Chapter Text
I will retire to the salton sea
At the age of 23
For I'm starting to learn I may never be free
But though I may never be free
Fuck you and your money
I'm tired of your money
Mitski, Drunk Walk Home
A tornado has just gone through the Mo’s residence.
The apartment, not the house; the house was sold to pay a useless lawyer at an obviously ineffective attempt at saving Mo The Oldest from rotting behind steel and stone.
Now, Mo The Youngest sits in the center of it all, watching, absentmindedly, the destruction caused by his ill-timed-temper.
Mo Guan Shan has always been told, mostly with malice, that he takes after his father. And it is the truth. If he were to darken his hair and eye color, he would become a carbon copy of his father when he was his age. Sans his easy smile, sans his strength. But with his imprudence, his foolishness, and mostly, the overwhelming sentimentalism that tends to completely eclipse his vision, that makes him stop thinking, so impulsive, until there is nothing but bruised and broken bones, a dead man at his feet, tears and snot. Until you owe so much money to someone, all in the sake of following a dream, that you have to take someone’s place in a fucking penal institution so your lenders won’t take your son as a payment. Everything always comes back to money.
Mo Guan Shan was kind like his mother, is reckless like his father.
His anger, though? His anger is all his.
It was not always like this, things changed and suddenly he had to adapt until quick tears turned into quick barks turned into quick bites. Until all he could feel was anger .
It has grown up with him, began as a forlorn attempt to hide the inherent vulnerability that comes along with this over-emotionality; one that, surprisingly, has worked for a long time.
He feels things so deeply he wonders how his blood has not melted his veins.
Mo is sitting there on his ass, staring at the ruin he just caused. Because, well, sometimes bite turns back to bark turns back to cry; and when he is shattering the windows of the living room and breaking down the shelves in the kitchen and cutting his now-dead-mother clothes into ribbons and smashing the reflection of her eyes in the bathrooms mirror, he kind of feels nothing at all.
And feeling nothing at all it's not something that he often experiences, it’s actually something he never experiences in any way.
He hasn’t said a word in a week and three days. Because now he realizes that opening his mouth and saying the first thing that comes to his mind actually has consequences, ones that he wasn’t, and probably would have never been, ready to face.
The greatest consequence being, Mo Guan Shan is now an orphan of a mother.
There was a tornado at his house and now there is somebody banging on his door.
Mo leans forward, curling up around himself, and hides his forehead in the dark space between his knees. He wonders. Should he run? Should he hide? Should he give himself up? The best course of action may be opening the door and simply giving up. Perhaps the pain that will undoubtedly be caused by the men waiting outside would be enough punishment for the greatest mistake that he has ever made.
He’s still in that numb, new headspace that Mo has come to realize he enters after he gives a physical release to his anger.
There is mold growing up beneath his fingernails, matching the red mud leaking from the cuts on his knuckles. And a special kind of shame is rooted so deeply inside his bones, he doesn’t think he’ll ever have redemption.
The door unlocks itself, without a key, and Mo knows that his time is almost over.
Don’t look back, my baby, turn away.
The door opens before it gets stuck. Just a sliver of yellow light that comes from the hallway into the darkened apartment. There is an overturned table that shouldn’t be in the entrance of the place, but somehow ended there. Mo remembers throwing it across the room when it got in his way.
We can talk this through, ok? Let's not make a big deal out of it.
Someone tries to force it open, a shoulder smashing the wood with strength.
He is running out of time.
One of the legs of the table breaks, and Mo jumps to his feet. The door splinters.
Run, Guan Shan, run . Her last breath.
Mo is on his window, he’s grabbing with bloody hands the pipe that travels on the side of the building, and he’s falling.
He runs for a long time. He doesn’t really feel the impact of the concrete against his ankles when he jumps and flees the building. Some fire in his blood gives him the energy to run away from the men when they recognize him.
He is a runner at his core, no matter how much he tries to fight back. There are not enough words, not enough fists, to fight what is after him at the moment.
Mo knows this city, he knows the alleys, the secret hideaways. And he isn’t afraid of the darkness, unlike other people he knows. He runs to places where he knows the men won’t be able to fit their expensive cars, and crawls beneath fences that don’t have space for their bulky bodies. Strays away from the river, where another nightmare had once taken place. The slap of his shoes against the streets sounds like bullets shot at him.
The worst part is, Mo knows they’re not after him because of the money, not anymore. They are so keen on hunting him because he saw what they did. A simple mistake to them, a world-ending catastrophe to him. They killed his mother. And now he has become prey.
Mo is bleeding. An easily-ignored cut near his ribs from a close call with one of the nastiest ones. He’s stumbling, gasping for breath, getting desperate.
After some time of silence he stops for a break, a little one, because these people are relentless.
How long would it take? He doesn't think he can last for a lot longer. He just needs something, anything, just an exit from it all.
Mo ends up in a children’s slide, lying on his side. His panting breath echoes terribly loudly in the waking morning following a dead quiet night. The sun is going to come out in only a few minutes.
A single sob escapes his mouth. Mo doesn’t yearn for his mother’s protection, because aside from a single hug in the morning of his birthday, he never really found protection in her arms. They cared for each other, provided for each other; they were their little family of two, them against the whole world. And now they weren’t.
She never really represented shelter, she was love, she was kindness, but never shelter. At least not after the time that his father left, and she became a ghost of the person she used to be, always busy, eternally exhausted. Mo is sure that there was a time when his mother had given him protection in her arms.
He should have been strong enough to protect her .
Mo, all of the sudden, yearns for the only person to ever feel like safety. All grey-black eyes and confidence; after months that felt like years, he isn’t completely sure that he isn’t just a piece of Mo’s imagination.
He has been trying, really trying, to go along with this mother’s last wishes.
But he is alone, and he isn’t sure how much longer he will last.
Grey-black eyes and confidence, perhaps an exit.
Mo crawls out from the slide and limps to the payphone on the other side of the park.
He doesn’t have a phone, it was smashed by a heavy boot, but he knows the numbers by heart, after so many late nights of tracing the tidy handwriting, before burning the letter in a fit of rage.
If you ever need me, just call, was written in it.
Mo had vowed himself to never call that number, but he had also vowed himself to keep his mother safe.
He puts some coins, and calls. Four rings and someone sends him to voicemail. More coins wasted, since Mo is already here.
Two tones and then—
“Cheng, how many times do I have to tell you—”
Mo lets out a shaky noise at the sound of that voice, before it stops abruptly.
Grey-black eyes, confidence, and a rumbling voice.
Oh, now Mo is remembering why he didn’t want to call him .
“Hello?” Cautiously, dangerously. “Who is this?”
A lifetime goes in the space between the two of them, Mo can hear voices in the background, the scratching of tables moving. Is he at school? At work? On the moon? If someone could conquer the moon, it’ll be him, that spoiled, arrogant brat; so embarrassing and shameless and strong . Guan Shan wants to hide his face on the crook of his neck, breathe his smell. He wants to— he wants, wants, wants, wants—
“I need your help.” Mo Guan Shan tells He Tian. His voice is a weak, cracking thing.
“Mo?” He Tian asks. And, and that, that is his name, in that voice. And even if months were actually years, a complete century would have never prepared him for hearing his name in that voice again. “Guan Shan, is that you? Momo? Are you alright?”
There is the sound of He Tian standing up, someone telling him something, a cursive, weird sound that Mo can’t really understand; and the sound of a door opening and closing. Mo can imagine him leaving the room, waking silence at his bay, people wondering, where is he going? Why has he left? When will he come back?
“Mo? Are you there? Can you—”
“You said,” Mo whispers, because he can’t raise his voice beyond that. “you said that if I ever needed you, that I— that I just— that I could call .” He raises his head and stares at the first rays of sunlight, he won’t be able to hide in the shadows anymore, the night is over. “I need your help. Help me .”
He breathes in, but doesn’t dare to breathe out.
He Tian tends to ramble, it had been a surprise to Mo Guan Shan when he first came to realize it. Somebody as self-assured and cocky as He Tian? Spewing nonsense uninterrupted? Mo would’ve smelled the bullshit on it if he hadn’t been there to witness it.
But it’s real, he was even worse than Jian Yi; when he was bored, sometimes on the verge of sleep, when there were just the two of them, he would keep going on for hours. More than once, Mo had to put a heavy hand across this mouth to physically keep it shut, so he’d be able to get at least a few minutes of peace and quiet.
His surprise had turned to, like most things with He Tian did, to complete annoyance. There were people who would have made lines to listen to the unfiltered version of whatever first crossed his mind, so why did he keep bothering Mo Guan Shan with it?
He Tian isn’t rambling right now, Mo knows, based on the nature of the call and the frantic tone that his voice has taken. Mo has to tune him out, though, the way he would with his blabbering; and take a moment, sitting besides that payphone in the park, to just listen to what he thought he might never be able to.
But he has to slowly tune him back in.
“… I don’t know. I am going to call Cheg-ge, can I call you in a few minutes? I just have to—”
“Payphone” Mo interrupts. “I am on a payphone. You can’t call back to payphones, you stupid, idiotic—”
“Oh, good, you’re still here,” He sounds relieved “Okay, okay. Why are you on a payphone? Hey!” He suddenly yells, and then he’s changing languages, talking in cursive again, ordering someone near him.
“I'm still here, I’ll call him with another phone.” He says, back in Chinese, and he hears him pull the phone away.
Now with dawn arriving, and the men that were following him nowhere to be seen, Mo is feeling kind of stupid, childish. Like he was exaggerating. Is this actually something that he cannot handle by himself? Must he really get him involved? And seriously, what was he thinking, calling him. He Tian had left a little more than half a year ago. Surely there are more approachable people who could help him.
But, are they? Really? Mo Guan Shan isn’t willing to risk them, who would keep them safe? he wouldn’t, he couldn’t. Way too weak, way too slow. Goodness, what is Mo going to—
“Okay, alright,” He Tian breaks through his thoughts. “Are you there? Yes, yes you are. Say something, please.” There is the sound of He Tian going into a car. “He Cheng Is sending someone to get you at your place, yeah? Just wait and—”
“Payphone, stupid chicken-dick, payphone”
“Oh, that’s right, lemme just—”
“Can't you just pick me up?” Mo all but begs.
His throat is tying itself up in a tight knot. He has to raise a hand and press fingers to his eyelids to keep at bay the sting that threatens beneath them. “I'm in the park, the one with the round thing, where we were when it rained, after the… where I— ugh, where I fell asleep.”
“I’m not in China!” He Tian cries out. “ why would… Do you really think that I would’ve stayed away if I were near you, Mo? I’m not in China— yes, Cheng, he is at the kid's park, near the…”
Mo hears someone approaching, turns his head abruptly to his right, but it is just a lady with a stroller and a husky. A sob is wretched out of his lips.
“Momo? Are you— no, no ! Why are you crying? What’s happening?!” Mo bites his mouth to try to gain some clarity, and listens as He Tian takes some deep breaths, tries to copy him, and fails. “Listen to me,” He Tian starts again, his voice sounds firmer, it sounds stronger. Safety. “We are sending someone to you. A woman, taller than me, blue dyed hair, we call her Qeen. You can trust her, she’ll take you somewhere safe and I’ll meet you there. Are we clear? Is that ok?”
“Qeen” Mo mutters.
“Qeen,” he affirms “built like a bear, very kind eyes. She’s safe”
There are more people coming near him, “I have to go.” he says and runs back to the relative safety of the playground, payphone left hanging.
She finds him, laying on his back, in that place where he and He Tian had been together in their little bubble, all those months ago.
Qeen is what he said, blue hair, huge and with piercings on every possible space of her sharp face. Watching her upside down, from the place she is crouching at Mo’s head, only makes her more impressive. He’s sure he has met her before, in one of his unsolicited trips to He Tian’s brother’s house, but he can’t really remember her.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” is the first thing she says.
“Can’t say the same,” He mutters, and covers his eyes with a dirty hand, because her features are starting to ondulate like murky water. “you get uglier each time I see you.”
“See, that’s simply rude.” She stands up, knees popping, boots loud in the gravel. “Boss didn’t tell me I was picking up a bitchy brat.”
“Should’ve used birth control.” He answers, before sitting up. Fire flares up on his… everything, and then all spins before stopping, mostly.
Qeen huffs, before she begins to walk away. “Come on kid, let’s get you out of the streets.”
He stands up and stumbles behind her. After a few steps, he can fake it and walk almost normally, and by the time he’s at her side, she doesn’t notice the way his body is falling apart in pieces.
Mo knows, is completely aware, that his nasty attitude won’t take him anywhere; it’s problematic, and makes him sound ungrateful as fuck. But it’s just a reflex reaction by now, he lashes out before thinking. His head is threatening to start floating away from his body, each blink is getting longer and longer. Oh, Mo is getting tired. He doesn’t even check around for any lingering hunters. Let her handle it. Perhaps he simply doesn’t give a fuck anymore.
What is there to lose?
After walking for a few minutes, they reach her car. A blue shiny monstrosity; he crawls to the backseat, if only to ignore her eyes.
“We are going to their house, it’s safer,” she explains even if he doesn’t ask. There is a handgun in the cup holder, next to a box of chocolate milk. “He Tian is meeting us there in a few hours, he is already on the plane. You can sleep until we arrive.”
“Thanks for the fucking permission,” he tells to the window.
Qeen sighs, a sound that reminds him of his mother. “You are safe now, so shut up.”
He stays quiet, but doesn’t feel safe at all.
The house is the same as it used to be. Beauty, elegance and luxury in a single space. But now is surrounded by a feeling of emptiness that wasn’t there before. It’s all in the hollow places, devoid of any warmth. Mo can still remember fighting He Tian next to a fire and the feeling of falling asleep with his arms around his body, everything was boiling back then.
He follows Qeen to one of the many living rooms, and drops down to an uncomfortable leather couch. It is the comfiest place he has been in more than a week. In the house, mostly safe, his wounds start pulsing, and hurt way worse than when they were made.
“You should eat something,” Qeen says from the wide entrance of the room. The house is always cold, he had forgotten, because he used to never have enough space around himself to really feel it before.
“Eat.” She orders after she gets no answer. She comes closer and reaches for him. “Are you badly hurt somewhere?”
“Go die,” Mo mutters; he has to bat her hands away, before they can touch them, before they wrap themselves around his neck and—
“I am not built for this.” She groans, exasperated. Mo gets it. “Don’t fall asleep in here, there are plenty of rooms where you can do that instead of out in the open.”
Mo says something back, something rude. She keeps prodding and trying, obviously not used to dealing with someone as nasty as him; but perhaps she understands or he just looks way too pitiful, because she doesn’t force him to do anything.
It’ll definitely be better if he goes to He Tian’s room. Borrow himself in his bed and hide from the world until something inevitably comes knocking at his doorstep. But he ends up asleep on the couch. Blurry things happen in that tiny space just a step beyond unconsciousness. One moment he’s spewing some shit about Qeen’s lack of eyebrows, and then she’s waking him up. Not by shaking him, or touching him at all, but by calling his name loudly.
He jumps startled either way, and leans away from her.
The massive room is now colored with warm lights, it’s way past noon. The day flew away once again; it is always the nights, the ones that are eternal. His life is an everlasting game of hide-and-seek, he is always The mouse scrambling for a cover.
“He Tian landed, he’s on his way here. Thought you wanted a warning.” She tells him, voice low. Qeen’s eyes are way too knowing; Mo feels naked.
There are drops of blood in her green shirt, and eye purple bags under her brown eyes.
Even If he just slept for hours to no end, Mo still feels ready to drop down. In some way, the room is colder and he shivers when the air hits his sweat-damp shirt. He smells like hell. He scratches sharply the scar around his neck.
“You need to let someone check that cut, without throwing punches this time, even if you hit like a baby bear.”
“At least I don’t look like one,”
“That mouth ever took you somewhere?”
“Wouldn’t you want to know.”
She looks ready to say something back, but stops and looks through the window, steps away and walks out.
There is food nearby, Mo can smell it, and almost retchs with it. He shivers and cleans some sweat from his eyebrows.
He Tian steps into the living room.
He is taller, bigger, prettier. Mo Guan Shan wants to throw up.
“ Momo, ” He Tian Says, and all the air in the world seems to leave his lungs.
He scrambles near, still wearing his shoes, and reaches for Mo.
He stops him with a vice grip around his wrists, even if He Tian fights him a little. “No hugging,” Mo tries to bark.
“I don’t— but, Mo,” he gasps, and his eyebrows scrunch together. It is a painful sight. A little delirious, Mo decides the gray-black eyes were not made to frown like that. “Why can’t you just respect my fucking space? He Tian! Just for once, keep your hands to yourself! I can’t! I can’t—” his voice leaves him, and he pushes He Tian away from him, unrestrained.
“He Tian,” that is Qeen, in the harshest tone she has used the whole day. “Give him some space. Now.”
“Get out of here!” He yells at her, loudly, and the sharp noise is like a stab beneath Mo’s temples. He curls up and tries to press his thumbs there.
“Mo?” He Tian asks. Mo sees him, reaching out again, stopping and going back. His hands are trembling. He drags the table from the center of the room and sits right in front of the sofa, near enough to touch. “Mo? What—”
“Just shut up, dammit. Why are you so loud?”
He sees He Tian snap his mouth, teeth clicking, and hears the shaky breaths that he is taking.
“Some men came looking for me,” Mo mutters, explaining. “They wanted money, I said some shit, they did some more. I ran away, they are hunting me.”
He Tian is still taking quivery, deep breaths. He has his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly in front of himself. He looks like he’s begging, like he’s praying. Without warning, he looks so small, young.
“When was this?”
“A few days ago.”
“Why didn’t you call me earlier?”
“C’mon.” Mo spews, cutting, burning, biting. Anger. “You have to know that I’d never call you if I didn’t have any other choice.”
He Tian starts breathing through his mouth, raises his gaze to the roof and blinks very quickly. Then, he looks back at Mo, because he isn’t one to run away from his problems.
Mo Guan Shan realizes that He Tian is right there , physically, real, sitting at hand’s reach, looking like he’s about to cry.
“ No,” Mo breaks. He drags his feet down the couch, plants them on the ground, bows towards HeTian, until he can take his clean hands with his muddied-muldy ones. He rests his eyes at them. It’s a parallel, a copy of an image lived in a past life. “No, that’s a lie— that’s, that’s not true. I’m— I’m sorry.” He says at their fingers. “I’m not angry at you. I’m just angry, and you are here. ”
A dam breaks between his ribs, extinguishing any chance of avoiding whatever the hell this is. He feels He Tian’s lips on the back of his head and — bite, bark, cry— his tears drag the filth from his hands into He Tian’s.
“ Let me help you. ” He whispers at his nape.
Mo nods, forces himself to uncurl his hands from his. He Tian stands, pushing back the table with his calves, and offers his hands to Mo.
He stands up, without help, and everything tilts. He has to say “ oh, that is disgusting!” after he pukes on He Tian’s shoed feet, and then the table is closer.
Mo hears his name, said in He Tian’s terrified voice. He is carrying him across the room, hands beneath his shoulders and knees. He is asking for help, even if they are already together, even if Mo is already fine.
Mo Guan Shan rolls his head, meets Qeen’s wide-eyed gaze, before he keeps going and hides his face in the crook of He Tian’s shoulder.