Broken Bully (oneshot) [boyxboy]

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I stood in front of the bar my brother worked at, feeling a little apprehensive. I hated places like this, and besides, at 15 I didn’t really belong here, but my brother Clive took my house key this morning and if I didn’t get it back I was doomed to sleep on the sidewalk or some similarly inappropriate place tonight.

I took a deep breath and stepped into the noisy, smoke-filled interior. My eyes needed a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness, but all I could think of was how to get in and out as quickly as possible, so I plunged ahead, assuming that the space in front of a door should be clear of obstacles. 

I realised the flaw in my logic a split second too late when I crashed into something that didn’t seem too steady to begin with, and stumbled into a table.

“Ouch! Shit! Fuckin–” 

I heard prolific swearing and the sounds of a struggle, and saw that I had inadvertently pushed a guy into a stash of furniture. I reached out to help him up, but he was too busy fighting off chairs and tablecloths to notice, so I waited for him to right himself with considerable effort. The girl that stood on his other side, who had on too much make-up and not enough clothes, seemed more than happy to let him struggle through his misfortunes alone.

When he finally got vertical again, my heart sank into my shoes. It was Bruce Randol, a jock and bully who went to my school. He was two years my senior, which was probably the only reason I’ve managed to mostly avoid his personal brand of harassment. He hated, as he so eloquently put it, geeks, freaks and fairies, and took great pleasure in making their lives a living hell. Since I definitely fell in at least two of those categories, it was in my best interest to get out of here now.

I mumbled an apology to no one in particular and hurried past the girl. She had already resumed her argument with him, yelling obscenities and stomping her feet. Apparently she was breaking up with him, and within minutes she stormed off and left him shellshocked and close to tears in his drunken state.

Well, whatever. I wanted nothing to do with Bruce, so I promptly forgot about him and hurried to where I could see Clive pouring drinks behind the bar.

Two club sodas and a generous helping of peppermint schnapps later (Clive insisted!) I finally managed to get my key from him and hurried outside to my car. Where I almost tripped over Bruce for the second time in one night.

He sat with his back against my front tyre, a beer dangling between two fingers, staring unseeingly into the distance. He appeared to be lost in some kind of drunken sorrow. As much as I’d like to avoid him, talking to him has suddenly become a necessary evil.

“Uh, hi, Bruce. Can you get up please? I need to leave.”

Either he didn’t hear me, or he ignored me. I walked up to him and waved my hand a few times in front of his face.

“Bruce, I’m sorry that your life sucks right now, but I need to get home. There are plenty of other cars you can lean against…”

“I was so fucking close,” he mumbled and swung his beer sideways, spilling half of it on his leg.

“Oh-kay, that’s my cue,” I said hurriedly, but he grabbed my hand before I could move away.

“She left me. I’m broken, that’s why everyone leaves.” A heart wrenching sob tore through his body and I hesitated. He didn’t look like an asshole right now. On the contrary, he looked like a sad, lost boy who needed someone to save him.

I shook my head hard to dislodge those thoughts, but they wouldn’t go away. Clive called it my Mother Theresa complex, this inexplicable need to take care of strays, orphans and lost causes. I couldn’t help it. Even now, despite knowing what an abhorrent human being he was, I found myself kneeling down next to him.

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