Rescue in the Gust

The quad thrummed with Monday afternoon bustle, a windy chaos of students spilling from lecture halls, voices tangling in the air, leaves skittering across cracked pavement like frantic little ghosts. Elliot sat alone on a splintered bench, tucked near a leafless oak at the edge, his sketchpad open on his lap, pencil tracing slow, curling waves—a shield against the noise, the world, the weight of being new. His ocean-blue eyes stayed down, dark hair whipping in the gusts, a shy newcomer still adrift after weeks, small and unnoticed in the campus sprawl.

He didn't see Matt coming—tall, loud, an upperclassman jock with a swagger that cut through the crowd like a blade. Matt zeroed in, smirking, a predator scenting easy prey. "Yo, newbie," he called, voice booming over the wind, boots thudding close. "What's with the scribbles? Too scared to talk?" He snatched the sketchpad before Elliot could react, flipping pages—waves, a wrecked car, jagged lines—laughing loud, a harsh bark that turned heads. "This is some freaky shit, man. You mute or what?"

Elliot froze, ocean-blue eyes widening, hands trembling as he reached, voice catching in his throat. "Give it back," he whispered, barely audible, curling into the bench like he could shrink away. The quad blurred—students glancing, some smirking, most drifting on—and his chest tightened, a familiar panic clawing up. Not again, he thought, the jeers stinging like old bruises, his shyness a chain he couldn't snap. The wind bit his cheeks, cold and sharp, tugging at his hoodie as he shrank smaller.

Matt dangled the pad higher, grinning wider, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Make me, quiet boy," he taunted, stepping closer, looming over the bench. "Bet you're a crybaby, huh? Fucking weirdo—look at this crap." He waved the sketchpad, pages flapping, and Elliot's breath hitched, hands balling into fists he wouldn't swing—too shy, too small, a boy who'd learned to bend, not break.

Bryce sliced through the quad then, green eyes half-lidded from a dull class, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, wind ruffling his buzz cut. He'd meant to cut straight back to the dorm, dodge the crowd, but Matt's voice—loud, grating—snagged his attention. He saw Elliot—hunched, trembling, that sketchpad taunted like a trophy—and his jaw clenched, green eyes flashing with something fierce. "Hey, jackass," he snapped, voice rough and firm, shoving through stragglers to Matt's side. "Drop it." He yanked the pad from Matt's grip, shoving him back hard enough to stumble, shoulder pads or not. "Leave him alone, you hear me? Pick on someone your own size."

Matt sneered, squaring up, chest puffed like he'd fight, but Bryce's glare—green, unyielding, a wall of quiet fury—held him fast. The crowd murmured, eyes darting between them, and Matt's bravado cracked. "Whatever, freak's not worth it," he muttered, slinking off into the wind, pride dented. Bryce turned, sketchpad in hand, and crouched slightly, voice softening as he faced Elliot. "You good?" he asked, warm, steady, handing it back with care. "Guy's a prick—don't let him get to you."

Elliot took it, ocean-blue eyes flickering up, meeting Bryce's for a fleeting heartbeat—green, solid, a lifeline in the gusts. "Thanks," he mumbled, voice soft, a flush creeping up his neck, faint but real. He helped me, he thought, chest loosening, gratitude blooming small and shaky, a warmth he hadn't felt in weeks. The fear that'd gripped him—Bryce as threat, as shadow—faded, replaced by a quiet liking, fragile but there. His hands steadied, clutching the pad closer, fingers brushing the worn cover.

Bryce lingered, green eyes softening, a faint grin tugging his lips as he brushed wind-tossed hair from his face. "Yeah, no problem," he said, rough but kind, standing straighter. "He's a tool—thinks he owns the place. You're better than that shit." He nodded, a quick jerk of his head, like it was nothing, but his gaze held—pleased, relieved—watching Elliot uncurl just a fraction. Matt was gone now, swallowed by the crowd, and the wind howled on, leaves spinning around them. "See ya, Elliot," Bryce added, turning slow, boots scuffing pavement, but he glanced back once, grin lingering, a spark of something new in his green eyes.

The wind gusted harder, tugging at Elliot's hoodie, and a flash hit—rain streaking glass, his mother's scream fading into dark, then his uncle's fist, "Worthless!" booming as he cowered. It surged, sharp and cold, but stopped—Bryce's voice cut through, "You good?"—and it shifted, not a roar, not a shove, but a hand pulling him up. He's not him, Elliot thought, blinking fast, the past softening, Bryce's act a thread of light he hadn't expected. His ocean-blue eyes shimmered, wet but not falling, and he exhaled, shaky, the panic easing.

Elliot sat straighter, alone now, ocean-blue eyes tracing Bryce's retreating figure—broad shoulders cutting through the crowd, steady, real. A small, shy smile tugged his lips, barely there but honest, the first in too long. He's not so bad, he thought, pencil moving again—waves, lighter now, curling soft, no fists, no wrecks. The quad's noise faded to a hum, the wind a gentle push, and gratitude warmed him, quiet and tentative, a fragile liking taking root deep inside. He was still shy, still small, but Bryce's hand in the chaos lingered—a boy too broken to say it, but feeling it clear as the breeze.