The Bottom Club

16 | panacea

IT WAS THE light, a stream of sunshine breaking through shutters and falling across his face, that made him come to; and in the brief window of semi-consciousness that followed, Wyatt stretched drowsily, forgetting. Everything made sense, the rules still applied, and as his eyes cracked open a sharp soreness registered down his lower half when he shifted and he smiled wryly.

Harlan hadn't exactly held back, he thought with a yawn, but it'd been worth it and he couldn't wait to tell Viv.

Then it hit him―memories of all that had happened the previous night and into the early hours of the morning, and as he sat up, sheets falling down his torso and pooling over his waist, Wyatt grimaced, shielding his eyes against the harsh glare, pausing to look around for Harlan.

When he realized that the other boy was nowhere to be found he let himself yield to the siren call of the soft mattress beneath him.

This bed was heaven, and as his memories of the past couple of hours threatened to pull apart this burgeoning peace he dug himself further into the plush duvet, sighing blissfully as he kept his mind purposefully blank until a small voice reminded Wyatt that he should've been at home, in his own bed by now.

Immediately he shot up, and an undertone of panic thrummed through him as he set about to locating his clothes as quietly as possible. If the sound of running water coming from the direction of the closed bathroom was any indication, Harlan was in the shower, though God knew how long he'd been there and how much time remained before he finished.

The walk of shame was an art, and in a house as big as this it could only get more complicated. The stakes were high, but luckily Wyatt knew his way around a clock, and as he flew around the room slipping into his jeans and shoes, he mourned the fact that what he'd experienced was just a one-off thing and sent up a silent prayer to anyone listening that it would always be like this.

If all the boys he'd ever hooked up with were as considerate as Harlan had been, the world would be a better place. It was almost unfair, he thought, that a single person would be, handsome, and good at sex.

Wyatt spotted his shirt, a rumpled heap at the corner of the room it'd been tossed to just hours earlier, and picked it up to find that one of the sleeves had been torn almost clean off, at which point he let out a low groan.

A long moment passed in which he simply glared at the shorn fabric, too annoyed to form even one coherent thought. He'd blown a chunk of his monthly allowance on the shirt and yesterday had marked his second time wearing it. Now it was ruined, and a resigned sigh escaped him as understanding set in, dampening the ease he'd felt up until that point.

Wyatt started to shrug on the shirt but paused in the middle of his movements as the realization of his surroundings dawned on him. He was in the Harlan Petrova's bedroom. If such a thing as the best place to run into a fashion crises existed this was it, and it wasn't long before he located the walk-in closet—so much more bigger than he could've predicted, with racks of clothes, drawers for accessories, and shelves full of shoes. There were sections for dinner and casual wear, sneakers or monk straps.

It felt like walking into a department store, and Wyatt was sure that sometime in the past couple of hours he had died and gone to heaven. For a moment he paused to take it all, and then he got to work.

Harlan was broader than he was, taller too. But Wyatt knew that he could get away with one of his shirts, and not too long into his rummaging he stumbled on one he liked: a long-sleeved Balenciaga number with grey and black patches designed to look like splotches of paint.

The full-length mirror validated his choice, and already he could envision it with a pair of black cargo pants he'd only worn a couple of times.

Coincidentally, he spied a watch at the far end corner of the accessory display that would pull the whole look together―an understatedly beautiful piece with an oblong silver display and a sleek black leather strap.