The Feeling's Mutual

Chapter 1

The Feeling's Mutual

Summary: Xavier has something to tell you, but you're only hearing what you think you already know, and he's never been much of a talker. 

A/N: Hi! Along with what seems like the rest of the world, I watched Wednesday last week and haven't been able to get our favourite tortured artist off my mind. I'm a sucker for the mutual pining and insecure love tropes, and I started writing this with one particular scene in mind, so we'll see where this goes.

There's going to be quite a bit of back and forth between past and present in this story. General rule of thumb: Italics  = past . Hope this format isn't too confusing to follow! Would love to hear what you think.

Chapter 1

Xavier is off today.

He's seated in front of a wooden easel, the same paint speckled easel I've witnessed him slouched over countless times till the early hours of the morning. He runs his hand through his hair, thin  fingers still wrapped around a tattered paintbrush. The paint gets in his hair, and I watch as he tries to wipe it out with the sleeve of his shirt. Unsuccessful, he puts the paintbrush down hastily, knocking over a glass of water in the process. He curses under his breath.

He's been quiet today, too. Fidgeting more than usual.

With another paintbrush in hand, he moves towards the blank canvas. And as blue paint meets white canvas, I can tell that his movements aren't as smooth as usual. His wrist is stiff and rigid, like his mind is elsewhere.

It's well into the winter semester, and we're in his art shed; portable radiator cranked all the way up to keep the chill at bay. For the past six months, this has become very much a part of our weekly routine. An unspoken plan. After last period on Mondays we meet up here with coffees in hand; to do homework, to talk, to commiserate together.

Our unlikely friendship started in our fine arts class.

-

September

I'm running through the courtyard now, textbooks clutched to my chest, the sound of my quick footsteps echoing off the cobblestone.

I peek at my wrist watch.

Late for class, again.

Though this time it isn't entirely my fault. Enid had showed up at my door at midnight, huffing and puffing - ready to talk my ear off for the next few hours about her new pig-tailed roommate and weirdly enough, a disembodied hand? That last part, I hadn't seen coming.

Finally rounding the corner of the stone corridor, I silently push open the door leading to the second floor classroom. Ms. Penchant, the arts teacher, has her focus on the projector in the centre of the room.

I slip into an empty seat at the back of the classroom, careful not to bring attention to myself,

Success.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

Looking around the classroom, I see Enid and her new roommate seated in the second row. Enid admiring her nails, and Wednesday glaring daggers into the skull of the boy seated in front of her.

"Alright," Ms. Penchant addresses the class. "Now that I've gone over the assignment, let's get started and partner up. Whoever's seated next to you will do."

Not knowing what said assignment is, I look sheepishly to my left and meet the gaze of the school's resident tortured artist.

Xavier Thorpe.