Cross Sans | College Au

"Just go away,"

- 🗡❤️️ -

»--•--«

- Enemies to Lovers -

- College! AU -

»»-----------►

Cross knows he’s a tough son of a bitch. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he wasn’t.

So getting his ass kicked was a real blow to his ego. It was his fault, really—he started it, and karma came back around to put him in his place when he couldn’t finish it. Some human guy had made an offhand comment to a friend as Cross and Ink passed by, something that wasn’t any of Cross’s business, but he took it personally and picked a fight. He takes anything a human says personally. Despite being scrawny, the guy wasn’t a pushover, Cross will give him that.

And Ink? Ink wouldn’t stop laughing at his expense, even as he patched Cross up afterward, joking about how he “finally met his match.” All the jabs made Cross’s already sour mood spiral into something darker. Even with all of his athletic training, even with his place on the boxing team, Cross lost.

That stings.

So here he is. In the campus gym at half past midnight, hammering into the poor punching bag as if he could erase what happened if he hits hard enough. His knuckle bones are already bruised and cracked, faint wisps of magic - of his blood - trailing from them, but he keeps going, pressing on with a determination that borders on reckless. The steady thud of his fists echoes through the empty gym, filling the silence with the sound of his frustration, his rage—a sound that almost drowns out the thoughts running rampant through his mind.

Why is he so angry?

He pauses, breathing hard, feeling the weight of the question sink in as he rolls his shoulders, trying to shake the tension out of them. The anger—it’s an ache that sits somewhere deep, somewhere he can’t quite reach. It’s not just about that one fight. It’s not even about the loss, or the bruise to his pride. No, it’s something that’s been simmering beneath the surface for a while now, something that surfaces every time he thinks of his past, of his family, of everything he was deprived of.

He plants his fists back on the bag, not ready to let it go yet. Cross sets his stance, his gaze hardening. Just a few more rounds, he tells himself, already doubting he’ll be able to stop.

»»----