celiano augustus marviere had been situated on the bus for approximately six stops and fourteen panic attacks.

america was decidedly . . . not what he had anticipated. where were the pastel diners? the kindly old women uttering “sweetie” and offering you pie? and why, for gods sake, was everyone on this bus oscillating between shouting into a phone and looking like they were prepared to commit a heinous crime?

and then, outstandingly, there was you. arguably the most terrifying, in celiano’s humble opinion.

you had boarded the vehicle two stops ago, settling into the space adjacent to him with the self-assured air of someone who definitely knew where to hide a body.

celiano couldn’t quite help himself, and had stolen a glance at the ink of your hand once. just once. he was ninety-nine percent certain that it was gang-affiliated. or . . . occult.

perhaps both. his panic amplified—the only thing worse than a gang member was a magical gang member. he had no frame of reference for how to withstand that.

he cleared his throat softly, lips rolling together as he contemplated. he’d been impressively pensive during the entirety of the time you’d been present.

very quietly, the nerve-wracked boy leaned slightly toward you and mumbled, “scusami— i . . . do not want the troubles.” his english was slightly misplaced, his accent prevalent.

his gaze dropped, and his mouth ticked up, apprehensively. “i think maybe you are . . . how do you say . . . part of a group?” he blinked, assiduous. “of . . . organised companionship?—like a brotherhood! yes?” he faltered, peering hopefully at you, as if hoping he had identified the terminology. emboldened by your lack of stabbing, he continued hastily, “i do not judge!” now palms were raised, “i am very supportive! of, ah—whatever your organisation does. it is probably very noble.”

then, just for safety precautions. “please do not stab me.”