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Jun 7, 2024

Kill the Mood - MDZS Slasher AU

Did anyone else read MDZS and think woah you know what this campy, murder-filled series needs: an AU set in a '80s campy teen Slasher? Because I did!

Synopsis:

Meng Yao is in the final year of high school. Between his shitty parents, his shitty after-school job, and his shitty social life, graduation cannot come quick enough. With stressful university admissions and a long-held crush on one of the most popular guys in school, Meng Yao couldn't imagine things could get any more chaotic. That is until he comes home to find he has another half-brother, Xue Yang, who seems a bit ... off. Things quickly spiral when Meng Yao realizes that he might have more in common with this new-found half-brother, who might just be a teen serial killer.

Relationships: XiYao; established Xuanli and in future chapters: SongXiao, Wangxian (background), and XiaoXue (if you see things from Xue Yang's point of view, that is)

CW: canon-typical abuse, suicide mention, mild gore and child death.

Also shoutout to the darling @prinzsorgenfrei for not only aiding and abetting this by beta reading it and drawing very pretty character designs, but for also workshopping scenes with me and for co-writing some XiYao.

This is my first MDZS fic, so please do let me know y'all's thoughts.

New York, 1986

“Jesus Christ.”

A pair of firefighters scanned flashlights over the charred remains of what had once been a nursery: rows of cribs and toddler cots reduced to pyres. Little bodies, burned beyond recognition, curled up.

At least they had been asleep.

There was always something particularly horrid when such innocent lives were caught up in accidents like these. Faulty wiring in the old boys’ group home was the immediate suspect. The fire had started in the basement, where wires that hadn’t been updated since before the war knotted and choked each other out. They had found the Headmaster’s body—well his presumed body; it was too big to be that of a child—curled outside his rooms. Smoke inhalation was the immediate suspect, there. What a pitiful and painful way to go.

But the thing about burnt bodies, the particular thing about burnt bodies unassumingly crisped in an old house that was practically begging to go up in flames, was that no one would think to look for further injuries. Feet fall off when temperatures get too hot, after the body curls up as the muscles contract and bulge in the inferno. What does it matter when the Achilles Tendon snaps? Or is snapped, rather. What would it matter how bruised and cut up the now charred flesh is? And of course, the uniform scorch marks took care of any pesky, incriminating blood stains.

When the fire department finally made it on the scene, all they saw was a tragedy, with one small miracle in the form of a delinquent with a record and a habit of sneaking away at night, including this one. One who had smelt smoke while hopping the fence back onto the grounds and had bravely run for help, but the fire had burned too long. Thus he became the lone survivor of a tragic house fire.

…

“13 people, most of them minors, are reported to be dead after a house fire broke out in a Queens boys’ home. Authorities arrived on scene at the Chang Group Home for Boys at around 1:47 this morning.”

Meng Yao heard the news report from his basement bedroom and bit his cheek knowing that Mrs. Jin had yet to leave for her hair appointment. It was barely the third day of school and she would already have ample opportunity to chastise him for being late. It didn’t matter that it was barely the third day of school and he was still working what was meant to be a summer job at the local video store. He’d been up until 2 am and his alarm had gone off no later than 6:30. Who could blame him for hitting snooze and begging his younger brother, Xuanyu, to wake him at 7:00 am? Regardless, he hadn’t, and now Meng Yao was perched at the base of the stairwell waiting for Mrs. Jin to finish her coffee and leave for her appointment or at least get up for long enough to let Meng Yao sneak into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He was stuck listening to the news and Mrs. Jin’s snide commentary for another 3 minutes.

“After their preliminary investigation, the Fire Department of New York has declared the fire accidental, citing out-of-date electrical wiring and a faulty air conditioning system.” They played a brief clip of the Fire Chief expressing his condolences for the tremendous loss of life and explaining what the news anchor had already confirmed. “Our hearts here at the NYFD are with the surviving child,” he added bittersweetly before the broadcast presumably cut back to the station. “This youth is reported to be in state care until other arrangements can be made.” Meng Yao heard Mrs. Jin huff. “In other news—.”

“City’s gone to shit,” Mrs. Jin said, before flicking the channel to one of those morning talk shows stay-at-home wives liked. Stuff about new recipes and the best back-to-school buys. Mrs. Jin was the type of woman who would make others wait. It was her appointment after all, shouldn’t it be about her? If Meng Yao kept it up he’d be late anyway without the guarantee that he’d go unnoticed.

He trotted up the stairs, darting around the corner into the bathroom to no avail. “You’re still here? You’re already going to be late on the first week?” While Mrs. Jin certainly would not hold back with her words most days, today it was all in her tone. You’re still here was loaded with years of resentment and anticipation for the moment she would not have to see the reminder of her husband’s infidelity.

There was really no use explaining himself and even though an apology wouldn’t get him very far either, Meng Yao said sorry as he rushed into the kitchen to find an apple. That could be both breakfast and lunch, right?

“Morning,” he said routinely when Zixuan walked into the kitchen. It would be hard to tell that they spent their mornings rushing around the same kitchen. Where Zixuan was well-dressed, Meng Yao swum in awkwardly-fitting hand-me-downs Zixuan hadn’t touched since the 9th Grade. Where Meng Yao would try in vain to style the remnants of a bad bowl cut for three seconds in the mirror before giving up, Zixuan had the privilege of spending the morning in the shower to achieve his seemingly effortlessly coiffed hair. Zixuan flashed him a smile, more focused on packing his bag. The smile, momentarily lighting up his eyes, made Meng Yao conscious of his own bleary ones, a trait his step-mother was convinced he inherited from his mother. “Zixuan doesn’t look so lifeless” and whatnot when posing for photos. Maybe he had gotten that from his mother; a little way to assure everyone that perfect Zixuan and the inconvenient Meng Yao were only half-brothers.

“Hey,” he hesitated, noticing Zixuan was halfway out the kitchen. “Would you mind giving me a ride to school? I just, um, woke up late.” Zixuan’s brows furrowed and those bright eyes softened. “I won’t ask again,” he tried to assure with an awkward half-smile.

“I’m picking up Yanli,” Zixuan responded matter-of-factly.

Of course. Though he hadn’t said no, he was picking up his girlfriend. It was stupid to ask, Meng Yao realized. Who would want to pick up their girlfriend with their brother in the car? So sexy, right? “You know what, never mind. I can figure it out.”

Zixuan’s brows remained furrowed, “Yeah, whatever you want.” He walked out the door.

It wasn’t the worst situation Meng Yao had been in, not by a long shot. He remembered the three weeks in foster care between his mother’s death and being dropped at his estranged father’s doorstep: his things in a trashbag, loud dormitories where it was impossible to sleep, being nearly a month behind in school work even though the year had just started, nearly choking to death trying not to cry himself to sleep. Not that any of this went away when he arrived in the quiet new-build suburb in upstate New York with a fading tan from the Nevada sun, like he’d been on vacation, and his mom’s ashes precariously in his 13 year old arms. Who would blame Madam Jin for turning up her nose?

Xuanyu, who was just 8 when Meng Yao had arrived, was the only one who seemed excited to have him, and that was mostly because he would not have to sleep alone in the basement anymore. Meng Yao remembered the pit in his stomach, seeing that scrawny little boy eager to show him around and explaining that he didn’t need to be afraid anymore since his older half-brother was here now and could protect him from the monsters that undoubtedly hid in the shadows of the dimly lit storage-room-turned-bedroom. In hindsight, it should have been a warning sign when Xuanyu innocently, almost pathologically naively, explained that the Jin couple kept ‘forgetting’ to buy him a nightlight. But at the time, it didn’t matter to Meng Yao. He was a few months shy of his 14th birthday and didn’t plan on staying long, especially once he got his first New York job at the local thrift store. About three weeks into that, the best he’d gotten to show for his hard work was a much-appreciated nightlight for his new little brother and an empty shoebox which he labelled “College Fund.” His mother would want him to go to college, rather than become a 14-year-old high school dropout working some shitty job for the rest of his life.

Three years later, and he was walking to his last year of high school, dreaming of college admissions. Years of working and stashing away half of every paycheque had brought him close to his goal and, according to the guidance counselor, he had the grades to get a decent scholarship, so long as he kept up the hard work and the extra curriculars. And oh did he: a full time table, staying later after school for the last 3 years; Mondays and Wednesdays for Student Council and Fridays for Model UN, Thursday mornings for Debate club. “No sports though,” the guidance counselor had told him last year, face screwed like it was a crime to have asthma. “Lots of scholarships in sports, you know.” Meng Yao had just rolled his eyes. Regardless, when would he have the time for a sport? Meng Yao wondered if he could squeeze something else in as he walked to school. This was his last year after all. Maybe Drama club, or... His thoughts trailed of, exhausted. Who was he kidding, how on Earth would he keep going like this? Working nights and weekends, falling onto his bed after a long day of classes and extra curriculars and mind numbingly boring shifts at Video World, just to get up a few hours later to do it all again.

But there were things about his life that he had actually come to enjoy.

“Morning,” Meng Yao whispered as he plopped down beside Lan Xichen.

Math class wasn’t all that bad. For one, Meng Yao was quite good at it. Maybe Mathletes would round out his college application. The senior math teacher had been overjoyed when he heard that Meng Yao planned on majoring in Finance and becoming an accountant, so he probably would be overjoyed to have Meng Yao on the team this year. Or anyone on the team for that matter.

“Did you sleep in?” Xichen whispered under the lesson on Functions, even though he had a near-pathological fear of being rude.

“Yeah.”

Xichen held out a granola bar. “You didn’t eat, did you?”

Meng Yao took the bar in response. No. He gave Xichen a familiar half-smile in thanks and got one in return.

Eating in class was technically frowned upon, but fainting in class would mean certain social death, so Meng Yao decided to nibble on small pieces of granola whenever the teacher was turning towards the board. When he had finally finished the granola and rubbed his fingers against each other to get rid of the sticky film of leftover honey, Xichen handed him a perfectly clean cloth handkerchief. Sometimes it was hard to forget that the uncle Xichen was living with was old, rich, and as traditionalist as it got.

“Thanks again,” whispered Meng Yao, and, with a bat of his eyelashes, added: “How lucky I am to have befriended such a perfect gentleman. Should I iron it before I give it back?”

“That would be much appreciated,” answered Xichen with an expression so serious it could only be mocking, “For if my uncle were to find out I bequeathed this to anyone but a fiancée or a wife he would surely lock me in the attic for the rest of the semester.”

Meng Yao hid his laugh with a cough and their teacher turned around.

“Anything to share with the class, Mr. Meng? Mr. Lan?”

“Nothing of note, I apologize,” said Meng Yao before Xichen could feel guilty, “I’m having some issues with my contacts and asked Xichen to help me read the last equation. I did not mean to disturb the lesson.”

The teacher gave his favourite student a reproachful look but continued his lesson without another hitch. Xichen looked at Meng Yao with an amused twitch to his lips.

“I did not know your perfect vision had worsened.”

“Do keep my secret.”

They turned their focus back to the lesson and before long the bell ended the most pleasant ninety minutes of Meng Yao’s day.

“Will I see you at lunch?”

If he imagined a hopeful undertone in Xichen’s voice that was nobody’s business.

“I’ll be present.”

He would decidedly not sit with Xichen and Nie Mingjue, but he would be present. It had its perks. He was less easily distracted from his actual food intake.

“Could I talk to you about homecoming then? There are some things we need to figure out and I would really like your opinion on them. We’ll decorate later this week, but I know you’re busy, so I’d like to run it by you during school hours.”

“Um, yeah, of course.” Meng Yao tried not to sound overexcited, it was just homecoming after all. But it was a welcomed distraction. He fondly remembered when they were on prom committee last year, even though they didn’t attend. Tossing streamers into the bag and then at each other while they swept up the gymnasium. There was something so liberating about being alone with Xichen, their laughter echoing off the walls as they ate leftover finger foods and talked about their summer plans. “I can meet you in the library after class on Friday, if that works?”

“That would be lovely.” Xichen smiled and headed down the hall toward English class.

—

Model UN was fine. They spent most of the hour preparing for the next conference, pouring over books about Nuclear Warfare and Treaty Rights. Truth be told, Meng Yao was only half listening while he took notes on the school typewriter. He was about halfway through mindlessly typing “excellent work, gang. Have a nice weekend” before he realized they were breaking.

Xichen was in the library as promised, happily getting ahead on his Physics homework. “Sorry,” Meng Yao apologized.

“What for?”

“I’m late.”

“Hardly.” Xichen produced an apple from his bag. “It’s really fine, I know that you have Model UN and all.”

“Thanks,” Meng Yao accepted the apple.

“Plus, Wangji has volleyball practice tonight anyway and he needs a ride home.” Xichen produced a binder of details and Meng Yao practically swooned when he saw the colour-coding. It was a system they had devised together: Green for finances, blue for food and drink, red for legal things—forms and whatnot—and so forth. “So, decorations. I revised the budget and we can free up some extra money. We need a theme, no? For the dance portion.”

“Yes. And if we’re doing spirit week—do we have spirit days picked out?”

Xichen flipped a few pages ahead, mumbling to himself, “School colours, Flashback Day, PJ Day, Beach Day, Jersey Day.”

Meng Yao screwed up his face at the disjointed roster. God, didn’t their co-council members have any idea about cohesion? “Well, we have to keep Jersey Day for Game Night, but we can build up to the home-coming dance theme with each spirit day, no?”

Xichen gleefully crossed out PJ Day and Beach Day and Meng Yao swore he looked relieved. “What about doing Americana? Its the school’s 75th anniversary this year, we can keep the School Colours, the jersey and the flashback and substitute Beach Day and PJ Day for something a little more New York or at least closer to New Hoenderloo High history.”

“Gangster Day?” Meng Yao suggested.

Xichen scoffed. “What does New Hoenderloo have to do with the mob?”

“I don’t know, our prime export is corn and varsity jocks. But we’re so close to New York that I’m sure people won’t bat an eye.”

Xichen nodded and added Gangster Day to the agenda. He supposed it was better than Farm Day or something.

“And, um, we can do a classic American Day? Red, White, and Blue and that junk. Founding fathers.”

“Would work.”

“And we can decorate the homecoming dance with American Classics, a jukebox instead of a DJ, we can serve milkshakes, and do ‘50s Diner lighting?”

Xichen laughed. He loved Meng Yao’s big ambitions. “Remember, I said, some money was freed up. We’re hardly Studio 54.”

“Let me see that budget.” Meng Yao poured over the numbers, looking for missed unnecessary spending. “A jukebox is way cheaper than a DJ, you know. That saves us a couple hundred bucks easy. Plus, if we raise the ticket prices by a few dollars, we can make up the difference. That’s not even including fundraisers like the Football Team Charity Car Wash or the Meat Raffle.” Meng Yao wrote out all the numbers neatly so that Xichen would have something to show the rest of the committee on how to really throw a great home-coming.

“See, this is why we need you to be vice-president!”

Meng Yao blushed. “Really? Little ol’ me?”

He suddenly became less playful when he saw Lan Wangji appear in the library. Wangji was, of course, polite, like his older brother, and, of course, also socially awkward, drastically unlike his older brother. So, he would wait stoically in the library entry until his brother would notice him, rather than interrupting them and risking making small talk with Meng Yao. “Your brother is done with practice, I think.”

Xichen waved and asked Wangji a bunch of questions: How was practice? When is the next game? Would he need something to eat? And Wangji replied simply: “Good. Tuesday. No. Can’t spoil dinner.”

“Ready to go home?”

“Yes.”

Meng Yao packed his things up alongside Xichen, happily chattering about how much progress they made in just a half hour. “It’s really coming together,” he added as he went to turn left to catch the bus.

“Would you like a ride home?” Xichen offered.

“It wouldn’t be too much trouble, would it?”

“You live a couple blocks away from us. It would be far more convenient.”

Meng Yao’s lips curled softly, gratefully. “Then, I would love a ride. Thank you.”

—

“Looks like you have guests,” Xichen observed, trying to make pleasant conversation as always. Meng Yao recognized that car. God, he wondered if that social worker worked on commission, a little extra for every traumatized child she dragged to Jin Guanshan. God knows there were probably enough bastards to make up an entire career. Meng Yao’s tired sigh turned into an airy half-laugh, mostly at his own joke. But Xichen smiled. “Have a lovely visit,” he added when he pulled into the driveway and let Meng Yao out of the car.

“Thanks. And thanks again for the ride home, I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime, A-Yao.”

Mrs. Jin had put out tea and coffee, even a tray of baked goods. Her gentle sips and small, delicate bites quickly hardened into a tight frown. Meng Yao felt like he did three years ago. Mrs. Jin was consistent; she wore the same tired, expectant face and flashed her cold, irritated gaze at Meng Yao when he froze in the living room. “A-Yao, our other son.” Meng Yao almost rolled his eyes at how much Mrs. Jin visibly struggled to call him ‘our son.’ “You must remember him?” Her voice was pleasant enough when talking to the social worker.

“I do. How are you? How is school? Still playing soccer?”

“Good. And good.” Meng Yao had never played soccer in his life, but he played along and told her that he might even be getting a scholarship for it. No one knew enough to correct him, anyway.

She gave him a well-rehearsed polite smile, before turning her attention back toward Mrs. Jin. “I trust you know the drill. If there are any problems, please do not hesitate to call. Though you should know.” She trailed off and Meng Yao could see her thinking through what to say next. “You know, he has had some problems in his group homes, but those situations are volatile for any child. A stable, loving home like this one will probably do him good.”

Meng Yao’s attention turned to the muffled conversation Xuanyu was having with someone in the basement.

So he had a new brother now, he supposed. And a new roommate.

“And this is Meng Yao!” He heard Xuanyu say before he was even halfway down the stairs. Really, who else could it have been? Who else would want to go down into their creepy, damp basement bedroom? Meng Yao forced his most welcoming smile. He remembered how shy he felt when he first came to New York. Shy and lonely and so, so angry at the world. A smile and a polite, calm introduction was the least he could do.

The boy, who couldn’t have been much younger than he was, gave him a full smile. “Hi.” There was something so juvenile about that smile that it unnerved Meng Yao. It wasn’t innocent like Xuanyu’s, happy regardless of his circumstances. No, this was boyish in a hedonistic way, sharp and carefree; all pointed canines and no baby teeth.

“Xue Yang.” He said, bobbing his chin and widening his smile to an almost wolfish state.

“Nice to meet you, Xue Yang.” Meng Yao could thankfully recover the conversation quite quickly. He welcomed first years all the time, and even though Xue Yang was going into Junior year and would hardly be as intimated of him as a 13-year-old, he was sure the faltering of his welcoming tone would go unthought of. “I can’t imagine your coming here was brought on by good circumstances, so—”

“Oh no, asshole cardboard suburbanites were my childhood dream.” Meng Yao quickly learned that Xue Yang liked to laugh at his own obnoxious sarcasm. A lot. And Xuanyu, ecstatic at yet another older brother, also liked to laugh.

“So, if you want to talk about it,” he continued, trying to move on from Xue Yang’s instant dislike of the situation, “I would be more than happy to.” It really was not Meng Yao’s place to judge him for it. If his childhood was anything like his own, filled with promises of a dad who was just coming back, always just coming back someday, then Xue Yang was likely utterly disappointed by the dad who had just relegated him to the basement and was headed back to work after making his wife do all the talking. No fancy house and fully-stock fridge could make up for that.

“Meng Yao is really good at talking,” Xuanyu assured. “My mom slit her wrists when I was five.”

Xue Yang scoffed at his candour, a cheeky grin spreading. “You really just say whatever the hell you want, eh?” Xuanyu nodded, just happy to get someone’s attention. Xue Yang loved it when kids were stupid.

“And my aunt always told me it was my fault. But Yao-gege said its not and he always tells me that when I have nightmares. So, he can make you feel better.”

“Xuanyu.” Meng Yao gave him a gentle pat on the back of his head, dropping his voice to a whisper. “remember, we don’t have to tell everyone everything, okay?”

“Why not? We’re brothers!”

“Yeah,” Xue Yang turned back to his trashbag-suitcases and began to take over the bottom bunk. “We’re brothers, aren’t we, Yaoyao?”

My bed…, Meng Yao thought about explaining Xue Yang could have the clearly unused top bunk but thought against it. What was the difference anyway?

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