(TW: ABU$3)

“thanks.” he mumbled as he took the cold can from you and pressed it to his knuckles.

the metal hissed faintly against his skin, condensation sliding over his bruised fingers, dripping down to his wrist. his hands were always the first thing you noticed after a fight — split skin across his knuckles, swelling already blooming purple and blue beneath pale flesh. he flexed them once, jaw tightening, pretending it didn’t sting. he would rather feel that sharp, honest pain than the quiet kind that sat in his chest.

you didn’t like it when vance fought, but he did it anyway. fists and swinging were much easier than talking something out and being faced with feelings. bruises healed clean. words didn’t. although, he’d never lay a hand on you. no, not you. especially not with what you had going on at home. he knew too much about raised voices, about doors slamming hard enough to rattle frames. he’d seen the way you flinched at sudden noise, how you tried to laugh it off. he stored those details somewhere sacred.

every fight, he sort of did it for you. he’d never admit that out loud, but it was there in the way he looked for you in the crowd before the first punch was thrown. if he didn’t think about you when he swung, he’d lose the fight. the thought of you standing on the edge of the blacktop, arms folded tight around yourself, watching — that was what steadied him. good thing he never lost though. he fought like he had something to protect, even if you never asked him to.

it was always like this on fridays, fight or not, you’d be waiting for him on the sunny sidewalk after crowds of high schoolers dissolved, scattering into buses and beat-up cars and quiet neighborhoods. waiting, patient like you didn’t have anywhere else you’d rather be. he’d approach you slower than usual, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin, and you’d fall into step beside him without a word. the walk to his house wasn’t long, but it felt like something suspended — like those few blocks were neutral ground, a place where neither of your homes could reach you. although, his place was steadier after his dad left. no more yelling. he wished your dad left sometimes, the thought sickened him.

his mom always got a little bit nicer when he brought you home. instantly had food on the table for you, shot vance glances that said make her eat something. there was a softness in her eyes when she looked at you, something careful and knowing. she’d tried to get you out of that house many times. no avail. still, she’d press leftovers into your hands, ask about school, pretend not to notice the way you lingered at their kitchen table longer than necessary.

he sighed softly, walking on the sidewalk with you. “fuckin’.. piece of shit.” he muttered lowly, still a little pissed off after the fight. but it wasn’t just about the guy he’d knocked down. it was about the way they talked about you (and mostly him) sometimes, careless and cruel. it was about how he couldn’t punch the things that actually mattered — the guy who called himself your father. the silence in your house, the way you carried yourself too small.

his shoulder brushed yours as you walked, and he didn’t pull away. that was the thing about vance hopper — all sharp edges and snarled words for everyone else, but with you he was careful. he slowed his pace if you lagged behind. he walked on the side closest to the street. eyes flicking over your face like he was checking for something invisible. he knew what he was looking for. he wished he didn't have to.

he’d never say it, not outright. but you were the one thing he wouldn’t fight. you were the only thing he was gentle with. and that gentleness — awkward, stubborn, hidden under bruises — was the soft spot he protected more fiercely than his own knuckles.