NCT Oneshots {ot23} | open

Misfit: the 7 members

▹prompt: misfit
▹word count: 2409
▹genre: a bit of angst
▹warnings: they all live on the streets but it's not too dark

ˑ༄ؘ ۪۪۫۫ ▹❀◃ ۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ ˑ

"That's not fair!" Yangyang drops his set of cards and lunges to tackle Hendery to the floor. It always gets too heated when they play any sort of card game together. Sometimes, Taeyong is close to shredding the whole deck to solve the bickering once and for all. But he doesn't, because at least it keeps them occupied on days where his head pounds and fingers tremble.

"I didn't cheat! I'm not cheating! I swear!" Hendery gasps out, nearly choking from the younger's firm grip on his hoodie, their noses mere inches apart as they continue to flail around and accuse each other of breaking the rules in every possible way. The rules have become a rather fluid thing by now.

"Then where did you get that fifth ace from, huh?"

"Boys!" The thud of Taeyong's boots on the concrete resound and echo as he marches over, and the shouting withers away, Yangyang and Hendery freezing in place even though neither of them let go of the opposition. "Give me the cards."

Yangyang and Hendery stare at Taeyong as though he asked them to chop their arms off. His eyes and cheeks are sunken, and his faded blue sweater is threadbare. They haven't gone shopping in months. But they also haven't had any income for months.

"Well? Give me the cards." Taeyong repeats, firmer this time, and both teenagers scuffle on the floor to gather them and hand them over in a messy stack. "Thank you. And I told you to keep it down, didn't I?" He raises an eyebrow. The two boys train their eyes to the floor, guilty but apologetic.

"Is Mark feeling any better?" Yangyang asks. He peers past the gang leader to the old mattress in the corner.

Mark is asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling, and Johnny is sat cross-legged at his side, tenderly stroking his thumb over the back of his hand. Mark's condition has scarcely improved for the last three days. His swollen ankle still won't fit into his trainers even when he has the energy to move.

"He's improving." Taeyong says anyway. "Don't worry. We'll just have to hope the police don't track us down again, as he's in no state to run and I'm not leaving him here. Do you think you two could go out for a couple of hours? Maybe collect some money to buy painkillers for him?" Taeyong turns and walks back over to the makeshift bed. The two teenagers understand it's more of a demand than a question.

Hendery swallows. Their situation is far from ideal. The seven of them are castaways, rejected from their families and left to fend for themselves on the backstreets of Seoul. It's been harsh, without a doubt. But it's also shaped them to be tough and fearless and strong. Their minds are sharp and resilient. Each day poses new challenges that require nothing but bold skill to overcome. There's no room to not push through the day, not when the line between eating and not eating is so thin.

Yangyang motions for Hendery to stand up, then they traipse over to the small room in the corner of the warehouse. In the main building, the ceiling is high and corrugated, with pipes exposed to the vicious wind that enters through the glassless windows. At night, the wind howls above them, haunting the pipes like an organ in an abandoned church. They have no running water, no electricity to ward off the chill, nothing.