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i'll wait, i'll watch

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it’s been a rough day. like, a rougher than normal rough day. rough might just be an understatement for how shitty this day has gone. even shitty is an understatement. or maybe he’s just being dramatic and it’s really not that bad, but all this introspection is making his head hurt when it hurts enough already without the added thought.


the reason it hurts? well, it’s always the same, the same thing, in different forms. but once again, this time, it was the anti-gifted. 


pang had been on a break between two classes when he fell asleep, leading him to wake up late in the courtyard before attempting to sprint between buildings to try and end up (somehow, miraculously, pang doesn’t know, he’s kind of an idiot, if you ask anyone) in class on time.


instead, he gets cornered in one of the alleys between the library and the class four dorms and subsequently chucked against the wall which significantly throws off his game and later will become the cause of his massive headache. 


normally he would have ohm or mon with him at this point in time, but it just seemed to have started as his unlucky day. extremely, extremely unlucky. 


the thing about the anti-gifted is that their punches are weak (like pathetically weak) but somehow, their endurance is strong. so while it doesn’t really hurt at first, it tends to escalate pretty quickly from there. one minute in and pang had nearly laughed at the hits the masked cowards had tried to throw on him, not even attempting to grab them or try to use his gift. 


it was too dangerous anyway. but five minutes in and pang was desperately trying to grab them, only to fail and curse himself that he didn’t try it earlier. he does, after all, tend to do most things without thinking of the consequences. and his life, oh his life has so many consequences. 


maybe his gift isn’t mind control. maybe it’s just piles and piles of rotten luck. the beating had gone on for about ten minutes when pang found himself with a black eye, a slice in his forehead, a significantly bruised rib-cage, and cuts and scratches all up and down his arms. he knew they carried knives, but maybe were just too afraid to use it. killing a student is still killing a student, whether the said student is gifted or not.


he wished he was immortal. then he remembered korn’s tears and thought no thanks. 


roughly fifteen minutes into pang’s ruthless beating was when he heard whistling and a teacher's shriek and a loud yell that was definitely mon as two of the assholes on top of him were flung to practically antarctica. yeah, it was definitely mon.


his vision started to go dark at the edges when he sees mon’s worried face come into view, tapping his cheeks, going “pang, pang, pang,” and the last thing he managed to think before passing out was that wave was going to be so, so pissed with him.


which leads them right to this present moment. wave unlocking pang’s dorm with the spare key pang gave him in case of emergencies, mumbling something about pang needing to clean up.


because see, pang seems to be really good at bad decision making, so he had told mon and the rest not to inform wave of what happened, seeing that wave was in his math classes, the only two hours on wave’s every other day where he had not a sliver of technology to work with, stuck in the classroom with nothing but pencils and paper and the numbers on the board. 


so yeah, pang is so, so fucked. 


wave turns around, and pang holds his breath as wave’s eyes lift up to his face and takes in the sight.


yes, pang had showered but he hadn’t bothered to clean up his wounds, shaking his head at mon when she asked him to go to the infirmary, stating he had a kit in his dorm and he would rather take a shower in his own bathroom. 


so here he was, damp haired, no longer bloody but bruised and exhausted, in front of wave. god, in front of wave. 


pang should start thinking before he acts. 


and wave’s breath catches hard and pang instantly feels guilt shoot through him like a knife as wave steels himself and looks pang up and down, tracing every inch of skin available for view. looking for fatal wounds, deep cuts.


if pang was a few steps closer, he would be able to hear wave’s breath shaking.


but it was pang who ended up speaking first. “the damn anti-gifted again, they’ve definitely gotten our schedules somehow, and on top of that they’ve got ground plans of the school, which shouldn’t be accessible to anyone but those in the architecture club, which would be—“


“shut up.” wave’s voice is cutting and sharp, and pang is startled enough to fail to hear the pure hurt that rests behind his words. 


“wave,” pang starts with a sigh.


“shut. up.” wave’s voice trembles and pang suddenly realizes that something is very, very wrong. 


wave isn’t facing him anymore, standing in front of pang’s desk with his bag now resting on the floor, almost facing his back to pang. he sounds guarded. 




wave hasn’t been guarded around pang for a long time. it was one of the things pang promised himself. to make wave feel safe. to keep him safe. pang feels like he’s broken something that’s already so fragile, and he thinks for a second that maybe that thing is wave himself.


and wave worries. wave agonizes about betrayals and details, when pang goes our for the night, he passes wave who just says, "i'll wait," which really means "i'll watch," which means "i'm watching out for you," because nothing in their lives is quite innocent and wave can't help but worry the one time he doesn't think to look out for pang will be the one time he loses him. wave constantly tells him to be careful, be careful, be careful please, and now wave has to look at the consequences of not watching pang. 


“wave,” he immediately gets up and wave flinches at the action, pang’s eyes widening in panic and confusion. he stops. then says his name again, softer. “wave. wasuthorn.”


wave inhales sharply. then slowly he turns to face pang, his eyes resigned and stormy.


and he’s crying. fuck, wave is crying.


pang made him cry.


“wave,” he says again but makes no move to take a step forwards, keeping in mind how wave reacted the last time he reached out. “wave,”  


“no one,” wave blinks and more tears come rolling down. “no one told me? i- i got out of class without a single fucking text and i- i just, i just went to my classes thinking everything was fine? that- i,” wave chokes on his words and a sob escapes from the back of his throat, and fuck, it breaks pang a little inside. he hates himself a bit right now. 


“i told them not to say anything,” pang says gently, trying not to upset wave more. “i didn’t want you to miss class,” 


“miss a class?” wave snorts, wiping his face aggressively. “you think you’re important enough for me to just skip when i hear you fell and scraped your knees or whatever?” 


pang smiles a bit at that. wave still wipes away his tears, while pang doesn’t mention it. mentioning it would only upset wave. it would make him feel too vulnerable. weak. and pang’s supposed to be the weak one right now is what wave is thinking. 


the tear tracks are still bright red when wave finally glares back at pang, and pang’s heart aches because wave is still so, so pretty, even when he cries. no one deserves that kind of divine beauty. except for wave.


wave sniffs, trying to collect himself. “did you break anything?” 


“no, just bruises.” 


wave’s chest deflates a bit in relief and pang’s heart swells, trying to catalog each of wave’s reactions to him, not wanting to spook him like a scared deer. 


some of the tension slips out of wave’s shoulders as he sighs. “where’s your first-aid kit? we all have one in our rooms, please tell me you’ve at least opened it—“ 


“wave,” when his voice comes out this time, it’s strained. 


wave looks at him with a look so swirled and beaten with emotions that it almost takes pang under and drowns him. 


“can i hug you?” 


and wave turns to the side before giving the slightest nod of permission, and from wave, god, wave, who was so unused to physical affection and touch that he nearly had a breakdown from just pang’s firm hand around his wrist. that wave, this wave, was willing to hug him. and it’s now that pang realizes how far, how fucking far they’ve truly come.


if it took months and months of work, years and years, to break down wave’s walls and hardened clay hurt, he would do it all again, everything, in a heartbeat if it meant being able to have wave like this. with him. by his side. 


pang steps forwards and gathers wave in his arms, fingers guiding through soft, soft black hair and the corners of wave’s glasses pressing into pang’s chest, and pang absolutely revels in the way that wave absolutely melts into him at that, entire body easing and resting against pang, fingers scrunched in the back of his sleeping shirt. 


wave is soft and warm, and pliant like putty in his hands now, sighing with gratification as he pulls pang closer, head in the crook of his neck, making sure he’s warm, okay, alive. 


pang realizes that he would do anything. anything for wave. no matter how hard his feelings go though, he’ll never push him. if wave doesn’t feel the same he won’t push. he won’t tell. he won’t change. because having wave like this is more, so much more, than he ever thought he could have. and he wouldn’t give it up for the world. 


“pang, where’s your first aid kit? the cut on your forehead is going to open.”