Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first rule of surviving high school was simple: be invisible. Leo Santos had this theory down to a science. He knew the exact speed to walk through the halls—brisk enough to not be a target, but not so fast he looked like he was running. He knew which tables in the library were shielded by shelves. He had perfected the art of making himself a ghost.

It was a theory that spectacularly imploded the moment Mark Anderson decided to see him.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. And by cat, I mean the loser fairy.”

The voice, a low drawl laced with condescending charm, cut through the morning hallway chatter like a knife. Leo’s spine went rigid. He didn’t need to look up from his locker to know who it was. The scent of cheap Axe body spray and expensive arrogance preceded him.

Mark Anderson, golden boy, star quarterback, and reigning monarch of Northwood High’s social scene, leaned against the locker next to his, flanked by his usual entourage of jocks. His letterman jacket was slung over one shoulder, showcasing biceps that were the subject of many whispered conversations Leo tried very hard to ignore.

Leo kept his eyes fixed on his calculus textbook, his grip tightening. Don’t engage. Be a ghost.

“What’s the matter, Santos? Got a big test in… what is that, nerd hieroglyphics?” Mark snatched the textbook from his hands before Leo could react. He flipped through the pages with a look of exaggerated disgust. “Seriously, does this actually get you hard? All these numbers and graphs?”

A snicker rippled through his friends. Leo’s cheeks burned. “Just give it back, Anderson.”

“Or what? You’ll calculate the trajectory of my fist into your face?” Mark’s smile was a bright, cruel thing. He held the book out, and for a second, Leo thought he might actually return it. Then, his fingers loosened. The heavy textbook hit the scuffed floor with a definitive thwack.

Leo flinched.

“Oops,” Mark said, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Clumsy me.”

“Real smooth, Mark,” one of the jocks guffawed. “Bet you can’t do that on the field.”

“Nah, my hands are too valuable,” Mark replied, flexing them. “Unlike some people’s. What do you even do with those hands, Santos? Type up fanfiction about guys who’d never touch you?”

The laughter was louder this time, a wall of sound pushing in on Leo. He bent down to retrieve his book, his vision blurring with a humiliated heat. Don’t let him see. Don’t let him win.

As he straightened up, Mark moved closer, invading his space. He was so close Leo could see the faint, almost invisible scar above his eyebrow, could smell the mint on his breath. The proximity was a violation in itself.

“You know, for a guy who likes numbers,” Mark murmured, his voice dropping so only Leo could hear, “you should really calculate the probability of you ever being anything but a pathetic little stain on this school. I’m pretty sure it’s a solid one hundred percent.”

The words were meant to eviscerate. And they did. They carved out a hollow, familiar ache in Leo’s chest. He met Mark’s gaze then, for one blazing second. The eyes that stared back weren’t just mocking; they were intense, searching, almost… curious. As if Mark was trying to solve a puzzle he found both repulsive and fascinating.

The moment shattered as a melodic voice cut through the tension. “Marky! There you are!”

Chloe, perfect, popular Chloe with her glossy hair and designer bag, slid her arm through Mark’s, shooting a dismissive glance at Leo. “Ugh, are you slumming it again? Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

Mark’s focus snapped away from Leo as if a switch had been flipped. The intensity in his eyes was replaced by lazy, practiced charm. “Just giving the library mascot his daily dose of reality, babe."

He let Chloe pull him away, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder. It wasn’t a smirk. It was a glare, a hard, warning look that seemed to say, ‘This is what you made me do.’

As they disappeared into the crowd, Leo finally let out a shaky breath. He looked down at the scuff mark on his textbook cover. The bell rang, a shrill dismissal of the entire encounter.

He hugged the book to his chest, the phantom sensation of Mark’s proximity still prickling on his skin. It was a confusing, toxic cocktail of shame, anger, and something else he refused to name.

Banter. Rudeness. A daily ritual.

But today, for the first time, Leo saw it. A flicker in the monster’s eyes. A crack of something that looked an awful lot like fear.

Chapter Text

The final bell was a starting pistol. Leo moved with the practiced speed of prey, shoving his history textbook into his backpack and beelining for the side exit by the gym—the one the athletes never used. It was his safest route, a calculated detour that added seven minutes to his walk home but subtracted a high probability of confrontation.

Today, his calculations failed.

He was cutting behind the bleachers, the air cool and thick with the smell of damp grass and old asphalt, when a shadow fell over him.

"Leaving so soon, Santos? We were just getting started."

Leo’s blood ran cold. He knew that voice, but it was different now. Stripped of its performative crowd-pleasing charm, it was lower, uglier. He turned slowly.

Mark Anderson stood alone, his varsity jacket gone, his white t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. His usual entourage was absent. This wasn't for show. This was personal.

"I've got nothing for you, Anderson," Leo said, his voice steadier than he felt. He tried to step around him, but Mark shifted, blocking his path.

"See, that's where you're wrong," Mark said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "You've got plenty for me. You're my favorite pastime. My own personal… f**got."

The slur hit Leo like a physical blow, more brutal for the quiet, deliberate way it was delivered. It wasn't shouted for laughs; it was a statement of fact.

"Get out of my way," Leo ground out, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Or what?" Mark taunted, stepping closer. The space between the bleachers felt like a cage. "You gonna cry? You gonna run to a teacher and tell them the big, bad jock used a mean word?" He leaned in, his breath hot against Leo's ear. "You like it, don't you? The attention. You prance around here, with your tight little pants and your big, sad eyes, just begging for someone to put you in your place."

The venom in his words was paralyzing. "You don't know anything about me," Leo whispered, shame and rage warring inside him.

"I know everything I need to know," Mark sneered. He gave Leo a hard shove, sending him stumbling back against the metal support of the bleachers. The impact jarred his teeth. "I know you look at me. In the halls. In the locker room. You think I don't see you?"

Leo's heart hammered against his ribs. It was true, and the truth felt like a weapon Mark had stolen from him. "I think you're a monster."

"Then let me be a monster."

Mark’s fist connected with Leo’s stomach before he could even register the movement. The air left his lungs in a pained gasp. He doubled over, wheezing, stars exploding behind his eyes.

"Get up," Mark commanded, his voice flat.

Gasping, Leo struggled to straighten. As he did, Mark’s hand shot out, not in a fist, but to grab a handful of his hair, yanking his head back. Leo cried out, his scalp screaming in protest.

"Look at you," Mark hissed, his face inches away. His eyes were wild, dark with an emotion Leo couldn't name. It wasn't just hatred. It was frantic, desperate. "You're nothing. You're a weak, pathetic, little—"

He didn't finish. He shoved Leo again, this time sending him sprawling onto the asphalt. The rough surface tore through the knee of his jeans and scraped the palms of his hands raw. Leo landed hard, the taste of blood blooming in his mouth where he’d bitten his cheek.

He lay there for a second, stunned, the world spinning. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, spitting a crimson streak onto the gray ground.

Mark stood over him, his chest heaving. He wasn't smiling anymore. He looked… horrified. He stared at the blood on the pavement, then at Leo's torn jeans and the red seeping through the fabric.

For a long, silent moment, they just looked at each other. The bully and the victim, the jock and the nerd, suspended in a bubble of violent, shocking clarity.

Leo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smeared red trail. His voice was a ragged, broken thing. "Happy now?"

Mark took a step back. The raw, unfiltered terror was back in his eyes, clearer than ever. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out. He just shook his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet, leaving Leo alone on the ground, bleeding and broken, with the chilling realization that the monster he feared was, perhaps, even more terrified than he was.

Chapter Text

The seven-minute detour felt like a death march. Every step sent a jolt of pain from his scraped knees and a dull ache from the blossoming bruise on his stomach. The taste of copper was still sharp on his tongue. Leo kept his head down, his torn backpack slung over one shoulder, the image of Mark’s horrified face seared behind his eyes. What did he have to be horrified about? He was the one who threw the punches.

He was two blocks from the safety of his own street when the engine purr made him freeze. A familiar black truck, lifted and obnoxious, rolled up beside him, matching his pace.

The passenger window slid down. "Get in."

Mark’s voice was flat. It wasn't a request. It was an order.

"No," Leo said, his voice trembling. He picked up his pace.

The truck sped up, then jerked to a stop in front of him, blocking the sidewalk. Mark got out, his expression unreadable. The setting sun cast long shadows, turning his features sharp and dangerous.

"I said, get in the truck, Santos."

"I'm not getting in your truck." Leo’s heart was a frantic bird against his ribs. This was worse than the bleachers. This was isolated.

Mark closed the distance in two long strides. "You think you have a choice?" He grabbed Leo’s arm, his grip like a vice, and started dragging him toward the vehicle.

"Let go of me! What are you doing?!" Leo struggled, but it was useless. Mark was all hardened muscle and furious intent. He shoved Leo against the side of the truck, the metal cool through his thin t-shirt. The air left his lungs in a rush.

"You just... you don't know when to stop," Mark hissed, his face inches away. His breath smelled faintly of mint and something sharper, like adrenaline. "You with your quiet little act. You think you're better than me."

"I don't think anything about you!" Leo cried, turning his face away.

"That's a lie." Mark’s hand came up, but it wasn't a fist. He grabbed Leo’s chin, forcing his head back, forcing him to meet his eyes. The contact was electric and wrong. "You look at me. I see you looking. You make me feel... things."

The confession was laced with so much venom it was indistinguishable from a threat. Leo stared, paralyzed. Mark’s eyes were a storm of confusion and self-loathing, and for a terrifying second, Leo saw the raw, unfiltered pain behind the bully's mask.

Then, Mark’s mouth was on his.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. A punishment. It was hard and desperate and tasted like blood and rage. Leo froze, his mind screaming, his body betraying him with a shocking, unwelcome jolt of sensation. The warmth, the pressure—it was a brutal contrast to the violence, a confusing flicker of human contact in the midst of a nightmare. For a single, shameful second, his lips softened, his body responding to the sheer physicality of it before his brain could catch up.

Mark pulled back as if he’d been burned. He stared at Leo’s mouth, then into his wide, shocked eyes. The confusion on his face curdled into pure, unadulterated hatred—for Leo, for himself, for whatever had just happened.

He shoved Leo away, hard. Leo stumbled back, hitting the curb and falling onto the dusty grass verge.

"Disgusting," Mark spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're disgusting."

He turned, yanked open the driver's side door, and got in. Leo sat there, trembling, his lips tingling, his world shattered. He watched the truck's window roll down.

An empty soda can flew out, bouncing off Leo's shoulder. Then a crumpled fast-food bag, landing in his lap.

"Trash for trash," Mark yelled, his voice cracking. The engine roared, and he peeled away, leaving Leo sitting in the dirt, surrounded by garbage, the phantom pressure of the kiss burning on his lips more painfully than any bruise.

He was broken. Not just his skin or his clothes, but something deep inside. The line between hatred and whatever that was had been blurred into nothing, and he was left in the terrifying, silent aftermath.

Chapter Text

The first day back after the "incident" was the worst. Leo walked into school feeling like a ghost with a visible brand. He’d hoped the torn jeans and the hidden bruises were the end of it. He was wrong.

Mark was waiting for him at his locker, a lazy, predatory smile already in place. His eyes, cold and assessing, tracked Leo’s every flinch.

"Look who decided to show up," Mark said, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of the surrounding students. He didn't need his jock friends for this; an audience was enough. "You tracking mud everywhere, Santos?"

Leo looked down at his clean sneakers, confused. "What? No."

"Looks like it from here." Mark lifted his own pristine, white high-top sneaker and planted it squarely on top of Leo's foot, grinding down slowly. The pressure was immense, a blunt, crushing weight. Leo gasped, pain shooting up his leg. "See? You made a mess of my shoe."

The students around them watched, a mix of pity and morbid curiosity on their faces. No one moved.

"Get off," Leo whispered, his face burning with a shame so profound it felt like a physical weight.

Mark leaned in, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Or what? You’ll kiss me again?"

He finally lifted his foot, leaving a dirty scuff mark on Leo's sneaker and a deep, throbbing ache in the bone. He then gestured to his own shoe, which now had a faint smudge from the contact. "Clean it."

A sick dread coiled in Leo's stomach. "What?"

"You heard me. You got your filth on it. Clean it off." Mark’s gaze was unwavering, a command that brooked no argument. He wasn't asking for a tissue or a napkin. The expectation hung in the air, heavy and ugly.

Trembling, Leo looked around. The sea of faces offered no escape. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum of surrender. Slowly, feeling like he was detaching from his own body, he lowered himself to his knees on the cold linoleum floor.

A few people snickered. Someone took a picture with their phone. The flash was a tiny, blinding stab of humiliation.

He didn't use his tongue. He used the cuff of his own shirt, his hands shaking so badly he could barely control them. He wiped at the barely-there smudge on Mark's high-top, the act itself feeling more violating than any shove. He was on his knees, in a crowded hallway, publicly debasing himself.

Mark watched him, his expression one of cool, detached satisfaction. "Good. You know your place."

The bell rang, a sharp dismissal. As Leo struggled to his feet, his knees weak, Mark grabbed the strap of his backpack.

"You're coming with me after school," he said, it wasn't a question. "My room's a mess. You're going to clean it."

Chapter Text

The Anderson house was huge and silent. Mark's room was exactly what Leo expected—a disaster zone of dirty laundry, discarded protein bar wrappers, and scattered schoolbooks. It smelled like sweat and cheap cologne.

"Start with the laundry," Mark commanded, throwing himself onto his bed and picking up his phone. "Sort it. Colors, whites. And don't mess it up."

It was a bizarre, mundane torture. For an hour, Leo moved through the room, gathering Mark's socks, his t-shirts, his workout shorts. Each piece of clothing felt intimate and repulsive. He could smell him on them—the sharp scent of his deodorant, the faint musk of his skin. It was a violation of a different kind, being forced to handle the personal effects of his tormentor.

Mark didn't look up from his phone, but Leo could feel his eyes on him, watching, ensuring the humiliation was being properly absorbed.

"Now the floor," Mark said, once the laundry was sorted into baskets. "Pick everything up. By hand. I don't want you using a dustpan."

So Leo crawled. He picked up every scrap of paper, every stray pen, every crumb. He was a servant, a slave in the temple of his abuser. The physical act of being on his hands and knees, combing through the detritus of Mark's life, was its own form of breaking. It wasn't a single, sharp violence, but a slow, grinding erosion of his selfhood.

When he was finally done, the room was spotless. Leo stood by the door, exhausted, feeling hollowed out.

Mark finally put his phone down and looked around. His eyes swept over the clean floor, the ordered desk, the neat stacks of laundry. A strange, unreadable emotion flickered across his face—something that wasn't triumph, but looked almost like discomfort.

He stood up and walked over to Leo, stopping so close their toes almost touched. He reached out, and Leo flinched, hard.

But Mark just plucked a single, stray thread from the shoulder of Leo's shirt.

"See?" Mark said, his voice low and quiet, devoid of its earlier mocking tone. "You can be useful."

He opened the bedroom door. "Get out."

Leo didn't need to be told twice. He fled, the phantom sensations of the day clinging to him—the weight of Mark's foot, the smell of his laundry, the ghost of his touch removing that thread. He was broken, not by a fist, but by a thousand tiny, degrading cuts. And the worst part was the terrifying realization that in the silence of that clean room, for a single, fleeting moment, a part of him had been desperate for that tiny, almost-gentle act of removing the thread. A crumb of recognition that felt, in the vast desert of his humiliation, like a drop of water.

Chapter Text

Mark didn’t even let him get to his locker the next morning. He was intercepted at the main entrance, a heavy hand clamping onto his shoulder and spinning him around.

“The fuck do you think you’re going, Santos?” Mark’s voice was a low growl, meant only for him. His eyes were bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept.

“To class,” Leo mumbled, trying to shrug the hand off. It was useless.

“You’ve got a new first period. It’s called ‘Don’t Piss Me Off 101.’ Now move.” He shoved Leo forward, steering him not toward the classrooms, but toward the deserted boys’ bathroom on the ground floor, the one that was always locked because of vandalism. Mark produced a key, shoved the door open, and pushed Leo inside, locking it behind them.

The room smelled of stale urine and industrial cleaner. Leo’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.

“What do you want?” Leo asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“What do I want?” Mark repeated, pacing in front of him like a caged animal. “I want you to stop looking at me with those fucking pathetic eyes. I want you to stop existing in my space.” He stopped directly in front of Leo, so close Leo could feel the heat coming off his body. “But since you insist on existing, you’re gonna make yourself useful. My homework. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing your—”

The rest of the sentence was cut off as Mark’s hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Leo’s hair, yanking his head back. “You’re not listening, you little shit. I’m not asking. You’re my new fucking tutor. You’re gonna do every piece of paper with my name on it, and it’s gonna be perfect. You get a B, I’ll break your fingers. Understand?”

Tears of pain and humiliation welled in Leo’s eyes. He gave a tiny, jerky nod.

“Good.” Mark released his hair with a shove. “Now, my shoes are dirty again. From walking near you.” He put his foot up on the sink. “Clean them.”

The memory of the hallway, the kneeling, the photo flashes, made Leo’s stomach churn. “Mark, please…”

The name slipped out. A plea. A recognition.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Mark’s face darkened, a storm of pure rage. “Don’t you ever say my name,” he snarled, his voice trembling with a fury that seemed to terrify even him. “You don’t get to say my name. I’m ‘Anderson’ to you. I’m ‘Sir.’ You’re nothing. You’re a speck of dust. Now, are you going to clean my fucking shoe, or do I have to make you?”

Defeated, his entire body trembling, Leo fumbled for a paper towel from the dispenser. His hands shook so badly he could barely tear one off.

Chapter Text

The homework servitude became a new, twisted routine. Every morning, Leo would find a crumpled assignment or a textbook shoved into his hands by a stone-faced Mark. There was no "please," only a grunted command. "Calc. Due third period." Or just, "History. Don't fuck it up."

Today, it was an English essay on The Great Gatsby.

"You want me to write about the corruption of the American Dream?" Leo asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. The irony was too thick to ignore.

Mark, who had been turning away, stopped dead. He slowly turned back, his eyes narrowing. "What did you just say to me?"

Leo braced for a shove, a threat. "Nothing. Forget it."

"No, go on, Professor Santos," Mark sneered, stepping into his space. He plucked the essay prompt from Leo's fingers. "You think you're so fucking smart. You think you're Gatsby, is that it? Throwing these pathetic little parties, hoping someone will notice you?" He leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. "Let me tell you something. You're not Gatsby. You're the weirdo staring at the green light from across the bay. You'll never get across. You understand? Never."

The words were meant to eviscerate, and they did. They were precise, tailored to cut deeper than a generic insult. Leo looked down, the familiar heat of shame washing over him.

"Just give me the paper," he muttered.

Mark held it just out of reach. "What's the magic word?"

Leo clenched his jaw. "...Please."

"Please, what?"

The hallway was emptying, but not empty enough. Leo could feel a few lingering stares. "Please, Anderson."

Mark’s smile was thin and cruel. "See? You can be trained." He let go of the paper, but as he did, his knuckles brushed against Leo's. The contact was brief, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt through both of them. Mark flinched back as if burned, his sneer faltering for a fraction of a second.

He recovered quickly, the mask slamming back into place. "It better be an A. Or else." He turned and walked away, his shoulders unnaturally stiff.

Chapter Text

The essay was, of course, an A. Leo left it on the designated corner of Mark’s pristine desk after school. The room was still unnervingly clean, a shrine to his own humiliation.

He was about to leave when he saw it. Sitting on the nightstand, next to a half-empty glass of water, was a small, rectangular object.

His graphing calculator.

He’d reported it missing a week ago, convinced it was lost for good. He stared at it, his mind reeling. It wasn't just placed there; it was positioned neatly, aligned with the edge of the nightstand, as if someone had deliberately put it there for him to find.

His heart hammered in a confused, frantic rhythm. This wasn't part of the script. This was a line crossed in the wrong direction.

He heard the heavy tread on the stairs and froze.

Mark entered the room, stopping short when he saw Leo standing by the nightstand. His eyes flicked from Leo’s face to the calculator and back. A complicated series of emotions warred on his face—panic, defiance, and something that looked like shame.

"Get out," Mark said, but the command lacked its usual fire. It sounded tired.

"You... you had it?" Leo asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I found it," Mark snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze was anywhere but on Leo. "In the library. Was going to throw it in the trash, but I figured you'd whine about it. Now get the hell out of my room before I change my mind."

It was a lie. The placement was too deliberate. The act was too... considerate. It was a glimmer, a single, confusing star in an otherwise black sky of cruelty.

Leo picked up the calculator. It felt heavy in his hand, loaded with meaning he couldn't decipher.

He moved towards the door, pausing as he passed Mark. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, with the ghost of a touch and the reality of a small, returned kindness.

"Thanks," Leo murmured, the word feeling foreign and dangerous.

Mark didn't look at him. He just stared at the wall, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching. "Don't mention it," he ground out. "Ever. To anyone. Or I'll tell the whole school you begged for it back."

The threat was there, the meanness a safety net. But it was hollow now. Leo had seen the crack, and a sliver of light had gotten through. He walked out, clutching the calculator, more broken and confused than ever. The degradation was easier to understand than this tiny, terrifying act of grace.

Chapter Text

The problem started with Chloe.

It was a small thing, at first. She’d lean in for her usual goodbye kiss after he walked her to her first-period class, and Mark would turn his head at the last second, letting her lips land on his cheek.

“What was that for?” she’d asked, her perfectly glossed mouth forming a pout.

“Coach said no distractions,” he’d mumbled, tapping his temple. “Gotta stay locked in.”

She bought it. For a while.

But the excuses grew thinner. A headache. A canker sore. He’d pull away when she tried to hold his hand under the lunch table, his own palm feeling clammy and wrong in hers. The scent of her strawberry shampoo, which he used to love, now made his stomach clench with a strange, formless guilt.

The final straw was at her house, parked in his truck under the familiar oak tree. She moved in to kiss him, a real one, her hand sliding to the back of his neck. It was their spot. Their ritual.

Mark froze.

His body went rigid. He couldn't do it. The thought of her lips on his, the performance of it all, felt like a lie so profound it was suffocating. He saw a different face behind his eyelids—one with intelligent, wounded eyes behind smudged glasses.

He pulled back, gently untangling her hand.

“Mark?” Chloe’s voice was small, confused. “What’s wrong with you?”

He stared straight ahead at the peeling bark of the tree. “I can’t.”

“You… you can’t? What does that mean?” The confusion was quickly curdling into hurt. “Is this about the fight we had? Are you still mad?”

“It’s not that,” he said, his voice hollow.

“Then what? Is it me? Have I done something?” Her voice cracked, and the sound lanced through him with a fresh wave of shame.

He couldn't tell her the truth. He could barely admit it to himself. How could he explain that the feel of her was suddenly all wrong? That the person he was supposed to want felt like a stranger, while the person he was supposed to hate had become a ghost haunting his every thought?

“It’s not you,” he said, the words feeling useless and pathetic. “It’s me. I just… I can’t.”

He started the engine, the roar filling the heavy silence between them. He’d just broken the heart of the most popular girl in school, and all he could feel was a devastating, terrifying sense of relief.

Chapter Text

The returned calculator sat on Leo's desk like a stolen artifact. It didn't make sense. It was a glitch in the cruel code of his existence, and it left him feeling more off-balance than any shove ever had. He found himself watching Mark more closely, searching for a hint of the person capable of that small, secret act of returning something instead of breaking it.

He saw none of it in the halls. The performance was back in full force. If anything, Mark was colder, more distant, his insults delivered with a new, mechanical flatness.

"Out of my way, Santos," he'd grunt, shouldering past him without even looking at him.

The day of the big calculus test, Leo was drowning in formulas when a folded piece of notebook paper was slapped onto his desk. He flinched, expecting a crude drawing or a threat.

"Your stupid notes from last week," Mark muttered, already walking away. "Don't need 'em."

Leo carefully unfolded the paper. It was his handwriting, yes. But in the margin, next to a complex integral, was a scrawled question in a different, rushed pen: how does this work?

It wasn't a taunt. It was a real question. Mark had kept his notes. Had tried to understand them. And was now returning them in the most aggressively deniable way possible.

Later, in the library, Leo was trying to study, the image of that scrawled question burned into his mind. He heard the familiar, heavy footsteps and braced himself.

Mark dropped into the chair opposite him, slamming a textbook down. He looked tired, shadows under his eyes.

"We have a group project for history," Mark stated, not a question. "We're partners."

"We're not in the same history class," Leo said carefully.

"Switched in. Today," Mark said, his jaw tight. He refused to meet Leo's eyes, staring instead at the bookshelf behind him. "You're gonna do the whole thing. I'll put my name on it. You'll get an A. I'll get an A. That's how this works."

The demand was the same. The servitude was the same. But the context was entirely new. He had switched classes. He had orchestrated this.

"Why?" The word was out before Leo could stop it.

Mark's eyes finally snapped to his, a flash of panic in them. "Because I said so. That's why. Don't ask stupid questions." He stood up to leave, his chair scraping loudly. He paused, his back to Leo. "We'll meet at my house. Tomorrow. After practice. Don't be late."

He walked away, leaving Leo with a racing heart and a head full of static. The demand was a cage, but the invitation felt like a key. The cruelty was the same, but the intention had shifted, and Leo was terrified to hope, terrified to understand what it meant. The game had changed, and he no longer knew the rules.

Chapter Text

The air in Mark’s bedroom was different. The threat was still there, a low current under everything, but it was tangled up with something else. Something nervous.

“Just sit,” Mark had grunted when Leo arrived, pointing to the desk chair. Mark himself sat on the edge of his bed, as far away as the room allowed.

Leo opened his history textbook. “The project is on the Treaty of Versailles. We need to outline the main clauses and their consequences.”

“Whatever. Just get it done,” Mark said, picking at a loose thread on his comforter. He wouldn’t look at Leo.

For twenty minutes, the only sound was the scratch of Leo’s pen and the rustle of pages. It was the quietest they had ever been in a room together without violence hanging in the air.

Leo, feeling a surge of something reckless, finally broke the silence. “Do you even know what the Treaty of Versailles was?”

Mark’s head snapped up, his eyes flashing with defensive anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, do you know? Or do you just not care?”

“I don’t need to care. That’s what you’re for,” Mark shot back, but the insult lacked its usual heat. It sounded like a rehearsed line.

“The ‘War Guilt Clause’ forced Germany to accept all blame for the war,” Leo said, his voice steady, watching Mark closely. “It crippled them. Humiliated them. Everyone knew it was a recipe for future disaster, but they did it anyway to make them pay.”

Mark had gone very still. He was staring at the floor, but Leo could tell he was listening.

“Sometimes,” Leo continued, softer now, “people get forced into roles. They have to play a part, even if it destroys them. Even if everyone can see it’s going to end badly.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Mark’s knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of his mattress. The analogy hung in the air between them, fragile and dangerous.

“Just write the damn paper, Santos,” Mark finally muttered, but his voice was rough, stripped bare. He stood up abruptly and walked out of the room, leaving Leo alone with the half-finished outline.

He was gone for ten minutes. When he came back, he tossed a can of soda onto the desk next to Leo’s elbow. He didn't say a word. He just went back to his spot on the bed, the act of offering a drink as confusing and significant as the returned calculator.

The meanness was a wall, but Leo was starting to see the desperate person building it, brick by brick, right in front of him.

Chapter Text

Leo had been at Mark's house for three hours. The project outline was finished, the bibliography was formatted, and Leo's nerves were completely shredded. Mark had been unusually quiet the entire time, pacing, checking his phone, throwing the occasional grunt or insult like a lifeline to his own sanity.

"You done yet?" Mark asked for the fifth time.

"I'm done when I say I'm done," Leo snapped, surprising himself with his own boldness.

Mark stopped pacing. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said," Leo repeated, his heart hammering, "I'm done when I say I'm done. You wanted an A. You're getting an A. So shut up and let me work."

For a terrifying second, Mark just stared at him. Then, instead of the explosion Leo expected, a slow, humorless smile spread across his face.

"Look at you," Mark said, walking closer. "Little nerd's got some teeth. Bet you practice that in the mirror. 'Don't mess with me, I know math.' Real fucking scary."

"I'm not trying to be scary," Leo muttered, focusing on his paper. "I'm trying to be left alone."

Mark dropped into the chair across from him, close enough that their knees almost touched. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, his gaze uncomfortably intense.

"You know what your problem is, Santos?"

"I have a list. You'll have to be more specific."

Mark actually laughed. It was a short, surprised sound, like he hadn't meant to let it out. "You're mouthy for someone who's been on his knees for me. Multiple times."

Leo's face burned, but he forced himself to hold Mark's gaze. "You mean cleaning your shoes? Or does your ego need to pretend it was something else?"

The air between them turned electric. Mark's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. "Careful."

"Why? You'll hit me? You've done that. You'll humiliate me? You've done that too." Leo's voice was shaking, but he couldn't stop. "What else you got, Anderson? Gonna make me alphabetize your sock drawer? Iron your jockstrap?"

Mark leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "My jockstrap doesn't need ironing. But thanks for offering."

The joke landed like a grenade. They stared at each other, the double meaning hanging in the air, thick and dangerous. Mark's lips twitched, fighting something—a smirk, a snarl, Leo couldn't tell.

"You wish," Leo whispered, and he didn't even know which one of them he was talking about.

Mark's hand shot out, not to hit, but to grab the front of Leo's shirt, yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart. "You have no idea what I wish, Santos."

"Then tell me."

The challenge hung in the silence. Mark's breathing was uneven, his grip trembling. The mask was cracking, the monster and the man fighting for control behind his eyes.

"I wish you'd finish the fucking project," Mark finally said, releasing him with a shove. He stood up and walked to his window, turning his back. "I wish you'd stop looking at me like that. Like you can see something."

"Maybe I can," Leo said quietly.

"Then you're seeing shit that isn't there." But his voice had lost its edge. It sounded almost scared. Almost human.

Leo picked up his pen again, his hands still shaking. The tension was suffocating, a coiled spring that neither of them knew how to release. The dirty jokes had opened a door, and now they were both standing in the doorway, terrified to step through.

Chapter Text

That night, Leo couldn't sleep.

He lay in his narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over. My jockstrap doesn't need ironing. But thanks for offering. The way Mark's voice had dropped, low and rough. The way his eyes had darkened. The way Leo's own heart had slammed against his ribs like a trapped animal.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to erase the image. It wouldn't go away.

Neither would the dream.

He didn't mean to fall asleep, but somewhere around 2 AM, exhaustion dragged him under. And there was Mark, standing in the middle of a empty field, his varsity jacket gone, his white t-shirt clinging to his chest. He was saying something, but Leo couldn't hear the words. Just the shape of his mouth. Just the intensity of his stare.

Then Mark was walking toward him, slow and deliberate, and Leo couldn't move. His feet were rooted to the ground. His voice was gone. All he could do was stand there as Mark reached him, as Mark's hand came up to his face, as Mark's thumb traced the curve of his lower lip.

You're seeing shit that isn't there.

But in the dream, it was there. All of it. The hunger. The fear. The desperate, aching want that neither of them could name.

Leo woke up gasping, his sheets tangled around his legs, his body betraying him in the most embarrassing way possible.

"This is insane," he whispered to the dark. "He's insane. I'm insane."

But the ghost of Mark's thumb was still on his lip, and he couldn't stop shaking.

Mark wasn't sleeping either.

He lay on his back, Chloe's text messages glowing on his phone screen. Are we okay? You've been so distant. I miss you.

He typed back: Yeah. Fine. Just tired.

She deserved better. He knew that. But every time he tried to summon the feeling he used to have for her—the easy affection, the comfortable heat—his mind supplied a different face. A sharper jaw. Darker eyes behind cheap glasses. A mouth that said things like then tell me with a trembling voice and a gaze that saw right through every wall he'd ever built.

He threw his phone across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack.

The silence that followed was worse.

Because in the silence, he could still hear Leo's voice. Maybe I can. Maybe I can see something. And Mark was terrified that it was true. Terrified that this quiet, defiant nerd had looked past the letterman jacket and the cruel smile and seen the mess underneath. The mess that woke up at 3 AM thinking about the way Leo's breath had hitched when Mark grabbed his shirt. The way Leo hadn't pulled away.

"Fuck," Mark breathed into his pillow.

He pressed his face into the fabric, remembering—against his will—the single time he had kissed Leo. The collision behind the bleachers. The taste of blood and panic and something else. Something that had made him shove Leo away and call him disgusting, even as every nerve in his body screamed the opposite.

He wanted to hate Leo. He wanted to blame him for this confusion, this ache, this haunting.

But Leo was just living his life. Studying his books. Walking the halls with his head down. Being exactly who he was.

Mark was the one who couldn't look away.

And that, more than anything, was what scared him most.

The next morning, Leo avoided eye contact with everyone. He walked to his locker with his head down, his hands shoved in his pockets, his mind still half-trapped in the dream.

He didn't see Mark until it was too late.

A hand slammed against the locker next to his head, caging him in. Mark's body was a wall of heat behind him, so close Leo could feel his breath on the back of his neck.

"Morning, Santos," Mark murmured, low enough that only Leo could hear. "Sleep well?"

Leo's entire body went rigid. "Fine."

"Liar." Mark's voice was almost tender, which made it infinitely more terrifying. "You look like shit. Dark circles. Jumpy." He paused, his breath ghosting over Leo's ear. "I kept you up, didn't I?"

Leo turned slowly, forcing himself to meet Mark's eyes. The jock looked terrible too—smudges under his eyes, his usual swagger replaced by something raw and unguarded.

"You wish," Leo said, echoing his own words from the day before.

Mark's gaze dropped to Leo's mouth for a fraction of a second. Then back up. "Yeah," he said quietly, the admission slipping out before he could stop it. "Maybe I do."

The hallway buzzed around them, oblivious. Two boys standing too close, breathing too hard, saying everything and nothing with their eyes.

Leo's heart was a war drum. "What are we doing, Anderson?"

Mark's jaw tightened. He didn't have an answer. He just stared at Leo like he was a math problem he couldn't solve, a test he was destined to fail.

"I don't know," he finally admitted, the words barely audible. "But I can't stop thinking about it."

He pushed off the locker and walked away, leaving Leo pressed against the cold metal, haunted by the ghost of a confession and the terrifying possibility that this time, the monster was being honest.