Out of Touch

10

As he climbs the stairs to James' flat it occurs to him suddenly and unexpectedly that he is in fact not ready to see the taller man in person. Each step he takes echoes throughout the short hallway and it would be a miracle if James doesn't know that he's coming at this point.

He spent a few days stewing over his emotions. Not running from them, but seriously, delicately, thinking about them. The prevalent internalised homophobia would probably kill him, in the end, and he decided that exactly what he was could be a journey for another day. He just knew that all he wanted was to pursue whatever he thought would be right for him.

Evidently, that was James. A sprinkle of urgency dusted across his body as he realised how long he'd been abusing said man for. As friends go, Will was a sorry excuse for one.

He stands at James' door for a long moment, pondering whether or not he should actually knock. Anxiety nips and nibbles at him; his body aches and tingles unpleasantly. Would James even answer? The oak barrier between him and the man he wants the most looms over him, taunting him, insulting him.

A knock. A singular knock. In hindsight, that's entirely psychopathic behaviour and he should have tapped the door in some form of rhythm or pattern.

He knows he's overthinking. Just a little.

The sound of shuffling crawls into his ears, muffled by the barrier between him and his... friend. Slow, drawn out steps make their way towards the door, and all of a sudden Will feels a sharp stabbing sensation in his chest, his breath entirely restricted by his anxiety. A soft jingle from the other side- presumably unlocking the door; Will imagines James' soft yet large, masculine hands gripping the handle, his delicate hairs over the body part and his short, painted nails. He missed James' hands.

Debating whether to run away, Will bounces on his feet. His hands wring together nervously; not unlike James' usual behaviour when he'd turn up at the studio for a filming session after taking the train.

The door opens.

His breath catches in his throat.

James is... beautiful, is his first thought, but then he blinks again and sees a broken man in front of him. Still beautiful, but that different sort of beauty like an ornate smashed tile which has been rearranged into a charming mosaic. A shattered glass which glitters the ground in an array of shapes and sizes. A wilted flower which still holds such elegance and grace.

James' eyes are hollow, exhausted and lifeless. His lips have a sandy dryness to them, his hair seems greasy- or damp, perhaps, from a shower. He's just as tall as Will remembers, towering over him. He smells nice, is something Will notices shortly after studying the visual appearance. Like flowers and polished oak wood.

"Will..." James croaks, his eyes heavy with tears threatening to fall. Will blinks up at him, momentarily halted by surprise at James' distraught voice. He has been ignoring him for weeks, he supposes.

"James... Can I... Come in?"

"I- sure- of course." James steps to the side to let Will in, who slowly makes his way to the couch, standing awkwardly in front of it. James scratches his head, gesturing for Will to sit with his free hand. Will does.

The silence that envelops them is mildly awkward and Will decides that he'd rather be anywhere but here. He can't keep running, however, and the slight possibility that he is already seen as a terrible person by the collective public fuels him to stay. James sits next to him, gently, jittery.

"Fuck Will- haven't you recieved any of my messages?" He asks, and it's a simple enough question, but Will hates how his answer sounds as soon as it comes out.