The cafe's neon glow spilled through its foggy windows, casting jagged streaks of pink and blue across the linoleum floor. The air hung heavy with roasted coffee, burnt sugar, and the faint stickiness of syrup baked into the vinyl booths. The jukebox hummed a slow '90s ballad, its notes weaving through the clink of dishes, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the low murmur of patrons—a weary student hunched over a laptop, a trucker sipping cold coffee, a couple whispering in the corner. The overhead lights buzzed, one bulb flickering like a nervous tic, throwing shadows across faded rock posters on the walls.
Alex sat slumped in the booth, his legs shaky from the alley fight, the vinyl squeaking as he leaned into Francis's arm, unaware of how close he'd pressed. His backpack rested against the wall, thesis papers safe but heavy with the weight of his future. The chocolate cake and milkshake sat untouched, frosting glossy, glass sweating. Francis's arm rested on the booth's back, fingers grazing Alex's shoulder, a warm anchor. Jax and Rico sat at the table by the door, their breaths heavy, smirks fading into tired grins.
Francis leaned closer, his elbow on the table, his grin softening. "Alright, love," he said, voice low, cutting through the jukebox's hum. "Why'd you jump into a ten-man fight? You could've snuck past, grabbed your bag. You call me annoying, so why risk your neck for me?" His eyes searched Alex's, curious but serious, the neon catching the intensity in his gaze.
Alex set his fork down, the cake's sweetness fading as Francis's question hit. His mind spiraled, half-lost in fragments of his past—dark, jagged frames flickering like a broken film reel. His parents' dim living room, their voices sharp: his father snarling, "How could you give birth to something like him? Weird, disgusting!" His mother pleading, tears streaming, "Please, do anything to the child, but don't abandon me!" Their eyes on him, young and small, filled with revulsion, like he was a mistake.
The orphanage's cold beds, echoing halls, bullies circling, their fists swinging as they taunted, "Freak! No one wants you!" A teacher's voice, calm but firm, "You need to learn to fight, kid. Protect yourself." The community center's worn mats, sweat-soaked struggles, bruises from failed blocks, his body aching as he learned to dodge, strike, survive. Nights running from unknown men, their footsteps pounding, knives glinting—"Get him!" Shifting from one place to another, bags packed in haste, always alone, always running.Suddenly, Alex closed his eyes, fear gripping him, tears slipping down his cheeks, hot and silent.
The warm embrace behind him—Francis's arm—felt like a lifeline. He turned, eyes still shut, and hugged Francis tightly, his face buried in Francis's chest, sobs breaking like a dam. "I don't know... I don't know..." he gasped, voice muffled, broken. "Why... why do I have to be killed? It isn't my fault... it happened like that... why... it's their fault... not mine..." His body shook, sobbing hard, like a small child lost in a storm, the past's fragments shattering into the present.
Francis froze, his eyes widening, shock etching his face. His arms instinctively wrapped tighter around Alex, holding him like a fragile treasure, his leather jacket creaking. *What the hell?* His heart twisted, confusion mixing with fierce protectiveness, his hand gently stroking Alex's back. Jax and Rico exchanged stunned glances, Jax's smirk gone, Rico's scowl softening, the cafe's hum fading to a murmur. The trucker looked away, the couple whispered, but Francis ignored them, his focus on Alex.
"Hey, love," Francis murmured, voice soft, unsure. "I got you. No one's killing you. Not on my watch." He lifted Alex effortlessly, cradling him like a child, and carried him out the cafe's door for fresh air, the night's chill hitting them. Jax and Rico followed, concern etching their faces, their boots crunching on the sidewalk.
Outside, the city's pulse thrummed—sizzling food stalls, laughing crowds, rain-soaked asphalt reflecting neon. Alex, still sobbing, his face shoved into Francis's chest, whispered, "Please... don't leave me alone again... don't go... I want to be like this... just like this... please... don't move..."Francis's breath caught, shock mixing with a deep, loving warmth, his arms tightening like he was holding a spoiled princess. He stood in front of the cafe, not moving an inch, the neon glow casting shadows on his face. Jax stepped forward, voice low. "Boss, sit in the cafe? Or the car?" Francis shook his head, voice firm. "He asked not to move. I'm not moving." Rico nodded, pulling out his phone. Francis added, "Call the spy group. Detailed check on Alex's background. He's not just a struggling student, I'm guessing."
Hours passed, the city's hum softening to night's quiet, the neon buzzing faintly. Alex's sobs faded to deep sleep, his body limp in Francis's arms. Francis stood still, his legs aching but his hold unwavering, his gaze soft on Alex's tear-streaked face.When Alex opened his eyes, the sky was darker, the neon brighter. He blinked, confused, then shocked—Francis still standing in the exact position, not moved an inch, holding him tightly. "You... didn't move?" Alex asked, voice hoarse, eyes wide with disbelief. Embarrassment crept in, his cheeks flushing as he scrambled down, his feet hitting the sidewalk. He grabbed Francis's hand, his touch shaky, and turned his head, scanning the quiet street for a place to sit. The night was cool, the city's pulse slower now, food stalls shuttered, crowds thinned. A bench sat under a flickering streetlight, its wood chipped but sturdy, nestled beside a closed taco stand.
Alex dragged Francis to the bench, his grip tight, and pushed him to sit, dropping beside him. His eyes fixed on the cracked sidewalk, voice nervous, trembling. "You should've... I don't know, left me at my room or at least put me down somewhere," he muttered, cheeks burning. "It's not like you'd get killed for moving."
Francis's grin returned, slow and teasing, his eyes glinting under the streetlight. "I already said it, love. You got what you asked for." His smirk widened, voice dropping to a playful drawl. "Maybe if I did move, I might've killed myself. Something my love asked with such affection? If I couldn't do that, what kind of man am I?"
Alex's face flushed deeper, a mix of embarrassment and annoyance flaring. "God, you're really a big weirdo," he snapped, his voice sharp but shaky, a grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "Mr. Pervert Gangster."*
* Alex leaned back on the bench, forcing a smirk, his heart still racing from Francis's words. "Mr. Pervert Gangster, huh?" he said, voice steadier now, mimicking Francis's drawl. "Careful, or I'll start thinking you like standing like a statue for me." His cheeks still burned, but the teasing felt safe, a shield against the past's weight.
Francis chuckled, his arm brushing Alex's on the bench. "Oh, love, I'd stand forever if you asked like that again." His grin was wicked, but his eyes held a softness that made Alex's stomach flip.*
* Alex shifted closer, their shoulders touching, the bench creaking under them. The night's chill faded against Francis's warmth, the streetlight casting a soft glow. "You're ridiculous," Alex muttered, but his voice was soft, his body relaxing into the moment, the past's fragments quieter now.
Francis's grin softened, his hand resting lightly on Alex's. "You're my trouble, love," he said, voice low, echoing a moment from their past talks. "Not letting you slip away."*
* Alex stayed, the bench's chipped wood grounding him, Francis's hand warm against his. "Just... stay here," he said, voice barely above a whisper, the city's quiet wrapping them. Francis nodded, his smirk fading to a gentle smile. "As long as you want, love."
**End of Chapter 4**
The night air cooled, the streetlight flickering above the bench, casting soft shadows. Alex's heart steadied, Francis's warmth chasing away the past's chill, the rival crew's threat a distant echo. His embarrassed retort—*Mr. Pervert Gangster*—hung in the air, the atmosphere lighter, teasing, yet heavy with unspoken trust. His phone buzzed—Mia: *"WHERE ARE YOU? TELL ME EVERYTHING!"*—but he ignored it, Francis's hand anchoring him, the city's neon pulsing like a heartbeat.