Chapter Text
The Thorpe residence was the kind of property characterized as an estate – rolling manicured hills sitting on five acres, overtly Gothic influence made apparent in the leering gargoyles and massive glass windows that adorned the building’s façade. While not a castle, Xavier often felt it was close enough, with countless giant rooms and twelve foot vaulted ceilings.
The patriarch of the family was on business in Chicago. Had the term not ended early, Vincent Thorpe would have been waiting for Xavier in the vestibule, dressed to the nines per usual and expecting an equally perfect presentation from his beloved son.
The last time Xavier’s hair had been this long was in the ninth grade – Vincent had immediately called upon a butler to tend to his “unkemptness”. Later that evening, prior to attending formal supper with a newly minted cropped cut, Xavier heard his father on the phone in one of his offices – “… Came home looking like he’s never seen the light of day. God, he looked like his mother.” He’d never heard the word mother sound so cruel.
Xavier reached up to touch his hair, feeling the water drip from the ends down his shoulder blades. His singular duffle bag, a Goyard his father had gifted him last Christmas, was damp and currently limply residing at his feet. Strangely for a late November evening in Washington, it was raining like hell. Although he was typically treated with valet and concierge service, the waitstaff could care less of him if his father weren’t home. They likely hadn’t been expecting his presence at all, but he could hear distant voices in the west wing, a sort of steamy hum that inferred cooking. Although he had no appetite, it was satisfying to know there would be such an option as to eating.
Vincent was vain. He liked mirrors and portraits and video cameras. There was a massive mirror at the end of the hallway that housed Xavier’s bedroom. Floor to ceiling with a gold-plated frame. As a child, the mirror had felt like a portal to another world, his tiny frame enveloping only a corner of the sprawling glass; Xavier learned to hide from his own shadow and feared looking behind his shoulder, in case he may make eye contact with himself. Although he’d inherited his father’s incredible height and widows’ peaks, Xavier had always avoided self-perception. He’d gotten good at painting people – well, at painting Wednesday – but when he tried to paint himself, the result was an image more horrifying than the Hyde. Standing in the near dark on the mahogany wood flooring, in socks and once well-fitting pants now a size too large, Xavier thought he looked garish. He dared to follow his frame in the mirror from bottom to top, noting the deep-set placement of his large eyes, the way his lips lacked color from dehydration. He had a strangely long neck and an overly extortionate Adam’s apple. He took his index finger and gently traced where the Hyde attack scars had marred his pale skin. When was the last time someone had touched him here, softly? Had anyone ever?
Tyler Galpin was muscular, full in all the ways Xavier was empty. He was somebody Wednesday Addams kissed.
The thought was fleeting and felt dirty. Xavier had to practice stifling such insecurities, in case his father became aware of them. He needed to practice dishonesty, something good to eat up all the bad in his brain. Dad, I’ve met a girl, he mouthed silently to his reflection, trying to make the expression resultant of that lie akin to a smile. She plays the cello.