IT WAS THE light, a stream of sunshine breaking through shutters and falling across his face, that made him come to; and in the brief window of semi-consciousness that followed, Wyatt stretched drowsily, forgetting. Everything made sense, the rules still applied, and as his eyes cracked open a sharp soreness registered down his lower half when he shifted and he smiled wryly.
Harlan hadn't exactly held back, he thought with a yawn, but it'd been worth it and he couldn't wait to tell Viv.
Then it hit himâmemories of all that had happened the previous night and into the early hours of the morning, and as he sat up, sheets falling down his torso and pooling over his waist, Wyatt grimaced, shielding his eyes against the harsh glare, pausing to look around for Harlan.
When he realized that the other boy was nowhere to be found he let himself yield to the siren call of the soft mattress beneath him.
This bed was heaven, and as his memories of the past couple of hours threatened to pull apart this burgeoning peace he dug himself further into the plush duvet, sighing blissfully as he kept his mind purposefully blank until a small voice reminded Wyatt that he should've been at home, in his own bed by now.
Immediately he shot up, and an undertone of panic thrummed through him as he set about to locating his clothes as quietly as possible. If the sound of running water coming from the direction of the closed bathroom was any indication, Harlan was in the shower, though God knew how long he'd been there and how much time remained before he finished.
The walk of shame was an art, and in a house as big as this it could only get more complicated. The stakes were high, but luckily Wyatt knew his way around a clock, and as he flew around the room slipping into his jeans and shoes, he mourned the fact that what he'd experienced was just a one-off thing and sent up a silent prayer to anyone listening that it would always be like this.
If all the boys he'd ever hooked up with were as considerate as Harlan had been, the world would be a better place. It was almost unfair, he thought, that a single person would be, handsome, and good at sex.
Wyatt spotted his shirt, a rumpled heap at the corner of the room it'd been tossed to just hours earlier, and picked it up to find that one of the sleeves had been torn almost clean off, at which point he let out a low groan.
A long moment passed in which he simply glared at the shorn fabric, too annoyed to form even one coherent thought. He'd blown a chunk of his monthly allowance on the shirt and yesterday had marked his second time wearing it. Now it was ruined, and a resigned sigh escaped him as understanding set in, dampening the ease he'd felt up until that point.
Wyatt started to shrug on the shirt but paused in the middle of his movements as the realization of his surroundings dawned on him. He was in the Harlan Petrova's bedroom. If such a thing as the best place to run into a fashion crises existed this was it, and it wasn't long before he located the walk-in closetâso much more bigger than he could've predicted, with racks of clothes, drawers for accessories, and shelves full of shoes. There were sections for dinner and casual wear, sneakers or monk straps.
It felt like walking into a department store, and Wyatt was sure that sometime in the past couple of hours he had died and gone to heaven. For a moment he paused to take it all, and then he got to work.
Harlan was broader than he was, taller too. But Wyatt knew that he could get away with one of his shirts, and not too long into his rummaging he stumbled on one he liked: a long-sleeved Balenciaga number with grey and black patches designed to look like splotches of paint.
The full-length mirror validated his choice, and already he could envision it with a pair of black cargo pants he'd only worn a couple of times.
Coincidentally, he spied a watch at the far end corner of the accessory display that would pull the whole look togetherâan understatedly beautiful piece with an oblong silver display and a sleek black leather strap.
Wyatt knew it would be wrong to take it, but compared to it's more flashy counterparts Harlan would not notice it was missing. He picked it from its position and was getting ready to slip his loot into his pockets and make himself scarce when a voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Good morning."
For a second Wyatt froze, and in the next he rose the watch to his face, squinting like he'd been meaning to observe it all along as he glanced over a shoulder at Harlan.
"Good morning," he replied with a grin as he restored the watch to its former position before turning fully. "The craftsmanship on it is gorgeousâwhere'd you get it?"
Harlan's expression remained calm even as his shoulders remained tense. "It was a gift from my mom."
Dodged a bullet there. "She had great taste." A brief lull, and then he continued. "This your shirt by the way."
"Is that so?" Harlan asked, amused, and Wyatt saw the tension leak out of him slowly.
"You ripped the sleeve off mine," Wyatt explained, voice dipping dangerously, and on a whim he closed the distance between them until he stood in front of the taller boy. "And I wanted reparations."
He sensed a shiver go through Harlan, and even as neither boy moved to close the bridge the small gap between them, they remained like this for close to half a minute, silent.
Eventually, Wyatt cleared his throat before taking a step back. "I should head home now."
Harlan blinked, and it wasn't until he straightened that Wyatt realized he'd been stopping.
"You could hang around for a bit longer," he suggested. "Shower, and get something to eat, maybe."
It was tempting, but the mental image of a red-faced Regan was enough to have him decline.
"Do you have a ride?" Harlan inquired.
Wyatt nodded. "I came with Canyon so he'll drop me off."
"Canyon left earlier."
He stared uncomprehendingly up at Harlan as he continued.
"A couple of hours ago, actually. With Bella, if I remember correctly."
Wyatt felt sick as meaning finally dawned on him, and as an almost helpless urge to cry threatened to take over him, he tried to smile reassuringly.
"I guess I'll have to get an Uber."
How could you be so stupid? he thought, as tears pricked behind his eyes. He didn't have any money on him. He hadn't brought any because at the time, there hadn't been a need to. He didn't have a back up plan. How could you be so repulsively stupid?
Wyatt wanted to throw up. The smile on his face felt strained.
"Don't worry," Harlan supplied smoothly. "The chauffeur usually takes guests home if they sleep over. Hold on, I'll get dressed and we can head down together."
They both knew that he was lying, but Wyatt was in no position to turn down the offer, and mutely he exited the closet to give Harlan some privacy as he got ready.
He made the driver drop him within walking distance, picked his discarded clothes from the neighbors rose bush and crept back home.
It was almost twelve p.m. and if things went the way he hoped, Regan had stayed up last night in his room drinking and would now be sleeping off the aftereffects of a hang over. He'd left his window slightly ajar, and if his father tried to call him and he did not answer it could be chalked up to his still being angry. These were dependent on a lot of variable outside his control, and so all Wyatt could do was hope.
Within moments he knew that things had not worked out in his favour.
His father paced on their front lawn, speaking rapidly into a phone as Wyatt approached unnoticed.
"No, he was here last night," Regan was saying, the exasperation in his voice evident, "We spoke. He's not the kind of kid to run away." Pause. "You're telling me I can't file a report if he hasn't beenâ"
And then he turned to find Wyatt standing a few ways off the lawn, Ziploc bag in hand.
"Thank you," he said without explanation before hanging up, and in a few strides he engulfed him in a bone crushing hug. He let out a shaky breath and led them into the house, closing the door behind him.
"Where were you?"
Wyatt didn't know what to say and so he ignored his father, making to move into the corridor that led to his room. He was rougly pulled back by his collar.
"Where were you?" Regan repeated. "I woke up this morning to find your room empty, and since then I have been sick with fear so please talk to me. I've earned that at least."
Wyatt considered lying, or acting up and starting an argument to deflect the question. But he was tired, and it had less to do with the minimal sleep he had gottenâhe wasn't alone, but he felt a loneliness that promise drowning settle into his bones.
"A party," he said quietly.
"A party?" the older man confirmed, and when Wyatt nodded his features turned slack with confusion. "So while the rest of us are going out of our mindsâme, your mother, Tobi and his parents, your teachers at schoolâyou're out there drinking and dancing, and throwing your life away."
Wyatt almost asked if he'd called Martha, but decided that he didn't want to get her in any sort of trouble.
"Are you this selfish?" Reagan said.
Yes.
The word say heavy on Wyatt's mind as a dam broke, and when he started to cry it felt like he would never stop.
His father's gaze turned less harsh as he led them both to Wyatt's room, where they sat on his bed, saying nothing until he finally wound down.
"Wyatt," Regan began somberly, "you've been acting erratic lately, and I don't know what's happening but I want to understand. Please, tell me."
A brief pause was all it took for him to decide whether or not to open up to his father. He didn't want to, but holding back would mean he cared enough and he couldn't even muster up the energy for that so he spoke of the panic he felt whenever he had an acne breakout or imagined himself with a face full of scars and blemishes. He spoke of Rashad and how he'd lost his temper at his apartment; Canyon and the partyâleaving out some parts of it.
It wasn't everything, but God it felt good to just offload and to his credit Reagan never stopped him. Sometimes his eyebrows rose till they looked like they'd disappeared into his hairline, and other times he stopped to ask for clarification, but that was all.
Half an hour later, Wyatt finished. His throat felt sore. His mouth tasted vile and his head had started to pound, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so light. The looming sense of nothingness always waiting at the periphery of his consciousness had retreated.
His relief was palpable.
His father studied him critically, eyes taking in these small changes.
"I'm about to do some laundry. If you have anything in need of washing, give me," he said finally, meeting Wyatt's eyes. "Take a shower, get something to eat and when you're done with that we'll talk some more. Is that OK?"
Wyatt considered his father, nodding after a long moment, and as Regan left with an armful of his dirty clothes he started to hum. It began softly, a meaningless combination of sounds as he scrubbed away the smell of smoke and sex, but by the time he'd slid into a pair of fresh pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt a melody was starting to form. He hummed as he ate; only stopping to swallow, and picking up immediately after.
Two hours had passed by the time he finished, and he approached Regan, who sat in their living room cleaning up his old violin.
It was a habit he'd picked up after the accident, and even though he'd never played the instrument since then it was still in fine shape from how well he'd maintained it over the years, changing and filing strings when they got rusty and tuning it every so often so that it remained able to sustain a note. He said it helped him think, which must have been true, because by the time Wyatt walked up to him he had come up with a solution.