Chapter Text
Friday afternoon bled into the evening, the daylight softening at the edges despite heat still hanging in the air in the way Texas summer just did.
The sun filtered through the half drawn blinds, dust dancing in the air with every hurried movement in the room.
Wilson's curls were still damp after his shower, curling more than usual. Sweat already forming on his skin again from the stale air and the heat that still clung to his skin from the water.
He shrugged on a button-up, soft blue fabric laying lightly on his skin as he closed it with quick fingers.
He glanced up into the mirror, smoothing the fabric out with his hands, damp still from the shower. Or the heat.
Or maybe something else entirely. His fingers flexed once, eyes meeting his own reflection as he rolled up his sleeves.
Effortless. Casual. That's what he was going for.
Nothing important.
Just another evening.
Just a party.
He took a small breath, rolling his shoulders back, straightening.
The blue looked good against his skin, his eyes. He'd been told by a few people.
Blake mostly. His mum.
This was fine.
He looked fine.
His jeans looked a little worn but it didn't matter.
He shook out his curls where they lay too flat against his head. Still wet underneath.
They would dry eventually, especially in the sun.
He lifted his head again, hands braced on the drawer as he took himself in.
A drop of water ran down his temple, cooling his skin. He could feel his heart thudding unevenly in his chest.
Something felt wrong.
Something about the outfit. Or was it the hair?
No, definetly the shirt.
He clicked his tongue, more impatient than frustrated as he opened the buttons faster than necessary.
It landed somewhere on his desk chair, one sleeve inside out, collar turned the wrong way. He'd put it away later.
He faced the drawer again, rummaging through his folded shirts. Most of them cotton, a few faded from too many washes.
It was just a house party.
No need to look too put together.
His fingers grazed the fabric, warm and soft against his skin.
He stilled for a moment, like he suddenly remembered how stupid this was.
He didn't even know why he cared this much.
It was just another party. Just people from school getting too drunk, screaming to music and dancing too close.
He'd said it enough times now that it should've settled somewhere, should've taken the edge off the way his thoughts kept circling back to it, but it didn't.
It sat there, stubborn, like something half-true.
His fingers lingered on the fabric, pressing into the soft cotton like he might find an answer there if he waited long enough.
He knew why.
He just didn't want to say it out loud. Not even to himself.
He wouldn't even be going if Blake hadn't kept bringing it up. Dropping it into conversations like it meant nothing, like it was just another plan for the weekend. She hadn't even been subtle about it, either. Just a look, a nudge, a you're going, like the decision had already been made somewhere outside of him.
And he'd let it.
Because saying no would've meant explaining why.
And he didn't have a version of that that didn't sound stupid.
I want to sit in my room alone on a friday night like he did all the time.
I need to finish my painting because that definetly didn't have time another day.
I don't like half the people there, like that mattered.
Because Blake was there with him and she didn't like most of these people either.
It wasn't like any of these people were on his mind tonight anyway.
Only one.
He shook his head like that could make the thought go away.
His thumb caught on the edge of a folded sleeve, pulling it loose. The stack shifted slightly under his hands, fabric sliding against fabric with a soft, familiar drag.
Derek had mentioned it to him.
Not even directly, just in passing.
Something about people being there, music, someone bringing drinks. It hadn't sounded like an invitation, not really. More like something he was saying to the group, to no one in particular.
Still, it had felt like one.
Or like it could've been, if Wilson looked at it from the right angle.
The way his gaze jad caught on Wilson of all people, even in the group, even with all these people around. He'd glanced at him like he knew Wilson was looking at him. Listening.
Like he knew he would catch it.
A code. A silent invitation, only for him.
He exhaled through his nose, slow, almost annoyed at himself.
That was the problem. He always did that.
Took something small, turned it over until it meant more than it was ever supposed to. Reading between the lines even when nothing was written there to begin with.
His fingers paused again, then moved, pulling two shirts free without really looking.
A grey one, simple and clean.
And a faded band tee, the print cracked from too many washes, soft in that worn-in way that made it easy to disappear into.
The one he'd usually wear.
He held them both for a second, one in each hand, then turned them to face the mirror. He held one in front of himself, then the other. Like he didn't already know how he looked in them.
It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter.
He knew which one he was going to pick anyway.
The grey one felt smoother, the fabric a little thicker between his fingers, holding its shape better. It looked nicer, sitting better around his shoulders.
He didn't let himself think about it too long
He dropped the other back into the drawer and pulled the grey one over his head.
It caught slightly at his ears as he tugged it down, the fabric dragging just enough to make him huff out a quiet breath.
His hair shifted with it, damp strands sticking briefly before falling back into place, a little more out of control than before.
The shirt settled against his skin, still warm from the room, the fabric clinging faintly where his shoulders were still damp. He smoothed it down automatically, palms pressing over his chest, his stomach, like he could make it sit just right if he tried hard enough.
It fit better. He knew it did.
It sat just right at his shoulders, didn't hide his chest that much, didn't make him disappear inside.
He adjusted the hem once more, unnecessary, then let his hands drop, flexing his fingers slightly as if he could shake off the rest of the thought with them.
It didn't matter what he wore.
Still, he looked good. Good enough.
He shook his hair loose again with his fingers, the curls finally drying a little, bouncing against his forehead.
Still messy. Just how he liked it.
Just how—
He stopped himself, the thought catching halfway through as his hand dropped from his hair.
He looked down at himself. The way the shirt stretched over his chest, his jeans folding over his sneakers, worn but clean.
And somehow his stomach tightened.
He reached for his hoodie where it hung over the back of his chair, pulling it free with a quick tug. The zipper knocked softly against the fabric as he slipped his arms into the sleeves, the material familiar against his skin. He didn't bother closing it all the way, just enough to sit right, to break up the shape of the shirt underneath.
This was better. Less noticeable.
He adjusted it once at the shoulders, fingers brushing along the fabric before letting his hands fall again.
He looked up again before he could stop it.
His eyes met his reflection, steady, like he was checking something.
The curls had started to settle, drying just enough to fall the way they always did, a little uneven, a little messy without looking like he'd tried for it. The shirt still sat right, even under the hoodie, the lines of it not completely hidden.
Just like he didn't try. Like he always looked like this.
He hesitated for a second, shifting slightly as he looked at himself from a different angle.
He tried a small smile at first, testing, like he wasn't entirely sure what he was going for.
The corners of his mouth lifted just barely, like he had to force himself to do it.
Then, it grew a little wider, a bit more deliberate.
Something you could pass in a hallway. Something easy.
He watched the way it changed his face. The slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the dimples that showed more on one side than the other, the way his teeth sat just a little crooked, not enough to matter, but enough that he always noticed.
It looked fine. Good even.
Approachable, maybe.
Like someone people would talk to.
Maybe even someone people would like.
For a brief second, something in his chest lifted with it, light and unfamiliar and a little too close to something he didn't want to name.
He held it for a second longer, like he was proving it to himself.
Like if he held it long enough, he might actually feel it.
And then it hit him all at once. He let it fall, the expression slipping off his face as quickly as it had come.
"God," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head once as he looked away, a quiet huff leaving him.
What was he even doing?
He dragged a hand through his hair again, messing it up just enough to undo whatever he'd just tried to fix. He leaned a little closer, hands braced on the dresser, eyes searching his reflection like he was trying to find something wrong with it. Something to justify not going. His head tipped forward, curls brushing the mirror for a second. This was so stupid.
So stupid.
He pushed himself up again and stepped back from the mirror, like putting distance between himself and something he didn't want to look at too closely. The reflection shifted with him, caught for a second in the glass before it slipped out of focus as he turned away.
It felt easier, not looking.
Like that version of him stayed behind in the mirror, still standing there, still trying too hard.
He crossed the room in small steps. Moving helped get the static out of his body.
His foot caught the edge of his skateboard as he passed his bed, nudging it just enough for it to roll an inch across the floor with a soft scrape. He stilled for a second out of habit, then stepped over it, barely registering it anymore.
He'd been told to put it away more than once but he liked it here. Pushed it around with his feet sometimes while thinking, even if he hardly took it outside anymore. It belonged here.
It had its place.
The room felt warmer where the sun hit the walls, the air sitting heavier, clinging a little to his skin where his hair was still damp. He exhaled slowly, not quite a sigh, more like something settling.
His gaze drifted as he moved, catching on things without really stopping.
The painting by the wall, still not finished. The colors a little off where he'd tried to fix something that hadn't needed fixing in the first place. He paused just long enough to notice it, the way the brushstrokes didn't quite sit right, his fingers twitching slightly like he might reach for it.
He couldn't quite get it right but something in it seemed worth trying.
He stopped at his desk, cluttered in that way that only made sense to him.
A mug with dried paint clinging to the inside, a few pens scattered where they'd rolled, a notebook pushed slightly open, the edge of a page bent where it had caught on something. There were notes sticking out on the sides, the strings of it slightly frayed at the edges.
This was the third. It was halfway full with pictures and thoughts and doodles. The last few had taken longer to fill up. Maybe he just thought more nowadays.
Or maybe he wasn't as selective with what he put in anymore.
Didn't need a meaning for it.
Anything had a meaning if you gave it one. Maybe that was the problem.
His hand found the edge of it, fingertips brushing the paper before he pressed it closed.
It lingered there for a second longer than it needed to, resting flat against the cover before he lifted it again.
His glasses sat just beside it, slightly askew where he'd left them yesterday.
One arm folded in, the other not quite, catching the light at the edge where the sun hit the desk.
He looked at them for a moment.
Then he picked them up, turning them lightly in his fingers, straightening the arm without thinking before bringing them up and sliding them into place.
The weight settled easily against his nose, slightly colder but it warmed up fast.
He adjusted them once, pushing them up a little higher as his eyes lifted again.
The room shifted slightly as everything sharpened.
And with it the thought came back.
You look pretty in your glasses.
It didn't hit him the way it had before, sharp and sudden. It settled instead, quiet, warm in a way he didn't really question anymore.
Pretty.
He huffed softly under his breath, something almost like a smile tugging at his mouth before he pressed it down again. That wasn't a word people usually used for him. And he'd said it so easily to him
That wasn't nothing.
He'd looked right at him when he said it. Not like it was a joke, not like something thrown out because it fit the moment.
Like he meant it.
Wilson slipped his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders relaxing just slightly.
He'd be there tonight.
That part felt easier to hold onto now.
Nothing had to happen tonight.
Just a night.
Music, people, ridiculously sweet alcohol he wouldn't touch.
It could be nice for once.
The thought lingered for a second before he let it settle somewhere quieter, something he didn't have to look at too closely to keep.
He shifted his weight, turning slightly, his gaze landing on the guitar leaning near the wall.
He stepped closer this time, reaching for it almost absently.
His fingers found the strings. pressing down just enough before he plucked a few of them, one after the other, letting the notes ring out soft and clear into the room.
He listened for a second, head tilting just slightly, then let his hand fall away again.
The sound faded slowly, leaving the room quiet again.
And then the honk cut through it.
Sharp and sudden in the quiet street.
He blinked once, pulled out of it, the moment snapping back into place around him.
A smile pulled at his mouth despite himself.
Blake. Of course she was already there.
Of course impatient.
He walked over to the window in quick steps and pushed it up, struggling just a little where it stuck. He stuck his head out, the breeze catching his curls.
Her car sat in his driveway, a little crooked, sun reflecting harshly off it.
"I'm coming!" He yelled down, then went back inside, pushing the window closed.
He grabbed his phone and keys from the desk, pocketing them quickly. His fingers found their way into his hair again ruffling it before he could stop himself.
He huffed quietly, dropping his hand.
This was fine.
He could do that.
He turned, heading for the door, skipping down the steps, taking two at a time.
The air hit him warmer outside, the light already starting to soften as the sun dipped lower, everything edged in gold. Soft clouds started to crowd the sky, darker ones toward the edge of town.
Blake honked again, shorter this time.
"Alright, alright—" he muttered under his breath, pulling the door shut behind him.
He made his way down the path, the gravel crunching under his shoes, his steps quicker now, easier.
It didn't have to be anything.
Still, maybe it could be tonight.