Chapter Text
Mischa was the angriest boy in town. He knew it. His so-called “parents” knew it too.
Even the title made him angry. Rage would bubble up in his gut, and swarm his throat until it felt red hot, like he was going to throw up. His chest would tighten, and his fists would ball up like he needed to hit something. That was why he wrote songs, after all. He had to get it out somehow.
Yet still it always felt…wrong. Like he wasn’t supposed to be this angry. Nights spent thinking solely about…that…made him more confused than anything else. His “family” didn’t make it easy for him to brush it off, either. Constantly looked at like he was a monster, or like it was his fault he was here. Didn’t they fucking think that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to be here?
He had a life for God’s sake! He didn’t blame his mother of course, but…he was nearly eighteen at the time she sent him away. Couldn’t she have let him be?
This “family” was hardly anything at all. Sure, they expected something different, but the utter lack of love in their eyes was disgusting. A toddler was far from what he was, but did growing up make him any less of a person in their eyes? They were hardly even prepared for him, either. They fed him whatever they had the spare time to throw together; half the time, it was cold. Forgive him if he didn’t want to eat cold mashed potatoes from who knows how long ago!
He didn’t understand why they wouldn’t simply make him a portion at the top of the stairs, but it was like they forgot he was there until they were forced to acknowledge him, whether by tending his needs or having a forced interaction.
If his parents were good for nothing, at least they provided him with enough rage for a million songs. Usually, though, unless he was recording, he avoided them.
He’d end up sneaking out, or just…skipping going home for a few days. He could manage to scrounge some bullshit up, like food, or a place to sleep. He didn’t eat properly unless it was at school, he hadn’t gotten the chance to get an actual job yet so he couldn’t buy anything. Granted, he hadn’t been looking, but still.
Skipping home was his current situation. He wasn’t gonna stay out all night like he had a few times just in the past week, just…long enough for his parents to go to bed. To forget about his existence so he could do anything else with his time. He’d left the basement window open, he could just slip back in whenever. His stomach grumbled heavily, and he sighed, feet leading him along the small town streets.
The fair had closed and moved on a week or two ago due to an excess of rain and some electric fire started by a broken Karnak machine, which meant they were practicing for their winter concert now. He couldn’t care less during rehearsals and he knew Father Marcus could tell. He’d just come from a rehearsal now, and…
Where was he even going? Blinking a bit, he glanced up and around. He’d practically walked the entire town in his school clothes, never even stopping at home to change. Standing outside a rather old-looking building, he squinted at the sign balanced on top of the only friendly-looking building in town.
The Blackwood Cafe. In smaller letters, scripted around the side in fading paint, he could make out, servicing Uranium City since day one! The paint was faded incredibly and chipping, but it looked legible still. This town truly did seem to be rotting from the inside out. This cafe was only proof.
A scoff bubbled up from his throat. Couldn’t be very impressive. His growling stomach, though, thought otherwise, and he rubbed his neck, head down as he made his way near. He was as manly as he could get, but he was still human, and one who hadn’t eaten since noon. Maybe the smell of food would tide him over until he was kicked out back home.
His parents weren’t the only people who didn’t like him in that godforsaken town. The kids between and even during his classes glanced at him warily, and he’d watch people glare at him or shield their children in town as he passed by. The only reason he didn’t see anyone now was due to how late it was getting. The sun was sinking below the small buildings, turning the sky a pinkish orange.
Standing in the doorway, he paused before pushing the door open with more force than he’d originally meant to. He froze up for a second before rubbing his neck, fumbling with his phone, and looking down at it. Talia still hadn’t replied to any of his messages, which given that it was the hours of the morning back in Ukraine, made enough sense.
Still, it meant he had nothing to do, and he glanced around the building, a killer case of resting bitch face. Inside the building, he was only really able to take notice that they were cleaning up. The tables and booths were all empty, sunlight filtering through the windows and bouncing off chairs. Close had to be soon. A short, dark-skinned woman was scooping plates together off a table, while another man in the back was organizing.
He should leave, they would notice him soo-
“Mischa?”
Constance? His gaze darted over to one of the booths near the front, and lo, there she was. She’d long changed out of her uniform, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d felt the fabric the girl’s dresses were made of due to an excessive amount of sorting and folding—punishment for starting fights with one of his classmates—and it was horrifically itchy. She’d slipped on a t-shirt and shorts, schoolwork all spread out across the booth.
Constance was…strange. She was horrifically kind. So much so that she looked at him differently compared to everyone else. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think she saw him as an actual person.
Maybe it was because she had a normal family. His own jab hurt himself, and he winced a bit, although to anyone else? He was sure it looked like he was about to jump her. She gave him a funny look, tinged with seeds and threads of worry, furrowing her brow.
“Ah-” He blinked a few times. Right. People respond…he couldn’t really muster up more than an acknowledging nod at her. He didn’t need the people here—probably her parents, actually—to think he’d ever harm her. Regardless, she smiled a bit.
“Hey! Why are you here? We close in like…” Her gaze shifted to the clock on the wall, a small red hand ticking away every second. It was nearing nine, and the sun had nearly fully set along the horizon. A few fluorescent lights flickered on to combat the growing darkness. “I dunno, ten minutes? Shouldn’t you be at home eating dinner?”
Ah. He glanced away uncomfortably with his fists clenched at his sides. He clamped his flip-phone shut as emphatically, yet gently as possible. It was falling apart at the seams, and he didn’t need to be phone-less, too. Something dawned on her face, and she stood up abruptly.
“Well- hey, why don’t you sit down with me? I’ll be like right back, okay?” Her smile was infectious, and it took a lot for him to not smile back at her. Constance, again, was incredibly strange. Sometimes she acted like the younger girls he’d seen in the school, before the age where everyone else was an enemy instead of a potential friend. If there was anything universal, it was the language of hate.
Without even waiting for a response, she made her way over to the woman. …Probably her mother, now that he thought about it. They looked far too similar for it to be a coincidence. They had the same hair and eyes, although, Constance’s skin was a far amount lighter than hers.
He could leave. He could leave now, fuck off and find something else to do. Maybe there were some trash cans he could kick over. Yet…the idea of disappointing Constance upset him. For some reason, he found himself sitting down, patting his thighs a bit out of boredom.
She was whispering to her mom now, oh he hated when people would whisper. Always filled with judgment and hate…but again…Constance wasn’t like that. From the looks of her mother, maybe she got it from her. Her eyes were warm, the wrinkles on her face clearly from smiling at others. The older woman pulled a face as the girl stopped talking, patted Constance’s arm, and darted back into the kitchen.
Constance turned back and grinned at him, and out of…moral need? He smiled back. Half-heartedly, but he still smiled. He was still too confused by everything going on. This felt gentle. He didn’t know how to handle gentle. She moved to sit across the booth, organizing her papers.
“...What’s going on?” His voice was a bit hoarse, he hadn’t…spoken to anyone in a few hours. He hadn’t even participated today in choir. She waved her hand dismissively, glancing at the back.
“You’re a special customer, my dad is back there making you a burger!” She pointed, and if he squinted, he could see a tall, rather intimidating man, with pink scars on his hands that contrasted with the light tan on his skin. That explained the difference in her skin tone as compared to her mother. Mischa frowned, nails picking at his jeans.
“I don’t have money , Constance–” Surely she wouldn’t continue making the food now, would she? Maybe something in return. He was being taken advantage of! She waved him off, though, hands gliding over the papers she had and picking up a pen, dragging what looked like algebra homework over to herself.
“I paid! I have some allowance saved up, and our food is cheap but so good.” She glanced up at him and smiled again. Why did she do that? No one was kind for no reason. His stomach twisted, although he could hardly tell if it was from hunger or discomfort.
Below the table, Constance’s feet tapped against the floor in a steady rhythm. First, her right, then her left. A very soft and low hum buzzed through her lips, a quiet melody that felt soothing. Nowhere near soothing enough to calm his stomach, but soothing.
…If he was being honest, Constance reminded him a lot of his mother. His real mother. They didn’t look alike, but their mannerisms were familiar. His mother was the sweetest, kindest soul he’d ever gotten the chance to meet.
Her hands were delicate, treating his scrapes and burns with the gentlest love and care. She emitted warmth like a sunrise, blanketing him in safety with just her smile. She’d run her hands through his hair, no matter how old or big he’d gotten. When he’d left, he was towering over her, yet she still pulled him down, tucked his head under her chin, and ran her fingers through his hair.
An angel on Earth, she really was. By now, he was sure she was an angel above.
He never got to watch them lay her in the dirt. Something bubbled up in his chest, that rage-like feeling and Constance frowned. She observed things far too closely sometimes, yet lacked the ability to see how distastefully her so-called best friend would treat her.
Something nasty bit at his tongue, words he wanted to say spilling up, but he kept them back.
His hands were moving around, from tapping on his legs to rubbing on his collarbone, to where they now rested in fists on the table. Her hand reached out to his, covering it and squeezing. Her palm was warm.
“...We aren’t good friends, Mischa,” she started to say, and when he glared up at her, his shoulders beginning to tense, she quickly opted to finish her sentence. “I would like to be, though. If you need one.”
…She was strange. He tugged his hand away abruptly, curling his fist around it like he was scalded. She pulled her hand back as well, a slightly hurt expression on her face before he sighed.
…He hated this. A napkin holder had been snug against the wall of the diner, and he carefully took one as well as one of her stray pens. His hands were a bit shaky, his throat clogged up.
He scrawled out his number, slid it across, and with perfect timing, the woman from before approached him with a to-go box in hand. He stood quickly, avoiding eye contact with Constance as he took the styrofoam box, muttering a thank you to the woman. He could tell she wanted to say something to him, but he couldn’t—he couldn’t say. His head hurt from this entire…situation. He nodded at the woman before darting out, speed walking as fast as his legs could take him.
Why did she confuse him like this? Why couldn’t she be like every other bastard in this town?
A savory smell wafted up from the box, and his stomach grumbled and ached. …Well…he could be silent and thankful just this once.
Back at the diner, Constance watched him leave, sighing just a bit. That boy really needed a friend.
…She could fill that slot.