09 | goodnight

THEIR INTERACTIONS SLOWED to a trickle with the slow approach of their exams.

In fact, with Wesley struggling to conjugate entire work sheets of French verbs and Wyatt cramming the steps to the quadratic formula it would’ve been excusable if they forgot the other’s existence entirely. However, both boys had reconciled themselves to the fact that this was no passing fling and were fully committed to the nurturing of their relationship-not-relationship.

Wyatt had it bad and he knew it, because with Wesley there were no mind games, and he would always find the time to slip a text in here and there whether he was studying for his SATs, or during his lunch breaks.

There were no message-sent-five-hours-but-active-two-minutes-ago moments, no two a.m. wyd texts, and Wyatt was happy.

He wondered again if this was what love felt like, a slow and steady meeting of minds that let no question go unanswered. He also thought about white picket fences, trust fund babies, and dying in each other’s arms somewhere into their nineties, but those were not things he could bring up in casual conversation, or at all, actually.

It didn’t matter though, because they wouldn’t get around to doing all those things if Wesley didn’t grow a pair of balls and kiss him.

They’d met two other times after their first heated conversation, and Wyatt could see that Wesley wanted him the way he wanted him. He could see it in the way his eyes never left him whenever they were together. How, when he’d accidentally run his feet over the taller boy’s calves, he’d tensed, a strained half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

But each time it came down to going their separate ways, Wesley would crush him into a bear hug, then pull away and walk off without looking back even once.

It left him feeling conflicted, and provided more than enough fodder for his late night anxiety spirals:

Did he have bad breath? No, he’d made sure he brushed and even used a mouth wash, nibbling at his food to keep the minty tang intact. Or was it because his mouth looked funny? The upper lip was a tad bit larger than the lower one, but he didn’t think it was noticeable. Was that what he’d noticed though, was he so revolting?

He was in the middle of one of his episodes when his phone pinged with a message from the subject of his internal dilemma.

Wesley: what’s your address?

He hadn’t finished reading it when another popped up: only if you want to, though.

And he was wary, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice.

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About fifteen minutes later, he received a text announcing Wesley’s arrival, and sure enough he could see the hunched over silhouette a little way off his lawn. Slipping his window open, he whistled, and when the tall figure looked in his general direction Wyatt flapped his arms, motioning them over.

All too soon, Wesley stood at his front, peering up at him in confusion as he shuffled his feet from side to side. He had never seen the tall boy so agitated and for a second he entertained thoughts of underground fight clubs and getaway cars, but quickly snuffed them out.

“How am I gonna get in there?” he murmured, and Wyatt shrugged, resting his elbows on the pane.

“You can just go back, you know.”

But they both knew he wouldn’t, and so Wesley held out a small rectangular object to him, and as soon as he grabbed it he realized it was a leather-bound journal.

“What’s this?” he asked curiously, stepping away from the window as Wesley angled himself over the short hedge and jumped, grabbing hold of the ledge which he used to propel himself over.

“None of your business,” the other boy murmured, back tracking when he noticed the stung expression on his face. “I meant to say that it was personal stuff, unimportant.”

Nothing about you is unimportant was what Wyatt wanted to say, but instead he nodded, bumping into his bedframe and toppling over it.

They held their breaths in quiet anticipation of Regan’s approach, but everything beyond the doors of his bedroom remained undisturbed until finally, they let out relieved exhales.

“You got here pretty fast.”

“I was around, and decided to check up on you,” Wesley said gently, reaching over to take his book from Wyatt, which he set on the small bedside drawer.

Then he straightened and took in the darkened room, and Wyatt was suddenly self-aware, of the many clothes and shoes that spilled out of his closet and the Pussy Cat Dolls poster he had plastered over his headboard.

“They’re clean,” he murmured, pointing at his clothes, just as Wesley said, “Your room was just the way I expected it would look like.”

A furrow appeared on his brow. “Excuse me?”

“I meant that in a good way,” Wesley clarified, looking away to take in the other posters in his room. “Like, you’re so elegant, and distant. It’s almost inhuman. Nice to see you’re a pig, like every other teenage boy in this world.”

Elegant and distant, he thought, yeah right: more like neurotic and mentally unstable.

But outside, he said, “You do know that there are roughly three point seven billion males on earth, right?”

Wesley shook his head, coming to lie on the bed beside him without warning. It dawned on him that while he’d had guys over at his place, none had ever stayed this late, or early depending on how you looked at it―on a school night nonetheless.

The entire affair took on a note of intimacy that only grew each time Wyatt tried to quash it.

They made small talk, but every cell in his body screamed at the slowly closing space between his shoulder and Wesley’s, going into an uproar when they finally made contact, even though it was through several layers of fabric.

Here was a boy who refused to kiss him for bullshit reasons that he couldn’t bring himself to bring up whenever they met in broad daylight. But the sun was not up, and as they spoke, touching subjects that flew out of his mind as soon as they moved on to the next, Wyatt mustered up the courage to ask for the second time.

“Why don’t you ever kiss me?”