IT WASN'T THE first time he'd heard those words, and it would definitely not be the last―but watching Wesley say them evenly, face unreadable as he did, Wyatt knew he wasn't about to get good news, and so before the taller boy could say anything he blurted the first words to come to mind.
"This isn't because I read your journal, is it?"
The other boy looked dumbstruck, and then slowly his face darkened into a lighter shade of red as he ran a hand over his buzzed head, set the book aside and stood up calmly, lithe body radiating predator-like energy enough to have Wyatt take a step back when he walked up to him, which was useless as he simply moved on to the nearest wall―and punched it.
Wyatt flinched at the impact his knuckles made against the concrete and worried that his face would be next on the receiving side of the blow. He considered running, but took one look at Wesley's long legs and smothered the idea.
"Why did you read my shit when I told you not to?"
"Technically, you said it was none of my business and that it was personal," he clarified, "You never said to stay away from it."
"Well congratulations," Wesley laughed bitterly, coming to stand in front of him. "You got out of this one on technicalities. You must be proud of yourself."
He never thought it possible, to simultaneously fear someone and want to jump their bones, and his brain couldn't seem to settle on a reaction.
"You're really good you know," he said appeasing, and because it was true.
Wesley was good, better than good actually, in a way that was more raw talent than finesse, his book filled to the brim with detailed drawings of tiny cigarette packs, and words―three line poems mostly, but there were short stories and micro tales that left him dizzy with wonder too.
He'd skipped the rest of his classes to tear through the journal, reading over its final pieces in wonder as he watched a version of himself come alive on paper, more real than he could ever hope to be, and when he was finished, he stumbled into the real world bewildered, shocked to find that it still stood, despite how fundamentally changed he had become. He wasn't sure it existed, but if there was such a thing as getting to the last level of falling in love with someone the way it happened in video games, walking through the terrain of Wesley's mind was what it had taken to get him there.
That, and a fear of the creeping emptiness he felt when he was alone, that'd started up after his parents' divorce.
"You're better than good."
"Thank you. It would've meant more if you didn't pry into a part of my life I wasn't ready to share with you."
Wyatt felt something coil tightly inside him and looked up sharply. "We've been talking for about two months now, and I barely just found out you were in foster care. You only just kissed me today. I know your last name, but only because I asked―and even then, you hesitated to tell me."
He stopped when he noticed he was beginning to raise his voice, and took a deep breath.
"I don't know anything about you," he said finally. "I don't know your middle name, or where you were born, or why you're the way you are, and it's fucking with my head, man. It's like you put me at arm's length to make it easier to get away."
At Wesley's silence, a pit of dread opened in his stomach, and a voice in his head mocked.
Of course he is. Look at him, talent personified, pure and simple. You're just a pretty face with zero personality, and everyone gets tired of those after a while. But you already know that: eight boys later, in fact.
He wasn't in a good place and he knew that his anxiety was lying to him, but shutting it down proved to be a herculean feat he couldn't very well succeed at, because on a basic level he believed these things to be true too.
"You wanna know about me, right?" Wesley asked all of a sudden, bringing him out of the wormhole that was his psyche.
Wyatt didn't know how to reply, because yes he did, but he understood that there were something's you were better off not knowing. After all, curiosity killed the cat.
But then again, it was good that he wasn't a fucking cat.
"I said, you wanna know about me?"
"Yes," Wyatt said, watching the words fly out of him and take shape into something concrete. Something he couldn't take back. "Yes I want to know about you, everything about you dude. I really like you."
"You don't know me."
"But I want to, and opening up can happen in stages. I find it very hard to because of past experience, but it gets easier, trusts me. When you're ready I'll be here."
"I'll never be ready," Wesley said, and Wyatt watched the steam leave him as he visibly deflated and stopped pacing.
He opened his mouth to counter the statement with something, anything, it didn't matter what―but Wesley held up a hand to indicate that he wasn't finished, and then he returned to the stoop he'd been sitting on and lowered himself onto it.
There was silence, or as much of it as you could ever hope to find in New York, as Wesley dug through his jacket pocket, fishing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He didn't offer up any to Wyatt, who watched fascinatedly as he pulled up a stick and lit its bottom before sucking in a puff of smoke.
He'd known Wesley smoked―they'd talked about it, since the taller boy always smelt like cigarettes, and even if he hadn't, Wyatt would've figured it out after the first few pieces in his journal―still, he had never been privy to it first hand, and this small act changed yet another thing about what they knew of each other.
"I'll never be ready," Wesley said through the wisps of smoke that escaped his lips. "But I'll tell you a story about the day the world ended because it doesn't matter now, and I've got nothing to lose."
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...
