USUALLY HE REFRAINED from cussing in public spaces or talking in general, but the sheer violence in front of him was enough to have Wesley’s brain short circuit, and with it his rules for maintaining an overall façade of apathy.
It shouldn’t have been possible for one painting to contain such morbidity but here was proof, and he didn’t know how he felt about that. It made him bold, somehow.
The person in front of him turned, and when their eyes met his Wesley experienced a strange sensation that could only be likened to the free-fall of his senses when he smoked.
When people spoke of falling in love they made it out to look like something you tripped on, but personally he believed it was a door you walked into, complete with orchestrated props or grand and little gestures. The whole damned deal.
He was candid enough to recognize that what he felt was not, in fact, love. At the same time, Wesley could also admit that he had never in his seventeen years of existence the craved physical intimacy of another human being as much as he did in that moment, and at this realization he felt his walls go back up and frowned at the still staring stranger who looked away, but not fast enough to mask his calculating expression, head swiveling to face the painting.
The whole thing went down in a matter of seconds, but to Wesley time had seemed immaterial and felt more dragged out.
He needed to break something. He needed a cigarette.
He needed both.
Running a hand over his head, he sighed and returned to looking at the art, which made his eyes feel inadequate the longer he stared at it. This was going to be a long night.
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It quickly dawned on Wyatt that something in his Red Flag detector was irreparably broken, as his reaction to the boy behind him should’ve been a discreet getaway and not the case of raging butterflies he felt in his stomach.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, seeing as he’d foreseen himself catching feelings that evening, but it did as he usually didn’t go for boys like the stranger.
For one thing he was plain faced, save the string of Japanese characters tattooed down the left side of his face. For another, the outfit he had on could’ve passed for hobo chic if his faded denims weren’t so hole-ridden; his beat up pair of Converse sneakers marred with scribbles in ink of various colors.
A frowning face alerted Wyatt to the fact that he had been staring for longer than was socially acceptable. Feeling himself go hot all over in what could’ve been embarrassment or arousal, he looked away and returned to fixing his eyes on the painting which had lost none of its magic, even as it finally dawned on him why it looked so familiar.
“The dancing plague,” he murmured, more to himself than anything, but the boy behind him must’ve thought he was trying to make conversation, because he murmured a polite Excuse me, and Wyatt was sure his nerve endings set themselves on fire.
He didn’t trust his voice to come out right and so he feigned deafness, but it must’ve come off wrong because after a while the stranger scoffed.
“Typical,” he murmured bitterly.
Wyatt remained persistently quiet, even as his insides squirmed, stomach butterflies evolving to zoo animals. If he said nothing his chances of walking out of this gallery intact, body and mind, would be increased significantly.
Remember Carson, he begged himself, you know, the guy you’re supposed to be hooked up on.
He considered leaving but his feet remained rooted to the ground, and even before the sight of him filled his peripheral vision, Wyatt felt the other boy step forward. They stood side by side, air thick with tension so thick he could’ve sworn he was drowning.
“The dancing plague of 1518,” he blurted into the silence. He turned to catch a glimpse of the stranger, who looked at him with raised eyebrows.
He had nice brows, Wyatt noted before looking away.
“Strasbourg, specifically: Hundreds of people danced for about a month without rest. Some till they collapsed, others till they died.”
The stranger, whose expression had turned progressively nonplussed, nodded in short bursts of movement.
“That’s pretty fucked up.”
“I know.”
How many people walked around with facts like that in their head?
“But I like it,” he demurred after a moment’s consideration. He was rewarded with a murmured, “Me too”.
Something must have passed between them because their eyes met again, and this time their gazes held.
“I’m Wesley,” the stranger said, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallowed.
And because he was at an age where things like this didn’t happen in real life, Wyatt’s heart flew out of him, and that was the final nail on his coffin.
“I’m Wyatt.”
YOU ARE READING
Still Point ✓
Short Story'I want you to want me,' the text read, and he smiled as he shot off his reply. 'You have no idea how much I already do.' Wesley Chao doesn't believe in love and Wyatt Carter wishes he wasn't always in it, until they both meet at an art exhibiti...
