Through Hell [AOB/LGBT+/mpreg]

1

He grabs his gym bag, small and black in color, heavier than he remembers. He doesn't pay any mind as he clutches at the straps just a bit tighter, his fingertip reaching for the button nearby. With a tired yawn, he gets off at the next stop, the bus jerking when it comes to a sudden halt. He offers the beta driver a sleepy goodnight, not getting a response in return. The lack of response doesn't bother him, and he shrugs it off as wind whips at his flushed face, rustling his hair.

His steps are sluggish as he walks the short distance to home, a cramped apartment with a tiny bed calling his name. He jams the key into the entrance of the complex, jiggling when he can't unlock it on the first twist of a wrist. When it finally gives, he steps through, immediately squinting at the flickering lights overhead. He silently wishes they'd just decide whether they'll give out or not, or at least have them fixed.

He sighs, another yawn escaping his chapped lips. He's so tired he could fall asleep standing up and not wake up, yet he forces his body to move. His footsteps echoing through the hall as he makes a turn and finally comes to his apartment at the end. He wipes his soles on the small dirty welcome mat and opens his apartment. The door much easier to unlock than the one in the main entrance.

His apartment is cold, silent, with only the bare minimum. The walls white yet begging for a paint job. The kitchen is empty aside from a microwave and a fridge that's almost always empty too. His stomach growls, but he chooses to ignore it.

Nothing really screams homey until he finally reaches his room. His nest is messy, the sheets rumpled and his blanket half on the bed and half on the wooden floor with pillows tucked here and there. He toes off his shoes and shoves them in the closet before he lets the bag fall. He stretches and moans when his back pops.

With a sharp breath, his fingers drag the zipper of his bag open. He frowns. The café uniform isn't haphazardly folded as he remembers. In fact, his uniform isn't there at all. He pulls out a gray tee and black jeans both scentless as if smothered in blockers, lips downturned at the foreign clothes that are not, in fact, his.

It takes him a belated minute to look down again and notice what else lies inside. His heart nearly stops at the sight, stuttering painfully inside his chest. His breath hitches and his fingers tremble as he reaches inside.

He pulls out the first wad of cash, cool brown eyes blown wide in surprise. He grabs the bag, clutches it tightly as he dumps everything on his bed.

Wads upon wads of cash spilling out, bundles held together by rubber bands. He swallows thickly, around the lump getting stuck inside his throat. One thought crossing his mind, what... the fuck?

He piles onto his bed and sits crisscross, sleep suddenly gone but the tension still bleeds into his shoulders. He takes the first bundle and decides to count it.

By the end he finishes, it's nearly one in the morning and he's counted over $70,000 in cash, on his bed, on his lap.

He struggles to find words, thoughts to string together. What is he supposed to do with so much money?

He bites his lip and stares at the calendar stuck on the wall beside his bed. He doesn't have enough for rent this month, and last month he barely scraped by. The café doesn't pay as much as he'd hoped, and he still needs to pay for his prescriptions. Not to mention food and don't get him started on the 15 thousand debt of tuition for a degree he couldn't finish.

He's gone nearly three days without a proper meal and he's starving now. He almost contemplates the idea that crawls its way into his mind before he stops himself. No. This isn't his money. If anything, with this amount, it's probably dirty money.