If there was ever one thing Mike could look forward to in his sucky, daily routines, it was lunchtime.

Just a couple blocks away from his neighborhood, further into the city, was a Harvard college. Mike couldn't attend the college, of course-it was simply not an option, as his grades were crap and his social personality was nonexistent-but since the community was piteous and one of the psychiatrists from his old hospital worked in one of the school's restaurants, he was allowed free meals. Mike loathed pity, but he couldn't pass up a deal like that.

He always slept through breakfast and skipped dinner, so lunch was the only meal of the day, really. He tended to make it count and get his childhood preference; Arby's. He got it so often that the cooks would prepare his usual order ten minutes before twelve, which was the time when he usually showed up.

Today was no different from any other day; he picked up the food with a monotone thanks, sat in his usual spot in the corner of the college's massive pavilion, and ate in silence. Mostly, it was like any other day. The only thing that stood out was the person he'd never seen before on the bench parallel from his own. The guy with the gloves.

It was July. It was hot. There was no logical explanation as to why the Harvard student was wearing black gloves. They weren't the winter kind, really; they were more like those fancy princess gloves Queen Elsa from Frozen wore. Thin. Simple. As if he wasn't protecting his hands, just hiding them.

Frankly, it made him curious. Not like he was keen on actually talking to him, though, so he stayed where he was, occasionally casting a glance to the student once in a while.

He was a little short and a little pasty, blonde with glazed green eyes and a cap advertising a TV show Mike hadn't seen. He wore long black jeans and a long sleeved shirt despite the heat-green, also advertising, this time a band. He was unhealthily scrawny. A small sketchpad rested on his lap, and he drew something Mike couldn't see while sipping from a can of Sprite. First impression would be that he was a shady guy in bright attire, as if trying to fool people into believing he was approachable. It was pretty obvious he was just a weirdo. But Mike wasn't one to talk.

Mike studied the guy for a bit, watching his wrist slide across the paper, guiding the pencil. As he watched, two more students came up to the guy, leaning over his sketchpad.

"Whatcha drawin', nerd?" One of the boys smirked. The gloved guy tried to hide his paper, but the second boy snatched the pad out of his hand and held it aloft, scanning the picture. "What is that? Got some crazy emo features in here, creepy. Who is this-your girlfriend?"

"Please give it back." The gloved guy pleaded, standing up and reaching for it. He was too short, though, and when the boys held it high above his head, there was definitely no way he'd be getting it back. The student kept trying though. "Please. That's my favorite sketchpad. My brother gave it to me."

"Naw, we all know you're a mommy's boy, nerd." The first bully cackled, shoving the little guy back onto the bench and spilling the can of soda. "You're too girly for anyone else to like you."

The gloved guy was silent for a second. He was clenching his jaw. "What do you want from me, now?"

"Want you to sneak the keys for the place again." The second bully grinned darkly. "You know the place. We don't get the key, you don't get mommy's present."

"It's my brother's."

"Keys, Fitzgerald."

"F-Fine." The little gloved guy replaced the tipped can on the bench and picked himself up, standing at just above five feet. He turned and began to walk away, as if to leave the campus. Mike watched as the little guy left, his figure getting smaller in the distance, crossing the road and slipping into a nearby music store. When he turned back to the bullies, he looked back on them with a growing anger. He'd never been in that Fitzgerald kid's position before-Mike had been a kid to get into fights not try to avoid them-but he sure as heck couldn't just let these cocky students get away with that.

The boys were bigger than Mike; not exactly muscly and fit, but more of taller and bigger boned. that didn't phase Mike, though. Mike was harassed by huge tattooed thugs in his own neighborhood every day. What were a couple of Harvard students? Pitiful.

He stood up.

That was when the gloved guy exited the store. Mike turned to watch him hurry back across the street, narrowly missing a few careless honking cars, scurrying across the school's huge lawn and finally inching back to the boys, meekly bowing his head and gingerly holding out a ring of three keys.

"Here you go," He mumbled, the silver keyring dangling from his gloved fingers. The bullies snatched it out of his hands before shoving him back onto the bench. They laughed haughtily and dropped the pad into a bookbag of their own. The Fitzgerald guy's eyes widened. "W-what are you doing?! You said you'd give it back!"

"We never said that, dummy." The first bully laughed. "Your art may be freakin' creepy, but it'll impress some of the artsy-type girls. Don't worry, we'll take great care of it."

That's when Mike punched him in the nose.

The bully cried out in pain and surprise, stumbling back. The second bully looked on with wide eyes as Mike advanced again, shoving the guy with all his might and felling him. It's been a long time since Mike had gotten into a real fistfight, but the red-hot anger from their mocking that student really ticked him off.

The second bully grabbed him by his shirt collar, bringing back his fist. "Tryna play hero, huh? Who the heck do you think you are?!"

Mike kicked him in the abdomen before he could throw the punch. The guy doubled over and Mike kicked him over. Geez, these guys were weak.

Then they both ganged on him.

The first bully threw a punch at Mike's face, but he turned in enough time for it to catch his shoulder instead. Mike blocked the next one, but it left him vulnerable and the second bully caught both his arms and threw them behind his back. The first bully then proceed to kick him in the stomach.

By now a crowd had formed, a thick circle of shocked college students with an eight feet radius on all sides of the fighting boys. Standing just a few feet away from them was the Fitzgerald guy, his gloved hands covering his mouth as he watched. In his eyes, Mike saw a flash of amazement, as if no one had ever thought to stand up for him before, and no one ever would. According to the looks of surprise on the audience, apparently no one else thought so either.

That made Mike feel weird. All while growing up, Mike only ever thought of himself. Fighting for only himself because he was the only one who needed to be protected. Now, he was getting beat up over a kid who probably didn't even deserve to be defended. For some reason, that made him feel kind of good.

Mike shook his head to clear it, ignoring the pain. It wasn't near as agonizing as the scars the thugs in the alleyway gave to him-it was easily forgotten. Mike bit the restraining bully's hand-hard-and he let him free with a cry of pain. He sprung at the first bully. The big student actually retreated a few steps, but the distance was easily closed and Mike brought him down.

The second bully tried to aid his comrade but Mike lashed out at him and he stumbled backwards. These obviously weren't the kind of guys that got into fights very often. If they had thought they were big and tough, they didn't now. From the look in their eyes, Mike scared them.

And that's when the professors interfered.