A Cup of Sunshine (SunMork)

Chapter 1

   {A/N: Y'all, Sun and Mork are everything to me okay lmao
I need more of them all the time.
PSA There will be some mentions of past abuse, so just a warning if you're sensitive to those kinds of things. I try to keep things as light as I can, but I also live for angst so.
Anyway! I hope all 6 of you that read this enjoy!
(Please forgive any typos; I proofread this at like 3am lol) Thanks again!}

   Mork took a deep drag from the cigarette pressed between his cracked lips. The smoke burned against the back of his throat, but he welcomed the feeling. It was a momentary distraction from the throbbing pain in his cheek and the sting in the side of his chest with each breath he took, at the very least. He was pretty certain he had broken a rib, but he couldn't find it in himself to pay it much mind.

   There was little he cared about, in fact. Not the group of punks that had just kicked the shit out of him. No, definitely not them. He'd given it back just as badly as he'd taken it, and it wasn't like it was the first time he'd gone around sporting a busted lip and bloodied knuckles. He knew his father would have had something to say about it if he could see him; he always did. More often than not he'd rough Mork up just as bad- if not worse- than the guys he met on the street. That was one reason he had left home in the first place. Mork was numb to it all by now, for what it was worth.

   With a smoke-filled exhale, Mork leaned his head back against the icy, stone wall of the alleyway. It was a sweltering mid-autumn night, and the stick of cold sweat on his neck felt out of place contrasted with the distinct scent of late October in the air. Mork considered for a moment removing his jacket, but the thought of moving at all seemed like too much trouble to be bothered with; so he resolved to just sit and simmer in the hot leather instead.

   Mork tapped the ash off the end of his dwindling cigarette with another long exhale. He hadn't been looking for a fight. He never really did. Somehow, the fights always seemed to find him though. He didn't particularly enjoy the feeling of his knuckles crunching against some other guy's face, or the sound the brunt of his boot made when he rammed it into an oncoming chest. But it wasn't like Mork had much of a choice; he couldn't just sit back and let himself get wailed on like he was some defenseless little kid. He'd spent way too many years living that way.

   Besides, despite his misgivings, he generally could hold his own pretty well. Even against the sizable crowd, he'd lasted a while until some big bastard came along and managed to dead-leg and knock his feet out from under him. They only decided he'd had enough when the blood started dripping from his lips. Naturally, they'd left him there in the alley without a second look.

   Mork extinguished his cigarette on the damp ground. What a shitty night this had turned out to be. His boyfriend (or should he say ex ) had kicked him out of their apartment again for God-knows-what petty reason. He wouldn't say he was particularly heartbroken over the fact; he'd only shacked up with the guy because he had nowhere else to go, after all. Even so, crashing on the street didn't exactly sound like his idea of a cozy night. Especially with the rumbling moving in with the clouds overhead.

   Of course it was going to rain. Mork really couldn't have expected anything less. It's not like anything else had ever gone in his favor. He wasn't surprised in the least when the first drops fell against his face, and even less when they became a torrential downpour.

   With a groan, he managed to hoist himself up off the ground; using the alley wall behind him for as much support as he could.  Mork knew he didn't have anywhere in particular to go, but he felt he should try to find some shelter from the rain at the very least. He winced as he tried to take a step. His side felt like it was on fire, but he begrudgingly continued on.

   His drenched leather jacket clung to every inch of his torso and arms like a slimy film, and he was almost regretting not having removed it earlier. The thought of peeling it away from his damp skin later sent a shiver crawling up his spine. Mork caught himself wondering if the night could possibly get any worse for him, but he knew that it was almost a given that it could and most likely would with his track record. Murphy's Law could have just as easily been known as Mork's Law.