moral of the story | a ninjago highschool fanfiction

[14] iS iT AbOuT BoYs?

cole

His face hurt, a lot. He couldn't go home looking like this, giving his father yet another reason to throw a disappointed, less than subtle insult his way. Cole flexed his fingers on his right hand, brushing his other thumb over the mottled bruising blooming there. Standing at the bus stop, he glanced down the straggly line of other students whispering to each other.

He was so stupid.

Why'd he even think about opening his big, fat, stupid mouth anyway?

It almost hurt as much as the time he'd attempted, and failed at performing the Triple Tiger Sashay. The pinnacle of his disastrous achievements. He caught Nya's eye as she headed off in the direction of the mall, sending her a smile accompanied by the crinkles of his eyes. Cole hoped that was enough for everyone to feed on for more gossip.

The bus eventually made its way to the stop, the driver reluctantly opening the doors, tipping down his hat and wincing as the babble of talking grew louder and louder as each student stepped onboard. Cole deliberately plonked himself in the lone seat at the front and slid on his headphones, leaning against the window with a relaxed sigh as the tension noticeably left his shoulders.

He wasn't too concerned over this 'dating'. They'd date for a few weeks at most, break up silently and wait for some new drama to take over the school. Cole saw Nya as a little sister, slightly annoying, sure, but a little sister. She didn't seem too invested in this, but then again, Cole had been told he was exceptionally obtuse when it came to feelings.

Most students had long left the bus, leaving Cole, the driver and a few students towards the back to sit in an uncomfortable silence. At least I have my music. His fingers traced over the rim of his phone cover, absentmindedly adding in taps with the beat of the song. Then the bus sank down as its doors opened with a woosh, and Cole stepped out, nodding to the driver in thanks. It was a five minute walk from the stop to his house, and Cole wished he could slow down time.

His father wasn't happy with him before he left for school, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be any happier when Cole got home. He began his walk dragging his feet along, much to Mrs O'Conner's annoyance, and he had to run past her house to avoid being pelted by a volley of rock-hard cookies. Stopping a house shy from his, Cole swept his hair over his black eye in a poor attempt to cover it, and touched the bruise along his jaw, pressing it tenderly and grimacing at the pain.

He unlocked the door, not before pressing an ear to it and listening for the muffled hum of the piano keys and harmonizing quartet. Good. His father would be distracted for a while. Carefully, he tip-toed inside, pilfered a slice of chocolate cake he'd been saving in the fridge and remembered the grab a fork. When he was in the safety of his room, door locked, he set the plate down and flopped onto his bed.

His stomach grumbled, but his limbs and bones were zapped of energy, so from across the room, he reached out a hand and wiggled his fingers towards the cake on the desk pathetically. On his way back from retrieving the cake, he stopped by his mirror to see if his father would notice the new hairstyle when he nearly choked.

The bruises were gone.

The plate fell from his hands as his fingers pushed and prodded at the healed skin where it once had been mottled black and blue. It smashed on the ground, but Cole barely acknowledged it as he exclaimed the bruise-free area circling his eye. How? Seconds ago he'd been racking his brain for ways to disguise it, and boom! They were gone. He sat back on his bed in a daze, half noticing the door fly open and his father stomp in.

"Cole."

Over the years, Cole had noticed how different his father's anger was to other people's. Instead of loud, it was quiet, holding Cole's attention barely above a whisper. What was even worse was how his words reeked of disappointment and how his seething, silent anger seemed to hurt Cole more. It was like a whip, Col realised. It struck hard, it wasn't flashy, but it stung.