WHEN HE WAS eight, he'd been made to go for therapy on the basis of his anger issues after he repeatedly slammed the head of a classmate into the sand of the playground. It wasn't that he'd done it without provocation as this classmate had been bullying him for months.
His name was Sean Walsh.
On that particular day, Wyatt had been sitting on his ownâTobi and a bunch of other boys in their grade at a far corner of the playground, trying to see if they could get away with looking under the girl's skirtsâwhen Sean came up to him.
By then he was already used to his tactics and so he remained silent as Sean unleashed every new bit of cruelty that came upon him as soon as it did, in the way of child bullies who do not fully comprehend the meaning of things they say; and noticing his verbal bullets had no visible effects, he tried a physical approach and began to push Wyatt around, which soon evolved to punches, which all his friends took that as an invitation to join in, but still he remained unresponsive.
And then Sean made an offhand comment about Wyatt's mother leaving him and everything changed.
It'd felt like being possessed by a demon, the snapping of his sanity as it took a backseat to make way for the rage, and Wyatt stood up, sandy, bruised, then launched himself at Sean.
He did not remember slamming Sean's head into the playground floor till his blond hair was matted so thoroughly with blood its original color was barely visible. He didn't remember being dragged away by his classmates at first, then teachers. He did not remember scratching and biting any hand that latched onto him, drawing blood.
These things he heard from his principal's recounting of events to his parents as she insisted that while Sean's parents would not press charges as their son had been the provocateur, Wyatt would have to go to see a professional or potentially face expulsion.
He got angry, sometimes dangerously so, but it had never gotten to that level, though in the years to follow Viv would joke about the one time he'd tried to drown her when he was five and she was threeâa case of child's play turned deadly, and another memory he had no recollection of.
He remembered Emilia's tear infused words as she spoke to his father on the phone later that evening.
"He got this from you, Regan, and if he doesn't go to therapy this boy will set a house on fire with himself inside, just to get at another person."
He saw a therapist for two months.
Her name was Candice, and she didn't have any candy in her office except licorice. She'd spent a lot of time asking how he felt, and then asking how he felt about how he felt; an exhausting circle.
In the end, Reagan decided that it was a waste of money and besides, two months was enough of a cure.
Watching Rashad and the nameless stranger move however, had Wyatt see red. A drowning calmness settled over him as he moved away from the door and down the hall as if on autopilot.
No logic remained. Only rage.
He grabbed the ceramic vase he'd spotted upon entering and retraced his steps till he stood once more in his former position. An eyelid twitched.
"What theâ" the stranger began when he noticed him, and then he buckled, effectively pushing Rashad away seconds before the vase came flying over his head.
It made contact with the headboard and shattered.
"Wyatt?" Rashad said, bewildered as he blinked rapidly at him. "Are you out of your fucking mind? That shit costs a fortune."
But he wasn't done. Wyatt raced to the parlor, ripping a mask from the wall before flying back down the hall. The stranger, who already had his pants on and was making his way out of the room squeaked and rushed back in, ducking to the other side of the bed just as he threw the mask at Rashad, who let out a muffled scream as the wood connected with his forehead.
"You fucker," Wyatt said, stalking towards him. "You motherfucker, you said you wanted a break because you couldn't deal with the level of commitment I was asking for."
"Wyatt, lookâ"
The words weren't fully out of his mouth when Wyatt flew at him, strategically placing kicks at exposed parts of his abdomen. A small voice in his head begged him to stop, but he couldn't have brought himself to even if he wanted it.
"You traitor. We haven't been apart for a month and you're already community dick." He looked up at the frail redhead cowering at the other side of the bed. "That's right, baby. Tall, dark, and handsome here is a walking STD."
He blanched, danger momentarily forgotten, and Wyatt laughed harshly as his lie sank into the other boy's head. He breathed deeply, stepping gingerly away as a new idea began to form in his head.
He rushed out again to the sitting room for the third time, heading straight for the photographs because he remembered Rashad telling him of how fond his mother was of them, and with this in mind he broke their protective glass surfaces with his bare hands, muffling a scream when the glass cut his hands before carrying on.
From the corner of his eyes, he saw the redhead fly past him to the elevator, frantically pressing the button that would open its doors. Wyatt turned to him and he cowered against the wall. Not long passed until the doors slid open and he sprinted into the enclosure, shaking as he pressed some other buttons.
Wyatt laughed through his pain and hysteria.
He wouldn't have been able to tell you how long he spent destroying priceless art, tearing through statues and paintings until suddenly he was engulfed in the strong grip of a still buck-naked Rashad, who latched onto him from behind. He began to cry.
"But, but I came here for closure," he explained weakly in an attempt to justify his behavior. "I came toâto check up on you."
Rashad shushed him gently, and still holding onto him he slid down the wall against which he had his back to. Wyatt was shocked at the carnage he'd left in his wake when he finally calmed down to reasonâthousands of dollars' worth, it appeared.
Shards of glass sat embedded in his bloodied palms, and masks hung askew.
"Oh my God," he said softly, voice breaking, "oh my God, what have I done?"
Rashad did not reply
His breaths started to come out in panicked wheezes, till it felt like he could no longer inhale or exhale, and everything felt submerged in water. Blackness threatened to take over, and he continued to whisper oh my God, but still Rashad said nothing.
When he stopped crying the full import of his actions hit him like a bat over the head and the mortification began to settle in. He imagined himself walking into the lobby to find people stopping whatever they were doing to chant: shame, shame, shame; even going as far as holding bells, which they would ring intermittently like that one scene out of Game of Thrones.
His most immediate worry perhaps was how he would pay for everything.
Wyatt closed his eyes to fight away another panic attack and when it subsided he turned to look at Rashad, whose breaths rattled around inside his ribs like he'd run a marathon.
He was sure that if he placed his palm on his chest it would be running a mile a minute. The deep cut on his forehead wept blood, some of which had gotten into his left eye, creating a grotesque tableau. Bruises bloomed all over the skin of his torso.
"Rashad you have to understand that I didn't mean any of this."
He raised a hand to caress his face but the latter flinched, and Wyatt's heart stuttered then came to a halt.
A long moment passed, and then Rashad stood up to make his way to room leaving Wyatt alone. Within two minutes he'd returned clean-faced, in a pair of loose grey Adidas sweatpants that showed off his indented V-line, along with a First Aid kit. He sidestepped the glass shards that littered the floor, gesturing at Wyatt to take a seat on the largest couch, the one closest to the fireplace.
He obliged without any protest.
They sat facing each other, with the box positioned between them, and Rashad put on a pair of disposable rubber gloves before taking Wyatt's hands into his and using tweezers to pull out the pieces of glass that had lodged themselves in his hand.
Beads of fresh blood bloomed with each shard he extracted, and Wyatt tried to hide his discomfort but eventually the whimpering sounds that escaped his lips could not be passed off as anything other than they were.
Rashad was yet to utter a single word.
"You're good at this, you know," he said, a weak attempt at easing the tension which went ignored by his caretaker, who had now finished pulling out the glass but brought it closer to his eyes to inspect.
"I'm soâ"
"Save it, Carter," Rashad cut in, though a smile played at a corner of his mouth. "You know I hate distractions when I work."
Wyatt nodded, gulping to ease the dryness in his mouth as the memories of Rashad saying he wanted to be a doctor flittered through his mind.
"Ouch!" he hissed at the sting of peroxide on his open wounds, making to pull away, but Rashad strengthened his grip.
To which he was branded cry baby, a peace offering of sorts.
He finished up, leaving Wyatt as he cleaned after himself, and finally, when he was done he took a seat on a different sofa and exhaled loudly into the silence of the room.
"I'm not going to press charges if that's what you're thinking. And you won't have to pay either. I looked everything over, and save the vase nothing's unsalvageable."
"What?" Wyatt said, even as he let out a mental whoop. "I wasn't thinking about that."
"The photographs weren't damaged; just their protective coverings," Rashad continued explaining, "neither were the masks."
Good, because I wouldn't have been able to pay you back.
A beat passed.
"Carter, what just happened?" and Wyatt paused at the question.
"I don't know," he admitted after a moment. "I mean, I came over to check up on you. You've been skipping a lot lately and I kind of convinced myself that you were in some sort of mortal peril or something."
"Mortal peril," Rashad repeated, shaking his head.
"Like you'd been killed and your body was rotting away in this apartment or something," Wyatt clarified, though even to his ears the excuse fell flat.
"Who let you in?"
"No one did. I wasn't stopped on the way up here."
Rashad sighed, nodding at him to continue.
"So I came, looking around and I kind of stumbled on you doing... him..." he let his sentence trail off.
Out of the blue Rashad asked: "Do you know the real reason I left you?"
"Other than over-commitment and seeing love as a religion?" he quoted himself.
"No," Wyatt replied, blinking back tears.
"I could handle all of those things," Rashad said, and Wyatt was surprised by the feeling with which he spoke. "And not just because you're hands down one of the best-looking people I have ever seen, but because you're more."
He stared at the fireplace as he spoke, the flames reflecting a dimly orange glow that reflected on his painfully handsome face.
"I'm moving," Rashad said.
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in.
"Oh," Wyatt breathed, to which he was offered a nod.
"My dad got a promotion. He and mom talked it over and decided it'd be a good idea to move to Boston with him so I'd wrap up junior and senior year."
"You can't just stay?"
"No. I've even already enrolled at a school there. It's called Willard."
In one moment Wyatt watched his hopes and dreams crumble to dust.
"Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?" he asked tiredly, at this point understanding it was already too late to salvage his dignity.
"Because you'd insist that we do long-distance," Rashad admitted, "and at this point in my life I just want to hook up with as many boys as I can without feeling like I'm betraying anyone."
"Was I not good enough for you?"
"You were more than enough, Wyatt."
A stretch of time passed in which both boys stared into the fireplace, and if Wyatt closed his eyes and ignored the quiet noises his heart made as it crumbled he could pretend it was just another normal day where he hadn't thrown a vase at the boy he loved. Where said boy agreed to stay.
"When do you leave?" he asked, breaking the spell of silence.
"Tomorrow," Rashad answered.
"I bet you're excited," Wyatt said with false cheer, and when he got no reply he prodded. "Did you get the box I mailed you?"
"Which box?"
"Our stuff, you know: the teddy bear, wristwatch, etc."
Rashad's face scrunched up in confusion before suddenly clearing up.
"Yeah, the box, it's probably around here somewhere."
They made small talk, a valiant effort considering the events which had transpired earlier.
"I think you should go home Carter," Rashad suggested and Wyatt recoiled, stung until a quick glance at the wall clock told him that it had gotten very late.
"Yeah, you're probably right," he murmured getting up.
He was waiting by the elevator when the other boy called out to him, and he turned, a small part of him leaping with expectation at the mental image of one melodramatically drawn-out final kiss. But it was not to be.
"I think you should consider seeing someone."
"Why?" he asked, smarting as the doors pinged open and he got in. "I'm completely normal."
"I'm sure you are."
His bandaged hands sat latched onto the straps of his bag, and the metal doors began to close. Wyatt wondered if this was what closure felt like, an open ending.
"Thanks, Rashad."
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n o t e
okay, so i know i haven't gotten around to compiling this story's official playlist but the song in the media is good 4 u by Olivia Rodrigo and i think it really captures the mood of everything that happened here.
honestly, i don't know, this chapter was pure chaos. you get to see a manic pixie dream side of Wyatt you never really noticed in SP and i gotta admit: i'm living, breathing, and dying it lol.
tell me what you think! x