Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 26 | The worst part

JAMES GROANED INWARDLY AS he shuffled down the front steps of his house, the weight of his mother's errand list crumpled in his hand. Saturday was supposed to be his day of retreat, his time to bury himself in the quiet corners of his room, nursing the bruises and the silent rage that had settled into his bones. Instead, his mother had given him a list as long as his arm and tasked him with getting groceries for the week, as well as picking out some home items to make the new house feel "less empty."

The sun was low, casting a grey pallor over Elmwood Heights. The town's grocery store was a short drive from the house, but every minute spent out in the open felt like a lifetime. Every sidewalk, every face carried the potential for disaster. Yet, here he was, clutching his keys and climbing into his car, determined to make this trip as quick and painless as possible.

When he arrived at the store, the wind had picked up, scattering the few autumn leaves that clung stubbornly to the pavement. The glass doors slid open with a soft hiss, and James was greeted by the sterile hum of fluorescent lights and the steady clatter of shopping carts. He grabbed a cart and slowly began ticking items off the list, trying to keep his mind occupied, trying not to think about the things he always thought about—William.

Canned goods, milk, bread. He tossed them into the cart without much thought. His mother had asked him to pick out a few "homey" items, so he wandered to the aisles with linens and kitchenware, staring blankly at pastel dish towels and a gaudy floral tablecloth he knew his mother would love. He tossed it into the cart with a sigh. A set of brass candlesticks caught his eye, and though he thought they looked useless, he dropped them in too. His mother was always talking about wanting to light candles in the evening, to "set the mood."

As he turned the corner toward the cleaning supplies, he spotted a small wicker basket—something about it reminded him of the ones his mother used to keep on the kitchen counter, filled with freshly baked bread when his father was still alive and before everything had gone so wrong. He grabbed it without thinking, tossing it on top of the items already in his cart.

Just as he was about to head to the checkout, the door chimed open, and he froze. His heart dropped into his stomach as he saw two familiar faces—Ethan and Trent. Two of William's friends. Two of the worst ones.

They were laughing, leaning casually against each other, their postures relaxed in a way that made James sick. It was strange seeing them out of their usual letterman jackets, wearing comfortable sweatshirts and casual slacks. They looked almost like regular people. Almost. But James knew better.

A sharp pang of panic lanced through him, and he quickly pushed his cart into the nearest aisle—an aisle filled with cleaning products. His chest tightened as he shoved the cart forward, breathing hard, his hands gripping the metal handle so tightly his knuckles turned white. He peeked over his shoulder, half-expecting them to follow him, to hear their mocking voices calling out after him, but for now, they hadn't seen him.

His heart hammered in his chest. Just stay here, he told himself. Stay hidden, stay small, stay invisible.

But then, as if fate had some twisted sense of humor, James realized he wasn't alone in the aisle. Standing just a few feet away, casually scanning the shelves, was William.

James flinched instinctively, his body immediately tense. For a second, his feet wanted to retreat, to back away from the scene before him, but then the thought of Ethan and Trent, still somewhere out there, made him reconsider. It was safer here. Even if William had been cruel to him—he wasn't violent like the others.

William was dressed casually today, too. His clothes were simple but somehow effortlessly perfect—plain white shirt tucked into belted trousers, the kind that clung to his narrow waist and draped elegantly down to his polished shoes. His dirty blonde hair, usually slicked back with meticulous care, hung loose, slightly tousled as if he hadn't bothered with it today. The relaxed look made him seem younger, softer even, but no less intimidating. His mismatched eyes focused intently on the products in front of him, not sparing James even a passing glance.

James swallowed hard, his throat dry. His body felt hot and cold all at once, a mess of nerves and tension that bubbled beneath his skin. He was staring—again. He couldn't help it. William's presence had that effect on him, as if gravity itself had shifted and James was helpless to resist the pull.

William didn't seem to notice the way James' eyes clung to him, drinking in the sharp angles of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips, the way the simple, casual clothes hugged his athletic frame. James wondered what it would be like to touch him, just once. To trace those lines with trembling fingers, to feel the heat of his skin. His thoughts, dark and obsessive, made him feel sick, but he couldn't tear his gaze away.

He almost wished William would say something. Anything. Even something cruel. The silence was unbearable, stretching between them like a taut string waiting to snap.

Just as James was about to turn away, William reached up for something on the shelf—right above James' head.

James stiffened, his heart leaping into his throat as William stepped closer. Much closer. He could feel the warmth of William's body, smell the faint trace of soap and cologne clinging to his skin. His breath hitched as William's arm brushed past his cheek, his chest only inches away from James. The moment stretched, long and unbearable, filled with a tension so thick it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

James closed his eyes, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, his pulse racing wildly in his ears. His mind betrayed him, letting the scenario unfold as something else entirely—a secret, stolen moment between lovers. In his head, this was something intimate, something forbidden but desperately wanted. The closeness, the heat—it was suffocating, but in a way that made James want more. He imagined what it would be like to turn his face just slightly, to press his lips to William's skin, to let that longing spill out in a way that was real.

But then, just as quickly as the moment had begun, it ended.

William's fingers closed around the bottle of cleaner he had been reaching for, and he stepped back without a word, without a second glance.

James stood frozen, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He stared at William's retreating back, his pulse still racing, his body still trembling. The whole interaction had been nothing—just an ordinary, mundane moment. But to James, it felt like everything. Every movement, every fleeting touch, felt deliberate, like William was playing a cruel game, knowing exactly how it would affect him.

James breathed hard, gripping the handle of his cart, trying to steady himself. The cool metal beneath his fingers grounded him, pulling him back to reality.

Had William done that on purpose? Had he known what his proximity would do to James, how it would unravel him completely? Or had it all been in James' head, his sick, twisted mind twisting something innocent into something it wasn't?

He didn't know. And that was the worst part.