the back doors, Jackson having forgot the long period between when the bell rings and when the sports teams reconvene at school for practices. Somewhere during the wait, he must have fallen asleep, because he opens his eyes to see Mark shaking him awake, looking a little frantic.
"Sorry, sorry," Jackson apologizes, immediately, sitting up straight and ducking away from Mark's worried hands, "I'm fine, just tired."
Jackson can see Mark's relief, and it does something strangely pleasant to his chest.
"I just came to return your clothes," Jackson explains, pulling the small stack of borrowed clothing from his bag, "It was really nice of you to leave them for me."
"It wasn't a big deal," Mark shrugs, accepting the pile from Jackson and shoving them in his own duffel bag.
"It kind of was," Jackson corrects, shoving his hands in his pockets once they're free, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a small sway as he tries to think of a good, concise way to say, 'thank you, I don't know why you're doing this and I never expected it, but it's kind of amazing and I don't know the right words to explain how much it means to me that you'd stand up for me and watch out for me, but it feels so good to think that someone has your back when no one ever has before'. He's pretty sure it's impossible to get his point across without rambling crazily, and he doesn't want to scare Mark off now. Instead, he just asks, "how'd you even know?"
Mark laughs, a weird, harsh sound that sounds wrong to Jackson's ears, "It's not like Tommy is that quiet about what he does. He was bragging about it in the hallway, telling people to watch out for you wandering around in a towel."
"Right, of course," Jackson isn't actually surprised. Mark gives him a small smile that Jackson can't help but return.
"Thanks for returning the clothes. I really like this jacket," Mark says and Jackson has to bite his tongue before something like 'I really like you in that jacket' comes spilling out, "I have to get to practice though, I'm already late. The team is waiting."
"Yeah, of course, I just wanted to get your stuff back to you," Mark thanks him, again, gives him a small wave and then heads back towards the gym doors.
Just before he grabs the handle, Jackson calls out to stop him, "Hey, uh, Mark?" Mark turns, looking at him expectantly as he waits for Jackson to continue, "I do really appreciate it, the thing in the cafeteria and with my shoes and the clothes, but, you don't need to do that kind of stuff for me."
Mark laughs a little, a much happier sound than Jackson heard from him earlier, and pulls open the door. Before he goes in, he repeats his words from their first interaction, "Yeah, I do."
x
Jackson is pressed against his locker. None of the boys are touching him, but the three of them have spread themselves carefully so the openings between their bodies are too small for Jackson to duck through, keeping him pinned to the metal with the force of their threatening presence. It’s the usual, a slew of insults that aren’t true because, apparently, Jackson offended them as he was silently pulling his books from his locker. He sighs, tiredly, and glances at the watch on his wrist, which only serves to piss Tommy off further. Taking a small step towards Jackson, closing the already short distance between them, Tommy raises his fist as if he’s going to punch him, which, surprisingly, would be a first. Before he gets the chance, another hand appears from behind him and gets his wrist in a tight grasp, while another arm comes from the other side and throws itself across Andrew’s shoulders.
“Hello, boys,” a familiar voice speaks just before Mark’s face appears between Andrew and Tommy’s, interrupting the fight before it can start. He lets go of Tommy’s wrist, who drops his fist when Mark pushes his way into the group, pulling his arm back away from Andrew as he steps forward. Due to the limited space, he’s pressed fully against Jackson’s body as he physically blocks him from the bullies, “Sorry to break up the fun, but, we’ve got to get going.”
Mark’s hand finds Jackson’s, with some difficulty, his quivering fingers brushing Jackson’s thigh and hip and wrist before they finally get to his palm. Jackson fights against the heat rising in his cheeks and fails, keeping his face hidden by sticking close to Mark’s back when Mark begins to lead him out of the pack, avoiding adding any fuel to the fire of humiliation his tormentors can’t wait to light.
x
The next time, Tommy corners him outside the locker room. Jackson had stayed late, studying in the library, and was trying to leave through the back gym doors to cut through the field to get home sooner when Tommy literally pushed him into a corner. He put his elbow across Jackson's chest, keeping him stuck in place.
"No boyfriend today, huh?" Tommy sneers, pressing his weight uncomfortably against Jackson's torso, pushing his shoulder blades painfully against the cement wall behind him.
Jackson holds a snide remark and ignores the faint rush of pleasure at the insinuation that Mark is his boyfriend, and mumbles, "He's not my boyfriend," turning his head towards the wall as Tommy leans in closer.
"But I bet you - " Tommy cuts off when a loud squeak and a burst of laughter come sounds behind him. Jackson can just barely see kids, some in baggy jerseys and baggier shorts and others already changed back into jeans and coats filing out of the gym doors, most of them chatting to each other. Tommy, head turned back to watch them, suddenly steps back, both blocking Jackson's view and releasing the heavy pressure that was starting to restrict his breathing.
Jackson hears Mark before he sees him. He's not sure what exactly is said, too busy trying to still his shaking hands to focus on the words, but he recognizes the sound. He does get to hear Tommy mutter "fucking queer" to him before jogging off in the other direction, calling out to one of the basketball players.
"I might as well do it, then, right?" Mark asks, giving Jackson a little wave once there isn't a body between them.
"What? Do what?" Jackson is flustered, gathering up the books he had dropped when Tommy shoved him and trying to hide his hands from view so Mark can't see them shake.
"I just said something about you waiting for me to give you a ride home, to Tommy. I don't have to, though. It was just to scare him off," Mark explains. He starts to say something else but Jackson interrupts quickly to accept his offer of a ride. He lives just over the field behind the school but if they go out from the main parking lot and Jackson directs Mark all the way down the main street before telling him to turn down towards where his street actually is, it'll take them almost twenty minutes with little traffic.
Jackson gets an exciting rush of something nice when Mark doesn't even ask where he lives, just starts heading down the main road. He sits in the passenger seat, hands held still between his thighs so he doesn't have to explain the fear and adrenaline still coursing through his veins from Tommy's first real physical attack that have them trembling.
He does want to ask about Mark's shaking hands, both of them gripping the steering wheel so tightly his skin has gone white over the knuckles. It turns out he doesn't have to, because after two minutes of semi-awkward silence, Mark mumbles, "I fucking hate that guy."
Jackson only snorts in response, nodding his agreement because he's too worried about how his voice will come out if he talks.
"I don't even get it," Mark continues, "What do they even want with you? Why can't they just leave you alone? You haven't done anything. You don't deserve that! You know you don't deserve it right?" The heavy worry that accompanies his words makes Jackson's stomach jump excitedly, and it feels better than he expects. He isn't sure why Mark cares so much about him or where he came from but Jackson isn't going to complain about the prettiest boy in the universe constantly watching his back.
"Yeah, I know," Jackson says, because he does. Of course he doesn't deserve it. No one deserves to be bullied or harassed or scared. No one deserves to come to school and have to constantly watch over their shoulder from some kid who can't get off his high horse or handle his emotions well enough to keep his hands or words to himself. It happens and Jackson hates it. He hates it so much. He hates to see small teens cower in fear of the entire world because some asshole has too much pent up anger and no outlets except attacking the kids who won't stand up to him. He hates to see teachers call it boys being boys or saying kids can be cruel and writing their actions off as childish behavior or faux friendly interactions. He hate when a teacher looks him in the eye when he's covered in food or has just been told that he should just die because no one needs him around anyways. He hates that shitty sympathetic look they get like their hands are tied and Jackson will just have to wade through the ocean of shit all alone. He hates it more than anything in the entire world and that's why he lets Tommy and his gang of troublemakers throw everything they can at him.
"Do you?" Mark asks, rolling to a stop at a red light. Jackson knows he should tell Mark to throw on his blinker, that Mark should turn here because it's the last side street that will redirect them back in the direction of his house but he keeps his mouth shut. "Do you really know, Jackson? That you're not any of those things they say? That you didn't do anything to bring this on yourself?"
"I know I'm not any of those things they say," Jackson concedes, but he doesn't want to lie to Mark. Mark doesn't deserve a lie anymore than Jackson deserves to have Tommy whisper abuse in his ear when he sits behind him in math class. Mark is the first person to ever stand up for him. Mark is there at every turn, descending from the goddamn heavens to protect Jackson, a boy he didn't even know before he started placing himself between Jackson and his small team of bullies, "but I did bring it on myself."
"Jackson," Mark starts, soft and a little pained, like he's going to argue, like maybe he thinks Jackson is just another insecure teen who believes that he did something wrong to bring the hate of angry teenage boys on himself, but Jackson interrupts to explain.
"I actually did. I don't stand up for myself on purpose. When I told you that you didn't have to stick up for me, that you didn't have to do those things, I meant it. You really didn't. Tommy has been doing this kind of stuff to me since halfway through freshman year," Jackson explains.
"That doesn't make it okay!" Mark bursts, and Jackson just holds up his hand to stop Mark.
"I'm not saying that makes it okay. That's not what makes it okay. I mean, it's not okay. Bullying isn't okay. But, I'm okay with it. Tommy used to really lay into this kid - Ryan. He was a nice kid, I sort of knew him from middle school. He was nice but really awkward and even smarter. He corrected Tommy in class one day, or something, I don't know, he told me a long time ago I don't remember perfectly, but Tommy felt humiliated so he stopped beating on his last victim, who transferred to some school where he said he could be safe a couple days after Tommy started leaving him alone, and switched to Ryan. Teachers never did shit for either of them and, so, I did. I started provoking Tommy. Just a little bit, in small ways, so he would get pissed at me but not enough that he thought I would be stronger than him. Ryan... Ryan was in a really bad way, after Tommy started. It really got to him, you could tell. Tommy could tell, and it just made him push the right buttons a lot harder, and I don't think Ryan would've made it. You hear about that kind of stuff all the time, right? All these kids kill themselves and other people and I didn't want Tommy to do that to anyone. I, I don't know, I guess I knew I could handle it, so I just kind of pushed myself into Ryan's place. Once Tommy got so intent on pushing me around he forgot about Ryan, and I don't know who else he would go to after me, or if they would be able to put up with it or fight back and so, I just, let him keep going. I don't stand up to him and I play my part. Everyone wins, right?"
Jackson, though it's always made perfect sense in his head, feels a little strange saying it out loud. He's avoiding looking at Mark, a little uncomfortable with everything he just said and waiting for Mark to call him an idiot or insane or something, but Mark isn't talking at all. When Jackson finally sneaks a peek, he just sees Mark, looking awed and driving, like, seven miles under the speed limit.
The silence continues and Jackson really needs to tell Mark to turn back because they just keep moving further and further away from his house and he has no idea where Mark lives and the silence is getting so uncomfortable but when Jackson breaks it he doesn't say anything about their location, "So, I know, all of that, and, I'm fine. I'm really fine. You don't have to stand up for me."
"Yeah, I do," Mark finally murmurs, after another long silence, "I can't just leave you alone."
x
He tries his hardest, really, to stay awake during classes and he's successful for a few months but the hard work Jackson puts into his schooling and the even harder work he puts into fencing practice takes a heavy toll and causes too many nearly sleepless nights that leave Jackson exhausted. It's not intentional, he doesn't put his head down and decide to miss out on the graphing lecture his math teacher is giving, but the droning of his monotone voice explaining several boring ways to complete boring problems makes Jackson's eyelids feel heavy and he can't fight the weight of them for very long. He doesn't even realize that he's fallen asleep until the jolting ring of a bell has him jumping out of his seat, shoeless, sockless, every single item that was once neatly put away in his backpack tossed around in a wide, messy circle that surrounds his desk.
He moves in a hurry to get everything back into his bag and then he finds that his phone is literally glued to the underside of his desk and it takes him so long to pry it back off that he still doesn't have his things together until the late bell for his next class rings before he's even found his shoes. Jackson can't believe how ballsy Tommy has gotten until he finally finds them hidden inside the heater vent and after he's frantically gotten them back on his feet and taken a step towards the door only to feel roughly seven tacks pierce the undersides of both his feet. Then he really can't believe how ballsy Tommy has gotten.
The next morning, Jackson is on high alert when he gets to school and finds that his locker, which he's one hundred percent sure was shut correctly when he left, isn't quite closed all the way. He opens it with caution only to see nothing but a tall coffee cup from the nearby café sitting on the highest shelf instead of the slew of horrible things he was imagining could be in there. He's wary of the coffee, initially, assuming Tommy has really lost it and it's poisoned, or worse, mixed with piss. But, when he leans up onto the tips of his toes to see the entire shelf, he finds a small note on the back of an index card covered in equations reading, "Maybe this will help you stay awake!" signed with a small, smiling face.
Jackson has a lot of questions, like, how Mark knew about the previous day's incident when Jackson hadn't actually seen him in several days, except for a few seconds in passing when he was walking past the gym during Mark's class period and Jackson had stopped to appreciate the way the muscles in his arms moved as he swung a bat during a game of baseball, and how Mark knew his locker combination and why Mark is his actual guardian angel, but he lets them all go because the coffee is really good and he is late for class.
He doesn't ask any of his questions the following two days, either, when both mornings he arrives to school and finds, once again, a coffee and a pleasant note telling Jackson to have a nice day.
He doesn't even ask any of the questions three weeks and fourteen coffees later, when he finally leaves a return note tapped to the edge of the shelf, hanging down so it'll be impossible for Mark to miss it, thanking him and telling him to also have a good day. He doesn't ask when he leaves another note praising Mark on the basketball's team recent win four days after that, either.
He doesn't ask at all, even when the notes become a daily thing, expanding from average pleasantries to drawn out conversations that span weeks. Jackson does, though, eventually ask why.
His note is replied to, at first, with a 'why what?', and then the day after that a, 'because I can. You're not the only one allowed to help out someone being bullied', and then six days later, several sheets of paper folded over into a small square tucked under his daily coffee.
"One day I came in early for basketball practice, to get things set up, and I saw that someone was already in there. They were throwing the balls around, and I was going to go in and yell at whoever it was and get them to leave so I could set up a few drills for the team but when I started to open the door I saw that he was throwing the balls straight up at a pair of shoes that were tied together and hanging from the rafters. His face was covered with snot and tears and I think he was still crying and when I cracked open the door he was yelling. I don't remember exactly what, it was kind of hard to understand, he was pretty choked up, but I just knew he was upset. I watched him for a while, and then when he finally got them down, he picked up every single ball he had tossed, pushed the cart over to where we keep it during practices, and then picked up some trash near the bleaches before running out of the back doors and I decided I never wanted to see that boy crying again. I didn't see him, crying or not, for a long time but about a month and a half later a teacher sent me down to the cafeteria with a note and I saw that boy about to get spaghetti dumped on his head and my feet were moving before I even decided to do anything."
x
A knee flies hard and fast straight into Jackson's gut, making him want to double over and clutch his stomach as if his grip would stop the rapidly spreading pain. He can't, though, Andrew and Kyle on either side, holding tightly to his upper arms while they keep him standing for Tommy to deliver a seemingly never ending series of punches and kicks. Tommy is talking, Jackson can see his lips moving, but the beating began with a heavy hit to his head that left his ears ringing too loudly for him to hear any of the words. At some point, the phrase "break your fucking legs" filters through, sending panic and adrenaline through Jackson's veins. He can handle it, the pain making his chest feel heavy, the blood dripping down his aching mouth, the harsh sting every time he draws in a breathe after Tommy landed a swift kick to his rib cage, but not his legs. He needs his legs. They can break all his ribs and Andrew could snap his arm off - which doesn't sound so unlikely with the way he's bending it back - and they could smash all his teeth in, but Jackson needs his legs to fence.
He was already afraid. Fear washed over him the second the three boys came traipsing through the back doors into the small lot behind the gym where Jackson was waiting near Mark's car to hang out with him after practice, by Mark's request. Jackson had been afraid since the very moment he saw Tommy coming towards him, hand already curled into a tight fist and lips twisted into a creepy little smirk. This was new. This was new and scary and too much. Jackson could take the teasing. Jackson could take every fucking insult Tommy had in his arsenal one hundred times over. He could take them stealing his shoes and clothes and every single possession he would ever own. He could take the cruel pranks and losing his lunch for a day only to have it thrown in his face. He could take the bullying, but this wasn't bullying, this was assault and as Andrew and Kyle forced him to the ground despite his frantic jerking, trying to shake them off so he could run, he was scared for his life.
Jackson didn't even realize it but he started screaming so loudly it almost felt like his vocal chords were tearing. He couldn't see, his head pushed down against the gravel lot, but he could feel Tommy's foot slowly applying pressure against the back of his knee. He was shaking and rolling, trying to get his arms out of the grasps of the lackeys, kicking his freed leg around trying to make contact with Tommy to knock him away. The force of Tommy's foot disappears from his leg and Andrew and Kyle suddenly let him go. Jackson thinks that maybe someone's come to help, but he's proven incorrect when, instead of reprieve, he gets hit with three simultaneous kicks.
They all hit him again, all at once, and Jackson immediately puts his arms over his head, shifting his body back so he's folded over, torso protecting his legs from any potential damage. Jackson stares with blurry vision at the gravel just inches from his face, almost sure that he's going to die in the face of this repeated abuse, and the words, "wait for me after practice" flash through his mind.
For a long, terrible moment, Jackson wonders if it was all planned. Jackson wonders if, somehow, Mark was in on it from the very beginning. If Tommy was actually so smart that he convinced Mark to lull Jackson, over the course of an entire school year, into a false sense of security and friendship, letting him think that they were friends and that he cared only to tell him explicitly to wait in the back parking lot until practice let out so his tormentors could, finally, finish him off.
For a long, terrible moment, the thought that maybe Mark hated him all along, that maybe Mark wanted him to be in this hell, hurts so much worse than anything Tommy could do to him.
Suddenly, everything stops. There's no kicks, no punches. Nothing touches him. No one picks him back up or pulls him forward enough for Tommy to make good on his leg breaking claim. The ringing in his ears makes it impossible to hear any speech or footsteps, despite Jackson's extreme effort to hear something. Jackson is far too scared to look up and see why they've stopped, he just remains curled up with his hands held protectively over his head, waiting for another blow.
A few minutes after the beating ends, Jackson's ears stop ringing only for him to hear heavy breathing and low sobbing. At first, he assumes it's just him , but when he chances a glance up, he's met with a shocking scene. Slowly, he uncurls, lifting his body until he's just kneeling in the gravel. There, in front of him, he sees Andrew, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he cradles an awkwardly bent wrist, Kyle no where in sight while Tommy is laid out on his back, arms locked over his chest with none other than Mark Tuan holding them in place with his knee. Jackson can't hear what Mark is saying, not because his hearing is still gone but because Mark is leaning in close to Tommy's face, speaking lowly with a dangerously furious look on his face. Jackson just watches in a stunned silence as Mark, his entire body shaking the exact same way his hands did in the car the day after Tommy caught up with Jackson on his way home, finishes whatever he was saying, and stands, releasing the bully. Tommy immediately scrambles to his feet and goes running towards the field, Andrew hot on his heels.
Mark stands, hands balled into fists as he trembles with rage, watching the two boys fleeing while Jackson watches him and feels guilt puddling in his stomach for ever doubting him.
x
Mark half carries Jackson into the bathroom, supporting most of his weight as they sort of walk side by side. Both of them are shaking, Jackson as a result of fear and Mark as a result of fury. Mark silently, still wearing a scowl, directs Jackson towards the sink. He stands there for a minute, a little scared of Mark after knowing that he single handedly beat the hell out of three people. It’s definitely not his fault when he actually yelps as Mark physically picks him up and sits him on the edge of the sink to gently dab at his skinned knees and split lip and bloodied nose with a cold, wet paper towel.
“Thanks for defending my honor,” Jackson jokes weakly after three minutes of silence, searching for anything that will wipe the angry look of Mark’s face and replace it with the bright smile he knows and loves, “And my beautiful cheekbones.”
Mark remains silent for a long time after Jackson speaks, wiping blood from beneath his nose with shuddering hands. His entire body is trembling with the leftover adrenaline and rage. Catching his wrist, Jackson tries to steady him, repeating more seriously, “Really, thank you.”
This time, Mark does not stay silent. Mark launches into an intense tirade that isn’t entirely in English that only serves to fuel his fury about how there is no thanking needed, that he was only giving those assholes what they deserve, and Mark is speaking to quickly for Jackson to really follow but he thinks he hears the phrase, “I’d take a fucking bullet for you.”
Mark’s hands are moving along with his words, waving wildly as his rant continues, but Jackson tightens his grasp enough to hold Mark in place and to distract him from his tangent, regaining his attention.
“Hey, is there still blood on my lips?”
Mark says no, so Jackson leans in and kisses him.