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dracoqueen22a/n: A Thousand Words is the name of my original oneshot series featuring what I hope to be a variety of pairings. At present, it only consists of slash but I hope to include more in the future. It has a variety of themes and ranges from angst to humor to fluff with some eroticism thrown in for good measure. The first five can be found here.
This particular story, Moving On, is a direct sequel to the first oneshot Over and Over and was inspired by the song "Moving On," by Rascal Flatts.
Title: Moving On
Rating: T
Warning: language, angst, selfbeta, mentions of slashiness
Pairing: WesleyxAlex
Description: To Alex, Wesley is the place he can always call home.
“Are ya getting’ out, buddy?” the taxi driver growls, his voice rough and gravelly from years of smoking.
Alex can tell; the cigarette stench is practically soaked into the seats. He snaps to attention at the demand and nods, reaching for his laptop case and his small duffel bag. “Yeah, I am,” he says, putting a hand on the door.
“It’s fifty dollars,” the driver grunts, pinning Alex down with a single, beady stare as though daring Alex to stiff him on the fare.
Shoving three twenties at the man just to put an end to their brief acquaintance, Alex slips into a grey, drizzling afternoon. The cold should bother him, but it doesn’t. In fact, it feels just like coming home, it is so familiar to him.
The moment he shuts the door, the taxi practically spins its wheels, hurrying through the tiny cul-de-sac to be back on its way to the big city. This suburb isn’t that far out of the way, but he won’t get any more fares until he returns to Portland.
Alex looks at the house again. A car he doesn’t recognize sits in the driveway, outside the garage. Wesley has another visitor. Alex doesn’t know why he is surprised. He shouldn’t be. What Wesley does when Alex isn’t there isn’t any concern of his.
Taking in a deep breath, Alex shoulders his laptop bag and steps onto the winding walkway to the front door. Flickering lights in the front window suggest that someone is present in the living room.
Alex lifts a hand, pulling open the glass door first before rapping his knuckles against the white-painted wood. The knocker rattles noisily. He hears a grunt from behind the door, and the creaking of furniture. No need for a second knock then.
He feels something inside of him twist and flip. He looks forward to seeing Wesley again, almost as much as he fears it. He has missed Wesley, and yearning to see the other man is what has driven him to this tiny suburb in the first place. As it always has before.
The door opens with a noisy squeak and a stranger stands in the entryway, glaring down at Wesley through beer-soaked eyes. “Whatya want?” he slurs, thick-knuckled hands scratching at his shirt covered chest.
Alex blinks, straining to look past the inebriated gorilla. “Is Wesley home?”
“Who?”
“Wesley Graves?”
The stranger shakes his head as a low burp burbles from between his lips. “Ah, is that the guy who lived here before me?” he asks, but the question appears to be rhetoric because he shakes his head a minute later. “Nah, he moved out a month ago.”
Alex can’t stop his jaw from dropping, feeling as if someone has pulled a rug out from under his feet. His gaze shoots past the drunken man, catching sight of furniture he doesn’t recognize in the living room. He remembers the car that doesn’t belong in the driveway.
“He… what?” Alex is dumbfounded.
Wesley has lived here for the better part of eight years. They’d actually found this rental together because it’d been perfect for their living arrangement at the time. Its location had been perfect, as had the price and the neighborhood.
Drunken stranger drags his hands through his greasy hair, tossing a look over his shoulder at his television, obviously upset that he is missing a show. “Sorry, man. He don’t live here anymore. Guess he didn’t bother to tell you, huh?”
Alex isn’t given a chance to respond, the door slamming in his face without so much as a goodbye and leaving him staring at the painted wood. As if to prove how much the stranger doesn’t care, Alex hears the sounds of the television grow louder, drowning out all other noise.
Beyond confused, Alex turns away, letting the glass door close behind him. He digs into his pocket, fishing out his cell phone, and dials a number he knows by heart. It doesn’t even ring, heading straight into a pre-recorded message.
The number you have dialed is either disconnected or is no longer in service. Please, hang up and try again or contact—
Alex ends the call before the computer voice can finish its spiel. A moment of defeat crawls over Alex before he shakes his head and searches through his contacts, scanning the names for a specific number. It will be a miracle if he has kept it, but Alex is desperate.
The reality of the situation hasn’t really settled in. Alex isn’t sure what to expect. All kinds of explanations crowd at the back of his mind; he isn’t ready to settle on just one of them. He doesn’t know anything to hazard a guess. Not yet. No need to get worried.
A stroke of luck remains with Alex as he locates the correct number, nearly shouting with glee as he presses the button to call Shannon, Wesley’s ex-wife. Though they had divorced years ago – eight to be more precise – Wesley and Shannon are still close friends. They chat like a couple of unrelated buddies, as though a failed marriage doesn’t sit between them. Alex has often thought they were better that way, as friends rather than lovers. Certainly, the two of them have been happier separated than they were together.
Still, Alex never really understood why they split. They hadn’t argued over finances or children or jobs or any of the normal couple problems. Wesley hadn’t cheated; Shannon hadn’t fallen in love with someone else. It could have been something as normal as them simply falling apart, but Alex isn’t so sure. He has always felt like he is missing some piece of the puzzle.
Shannon has one of those cell phones that plays a song instead of a traditional ring. Alex winces as the jarring racket of “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” assaults his eardrums. Shannon’s sense of humor has always been a little warped.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Shannon,” Alex greets, knowing she will recognize his voice if nothing else. He does have the bad habit of constantly having to change his cell phone number after all. “I’d hate to bother you but--”
“Yes, I know where he is,” she interrupts him curtly, her voice thick with annoyance and something else – chastisement perhaps. “And no, I’m not going to tell you.”
Alex’s brow crinkles as he stares out at the surrounding neighborhood, watching the rain come down in even thicker sheets. “I… what?”
“Don’t play that dumb shit with me, Alex. I’m not stupid,” Shannon says sharply, and in the background, Alex can clearly hear the sounds of her kids playing and some sort of television set with a cartoon on it. The one with the annoying, laughing, piece of sponge.
“I just want to talk to him,” Alex says, trying not to sigh. Shannon has always been difficult and Alex has never particularly liked her, but she was Wesley’s wife, not his. Liking Shannon hadn’t been a requirement for Alex.
“God, you’re such an idiot.” Shannon breathes heavily into the phone, creating an annoying burst of static. “You don’t even know why he left.”
Well, Alex can think of a few reasons, one of them being Shannon herself, but then… it just isn’t enough explanation. “I’d like to be given the chance to ask.”
“He did it to get away from you!”
Alex’s breath catches in his throat. “… What?”
A burst of curse words attacks him from the phone, vile enough that Alex flinches. Shannon has never been very ladylike but good god, this is awful.
“You never even asked why we split, did you, Alex?” she demands, though she obviously has no intention of giving him a chance to respond because she barrels right on. “You never even wondered why I ended things. It never mattered to you because you had Wesley back, you two and your little homo-dance you keep playing with each other. And I’m not going to be your game piece. I’m not an idiot.”
Alex gapes, though Shannon can’t see the dumbfounded look on his face. He feels something curling in his belly, twisting and churning uncomfortably. “Shannon--” Her words are like a knife through his chest, stabbing into something painful and debilitating.
“You don’t even know what you want and it’s killing him,” Shannon continues, spitting at him through the phone. The background noise fades; she must have gone somewhere for some privacy. “You’re just too blind to see it. So yeah, the coward up and ran because he can’t say no to your big goo-goo eyes and it’s killing him. But know what? You’re a fucking coward, too.”
Alex sags, grip so tight on his cell phone that he can hear the plastic crackling worrisomely. “What? I--”
Shannon interrupts him again, as though his words mean very little to her. “He’s a good man, Alex. So stop your little half-hearted dance and either stop running, or end it for good.”
“How am I supposed to do that if I can’t find him!” Alex demands, feeling like tearing his hair out from sheer frustration alone.
“That’s your problem; not mine,” Shannon snarls. “So do me a favor and lose this number.”
The call goes dead before Alex can bring up further protest, leaving him to stare blankly at the numbers flashing across his screen. A five-minute conversation with Shannon and Alex feels like crawling under a rock. But that won’t hide him from her words, not when they bombard his heart and mind like rapid gunfire, sharp and strong with guilt.
What is he supposed to do now?
Alex stares blankly at his phone, long after the screen has darkened. What other friends does Wesley have? None that would give Alex his location if Shannon has been warned. And Wesley’s parents are dead. His only sister lives way out on the east coast. She might know something, but Alex doesn’t have her number. He’s never gotten along with Rebecca so he makes it a point to avoid contact with her.
Wait!
Assuming that Wesley hasn’t quit his job, he must still be in Damascus somewhere, and would have to return to work at some point. A quick glance to his phone and Alex remembers it’s far too late for him to swing by the local high school and catch Wesley there. It’s almost seven in the evening after all. Wesley would have long since gone home. Wherever that is now.
Sighing, Alex dials 411 for the number to the only cab service in town. For now, he’ll just have to find himself a hotel room and wait until tomorrow to confront Wesley and find out what the hell is going on.
He ends up having to stand in the rain for another twenty minutes before the beat up, dark purple Crown Victoria pulls up, allowing Alex to slip inside. This time, the cab is much cleaner and less smelly, and Alex tips the driver more than he needs to, in order to make up for halfway soaking the seats with his damp clothes. The grizzled driver drops Alex off in front of the local Holiday Inn, probably the best place to be found in Damascus.
Alex pays way too much for a single night and can’t ignore the fatigue crawling over his shoulders as he swipes the keycard and steps into his room for the night. It’s clean, smelling faintly of freshly laundered bedding, which he supposes makes up for the cost. He throws his bags onto one of the two double beds in the room and sits down on the other, idly tugging at the collar of his shirt.
It’s quiet here, no sound save the rain pounding at the window. A constant noise, one Alex is used to. He grew up here in Damascus; he’s used to wet weather. He’s used to a lot of things.
He sits and stares, contemplates his cell phone, resisting the urge to dial Wesley’s disconnected number again. It’s not like it’ll make a difference.
Why wasn’t he there? Why had he moved?
Alex sighs, stands, and tugs off his clothes, leaving them in a damp pile in the middle of the room. Belatedly, he wanders over to close the curtains on a dingy, early evening before taking a shower, hoping the heat of the water will chase away the chill of the rain. He’s distracted as he scrubs shampoo through his hair, staring at a small nick in the shower’s lining.
His thoughts are moving faster than light and dragging like molasses all the same. He thinks of Wesley. He thinks of all the reasons he returned to Damascus, a town he hates. He thinks of Julia, his editor, and the disappointment etched into her features. Of the heavily marked manuscript in his bag, stamped with signs that it’s just not his usual quality.
He thinks about Wesley and what could have caused him to leave. Why Shannon would sound so bitter. Her accusations of cowardice. Wesley had never said anything! How was Alex supposed to know? He can’t read minds!
With a growl, Alex slams off the water in the shower, still feeling cold despite the heat, which made the small bathroom hazy and the mirror cloudy. He towels off with jerky movements, swiping the cloth over his much shorter hair. Julia’s idea, of course. She thought he would do better with a much more professional appearance.
Alex crawls into bed because he has nothing better to do, staring at the screen of his cell phone as though expecting it to suddenly ring. The battery bars show him it has less than a third life left. He throws it onto the bedspread of the second bed, unconcerned, and reaches for the TV remote, anything to fill the silence that seems to crawl over him, making his heart race and his palms sweat. It’s far too warm in the room, the heat notched up to combat the damp chill of the rain, but Alex still feels cold.
He flicks through the channels offered, and finally settles on a marathon of House, MD reruns. Something that can usually entertain, but only offers background noise at the moment. Alex’s thoughts are far too much of a whirlwind for him to focus on a show. There’s a feeling inside of him, twisting and churning unpleasantly with worry.
What if Wesley quit his job at Damascus High as well? What if he’s not only left the city but the state as well? How the hell is Alex going to find him then?
Why is he trying so hard for that matter? Shannon’s words only highlight the fact that Wesley is attempting to avoid Alex, to put distance between them. Without even so much as a goodbye or an explanation.
Alex turns over in the bed, staring at the plain white walls, snarky comments from the TV floating to his ears.
He doesn’t know what to call what stands between himself and Wesley. It’s more than friendship, but it’s not on the level of lifetime lovers either. Alex only knows that Wesley has always been there, there’s always been Wesley. Something Alex never even had to look twice to know. They’ve been friends since they were kids, since living next door to each other in a ratty trailer park on the outskirts of Damascus, subject to the teasing and tormenting of other children who had far too much and bullied the kids who didn’t.
Time stands between them. Alex can’t even remember when it started. When they went from wrestling like a couple of idiot boys to touching each other in startling intimate ways to sharing the same bed. There were women, countless women, in and out of each other’s life. But to Alex, there was always Wesley, no matter whom he dated and eventually left him in one way or another.
His father would be laughing at him right now, Alex thought. Though the man was hardly the picture of success, what with his alcoholism and failure to hold a steady job for more than six months, he’d always told Alex just how little Alex’s own life would mean. How impossible it was for Alex to succeed. Wesley had hated him; Alex had trouble not hating his father himself.
Alex forces his eyes closed even if it is early. He doesn’t have a regular sleep schedule, what with rampant insomnia, so it doesn’t matter. If he can sleep, he’ll sleep. And right now, Alex doesn’t want to be awake, staring up at the ceiling, running if ands and buts through his mind.
Tomorrow, he’ll go to Damascus High and see if Wesley is still there. He’ll worry about the rest later.
* * *
Nostalgia creeps over him, sitting on his shoulder like a gargoyle, whispering of past memories into his ear. Some fifteen years ago, Alex remembers graduating from this tiny, underfunded high school. He remembers throwing his cap in the air, convinced he was going on to bigger, better things. He remembers Wesley smiling at him as they shook hands in congratulations. He remembers Lucy – blond, tiny waist, thousand watt smile – as she hung on his side, planting wet kisses against his cheek. He remembers a promise to always be friends. Funny how he can’t recall Lucy’s last name anymore.
Damascus High is a squat building, low ceilings and dim lighting. It smells of mildew that no amount of scrubbing, Pinesol, or Clorox can erase. It’s lunch time; Wesley can hear the chatter of hundreds of high school students in the cafeteria, but he passes it by, making way to the front office. Rather than wander the sprawling compound in search of Wesley, he’d rather see if the man still has his job here.
The sound of printers and light conversation fill his ears as Alex steps into the main office, a light, floral scent teasing at his nose. Someone’s received a delivery of roses today, he notices.
The woman behind the counter smiles as he approaches and she’s familiar to him, but no matter how much Alex wracks his memory, he can’t recall her name.
“Can I help you?”
Alex puts forth his most charming expression. “I’m looking for Wesley Graves. Does he still work here?”
Before the secretary can so much as answer, another voice breaks into the conversation, startling in its familiarity. “Dear lord, Alexander Worthy. Is that you?”
He turns, catching sight of a white-haired woman who looks very familiar indeed. Alex doesn’t even have to strain to remember her name. Mrs. Dumont had always been his favorite teacher, unsurprising considering that she taught Advanced English. And Alex had been one of her favorite pupils. She is the one to have inspired his current choice in occupation.
The smile curling Alex’s face this time is completely genuine. “Mrs. Dumont,” he says, inclining his head in greeting. “It’s good to see you, though I’m surprised you recognized me.”
Her blue eyes sparkle at him as she crosses the distance, pulling him into a motherly hug that smells of baby powder and coffee. “If you hadn’t mentioned Wesley, I probably wouldn’t have made the connection. You two always were connected at the hip.” She draws back, her hands on his shoulder, looks him up and down. “I read On The Mountain,” Mrs. Dumont adds. “It was wonderful. Very vivid. I always knew you had talent.”
Somehow, her words warm him more than the glowing praise his single successful novel had produced. “Thank you,” Alex says, and then looks around hopefully. “Is Wesley still here?”
She nods, tightly coiled bun bobbing with the motion. “Yes, dear, of course he is. The students are quite fond of him.”
Alex isn’t surprised. Wesley has always been the more friendly and outgoing of them. He has great charm and charisma and a killer smile.
Of course, this is overshadowed by the great sense of relief that floods Alex. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders sagging. Wesley is still here; Alex still has a chance to talk to him. To find out what went wrong.
“Would it cause any problems if I went to talk to him?”
Mrs. Dumont purses her lips in thought. “I think something can be arranged,” she says, and Alex watches as she instructs the secretary to whip Alex up a visitor’s pass, pinning the almost childish bus-shaped piece of laminated paper to his shirt. “Any idea what’s coming out next?”
Alex, lost to his own thoughts, blinks as he tries to decipher her question. “What?”
“Your novels, dear,” she says, and as she looks at him, Alex swears it’s like she knows, as though there’s a sign on his forehead that reveals how much he feels like falling apart. “What’s next?”
Alex thinks about the marked up manuscript in his bag at the hotel. He thinks about Julia’s disappointed look, her suggestions that he start over, that he somehow get his act together because crap like his isn’t going to sell.
“A murder mystery, I think,” he lies, and forces a smile onto his lips. “I always thought that would be interesting to try.”
She walks along with him as they turn toward the door into the hallway, a hum of approval in her throat. “Not quite my cup of tea, but I’ll read it nonetheless.” Mrs. Dumont laughs, full of color, as they slide into the corridor. “I tell my students all the time that I taught you, but they don’t believe me.”
Maybe, someday, Alex will return just to show those students the truth of Mrs. Dumont’s words. She was the best teacher Alex had; it’s the least he can do.
“Anyway, Alexander, Wesley is on the east hall. Room 37. I’m sure you remember the way.”
It’s been fifteen years, but Alex hasn’t forgotten. How can he? Nothing’s changed. Not even the cracked linoleum of the floor, or the peeling, aging posters on the wall. The dusty trophies in an equally dusty case and the flickering EXIT sign.
“I do. Thank you, Mrs. Dumont.”
She smiles at him again, something penetrating in her look, and pats his shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you,” she says, and turns away, a little slower in motion now thanks to her declining age.
Alex watches her go, thinking fondly of so many years ago when she had been the only one to notice what talent hid behind his shy, awkward exterior. Her words of praise and gentle corrections still stuck with him, even after all these years.
Shaking his head, Alex adjusts the collar of his button-up shirt, and starts down the hallway. The silence is magnified by the sound of his footsteps, but is abruptly broken when a loud bell rings, nearly making him leap two feet in the air. Lunchtime is over. It won’t be long before the corridors are filled with hundreds of noisy teenagers.
He takes a short cut through the empty stage, halfway decorated for this years production of Little House of Horrors, he notices. Empty seats, marked with graffiti, serve as reminders that Damascus High really hasn’t changed at all.
The short cut puts Alex in the middle of the east hall where he’s nearly swept along in a tide of rushing teenagers, jabbering noisily, not even noticing the adult in their midst. They are too focused on their gossip, their cell phones, the clanks of their lockers, and hurrying on to the next class before they are deemed tardy.
Alex fights against the rising tide, eyes searching for room 37. It takes him several minutes to realize he’d initially chosen the wrong direction and he has to turn around, the halls growing noticeably emptier. Pangs of nostalgia continue to hem and haw in his ear – old classrooms and rickety water fountains and the same wobbly bench in the corridor outside the janitor’s closet. Alex doesn’t miss high school, but he didn’t hate it either. He rests nicely between utter loathing and fondness.
Room 37 comes into view just as a second bell chimes announcing that any lingering students are officially tardy. Not that there are any to be found. He peers through the rectangular viewing window, catching sight of Wesley standing at the front of his class, looking rather professional in pressed slacks and a pale blue business shirt, tucked in with the top button undone. He turns toward the blackboard, gesturing to something written up in chalk.
Alex lifts a hand and knocks. He probably shouldn’t interrupt a class in progress, but if there’s on way to guarantee that Wesley will at least talk to him without making a big deal of things, it’s by showing up in front of Wesley’s students. Selfish, yes, but Wesley up and disappearing on Alex wasn’t a selfless move on Wesley’s part either.
Wesley turns toward the door at the sound of the knock, but Alex steps out of sight, forcing Wesley to actually approach and open the door.
It swings out and Alex steps into view, unsurprised when pale brown eyes first widen in surprise and recognition, before narrowing with resignation.
“What’re you doing here?” Wesley demands in a low tone, half in and out of his classroom, the door concealing the right half of his body.
Alex can see a few curious faces straining toward the door – curious teenagers determined for a scrap of gossip. “How else was I supposed to find you?” Alex says, keeping his own voice low for Wesley’s sake. “You moved out and changed your number.”
Wesley shakes his head and Alex notices that his usually spiked reddish hair is neatly brushed on his head, a more professional look. “No, I meant here,” Wesley says, waving his hand in gesture to the school. “You can’t just come into a school like this.”
“Mrs. Dumont’s the one who told me where you’d be. And gave me the hall pass.” Alex fingers the bus-shaped tag pointedly. He licks his lips, looking his fill at Wesley, unable to ignore the flipping of his stomach. “What the hell’s going on, Wesley?”
Wesley sighs, his lips firming. “I’m not talking about this,” he says, and rubs his forehead with one hand before moving to slide back into his classroom.
Alex is not letting him escape that easily. He’s fully capable of making a scene if need be. All he wants is a damn conversation, some answers. Is that too much to ask?
“Yes, you are,” Alex says, and grabs his arm, stopping his retreat. “I deserve an explanation.” His voice rises a little, louder than before, loud enough that Wesley’s students can probably catch echoes of it.
Wesley slides out of the classroom and lets the door shut behind him, making things seem a lot more private. “You deserve an explanation?” he demands, his tone incredulous and angry, standing on a precipice of outrage as he works his jaw before coming to a decision. “Fine, but not here. Fourth period’s free for me. I’ll meet you in the courtyard.”
Alex doesn’t let go of him, not just yet. “If you avoid me, I’ll just come back.”
“You always do,” Wesley mutters, but Alex isn’t even sure if he is meant to hear it because Wesley opens the door and slides back into his classroom. Shoulders straight, composed, easily ignoring the curious glances his students are shooting him.
Alex feels something curl in his belly but is unsure how to label the emotion. Attraction and lust are both there, for certain. Wesley looks incredibly attractive like this, dressed up and professional, at ease in front of a classroom of students as he lectures them on some scientific topic. He’d always been such a science geek.
But there are other emotions there as well. Concern. Fear. Guilt. Regret. Hope. Alex can’t even name them all.
He spends the next hour wandering the halls, looking at the banners plastered over the aging paint, listening to the sounds of a school in progress. Remembering the old days. He makes his way to the courtyard, something shaded by tall trees with several stone benches arranged in a half-circle around an aging statue whose features have smoothed over by time and weather. It’s warm and humid outside, making Alex’s clothes feel sticky against his skin.
He closes his eyes, sits on the bench, and waits, letting the heat soak into his flesh. He still feels chilled, as though the rain from last night – evident in the still damp ground – remains over his head. He wonders what the hell he’s going to say to Wesley, apart from demanding answers. He wonders why he feels an apology would be first and foremost appropriate. He wonders why he keeps hearing Shannon’s accusation echo in the back of his mind.
The bell rings, ending third period, and Alex has only to wait before Wesley comes to find him. If Wesley comes to find him.
“What was it this time?”
Wesley’s voice spills into the afternoon and Alex turns to see him approaching, looking suave and controlled, if not a little annoyed about Alex’s sudden appearance.
Alex clears his throat pointedly. “I have to have a reason?”
“You would have stuck around otherwise,” Wesley says, and he arrives at Alex’s side, looking down at him from two feet away. “What was it? Another woman left you? A bad review? You only ever show up when you need me.”
“Then that should tell you something, shouldn’t it?” Alex says, and looks up at Wesley, unable to deny just how attractive his best friend is at the moment. “Why did you leave?”
“Because if I didn’t, I was going to fall apart.”
Alex, stunned, stares at Wesley. “You…”
“I’m not doing this anymore,” Wesley says, and lowers himself onto the stone bench beside Alex, brushing aside a few fallen leaves “I’m tired, Alex. Of this situation and of being hurt.”
Alex swallows thickly, surprised himself by how difficult it is. He isn’t sure he is processing Wesley’s words correctly, as though it’s not sinking in yet. “What do you want from me?”
“Permanence.”
“What?”
Wesley’s hands settle in his lap, his back rigid as though he’s trying to hold onto his composure. He doesn’t look at Alex, focused instead on one of the drooping willows. “Either be with me or let me go. I’m not walking the line anymore.”
Alex struggles to breathe, his fingers flexing against his thigh. His heart is a pitter-patter inside his chest that can’t be good for health. “I didn’t… you never…” He’s never been the most eloquent, but even now, Alex is particularly speechless. “I’m--”
“Don’t apologize,” Wesley says, and he finally looks at Alex, the darkness in his pale eyes completely unreadable. “You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”
Alex can’t fight the urge to fight. Wesley’s right, even if Alex won’t say so aloud. He recognizes that he hurt Wesley, and he wants to apologize for that. But he never even knew he had such power. Wesley has always been important to him, more than anyone, but Alex never even fathomed, never even suspected, that Wesley felt the same about him.
He runs his tongue over his lips, staring at the rigidity of Wesley’s shoulders, at the warm wind teasing his hair. “Shannon accused me of being a coward.”
A sharp bark of laughter escapes from Wesley’s lips, more bitter than amused. “She said the same thing to me,” Wesley admits and his gaze bores through Alex. “I never asked, you never offered. I never wondered what kept driving you back; I was just glad it did. But I can’t do that anymore, Alex. I can’t.”
He swears that the warm air has turned cold around them, making a shiver race down Alex’s back. “So what is this? An ultimatum? It’s not like I can’t find you again.”
Wesley makes a sound in his throat, one Alex isn’t sure he can interpret, as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m leaving after this semester,” he says quietly. “I’m leaving Damascus. I’m a teacher. We’re pretty much in demand everywhere. It won’t be hard.”
Alex feels something inside of him crack, some faint thought that whatever insane things Wesley is saying can’t be true because he can always just find Wesley again. But the semester ends in less than a month, driving Wesley’s point home. There’s a pain in Alex’s chest, and he rubs at it with his palm, breathing shallow. He feels hot and cold at the same time.
“Where are you going to go?” Alex asks, his mouth strangely dry.
“As far away as I need to.” Wesley sounds so strong, so sure of his choice, as though it doesn’t bother him at all, despite the pain swimming in his eyes. “I never asked you what you felt about me and I’m not going to now. The choice is yours, Alex. And you have until I leave to make it.”
There’s a sound somewhere in the distance, like something shattering, a window maybe. Or perhaps that’s just Alex’s imagination. “No matter what I say, you’re going to leave.”
“Damascus? Yes.” Wesley rises to his feet, his height casting a small shadow over Alex now that he’s moved in the path of the sun. His expression is impossible to see, what with the sun shining over his shoulder. “Though depending on your answer, you might have the option to come with me.”
Alex isn’t sure what to say. Wesley’s asking for more from him. Alex’s never known that he even wanted to. Alex has never asked himself if that is what he wants from himself. He can’t imagine his life without Wesley in it. But is he ready for this? For a completely homosexual relationship? Is that what he wants?
“Wesley…”
“I’m going to be busy, packing and making plans. I’ll call you.” He sounds distant, as though removed from Alex, much farther away than the half-dozen steps between them.
Alex can’t even find the words to say. He doesn’t know what he needs to say, what he wants to say. He doesn’t want Wesley to leave.
He says nothing, only watches as Wesley walks away, heading back inside the school. It is the first time Alex can ever remember watching Wesley leave him as opposed to the other way around. He can’t deny how the sight makes his gut squirm, makes him want to throw himself to his feet, chasing after that solid back.
Alex has less than a month to make a decision. He can’t shake the fear that he’s already lost Wesley, that even if he gets over himself, Wesley won’t be there to accept Alex or his apology.
* * *
a/n: Cliffhanger! Whoops. I had intended to end their story here but it was not to be so. There is definitely a third in the series, yet to be written, but soon to come. Thanks for reading!
As always, feedback is appreciated.
This particular story, Moving On, is a direct sequel to the first oneshot Over and Over and was inspired by the song "Moving On," by Rascal Flatts.
Title: Moving On
Rating: T
Warning: language, angst, selfbeta, mentions of slashiness
Pairing: WesleyxAlex
Description: To Alex, Wesley is the place he can always call home.
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A Thousand Words
Snapshot Six - Moving On
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“Are ya getting’ out, buddy?” the taxi driver growls, his voice rough and gravelly from years of smoking.
Alex can tell; the cigarette stench is practically soaked into the seats. He snaps to attention at the demand and nods, reaching for his laptop case and his small duffel bag. “Yeah, I am,” he says, putting a hand on the door.
“It’s fifty dollars,” the driver grunts, pinning Alex down with a single, beady stare as though daring Alex to stiff him on the fare.
Shoving three twenties at the man just to put an end to their brief acquaintance, Alex slips into a grey, drizzling afternoon. The cold should bother him, but it doesn’t. In fact, it feels just like coming home, it is so familiar to him.
The moment he shuts the door, the taxi practically spins its wheels, hurrying through the tiny cul-de-sac to be back on its way to the big city. This suburb isn’t that far out of the way, but he won’t get any more fares until he returns to Portland.
Alex looks at the house again. A car he doesn’t recognize sits in the driveway, outside the garage. Wesley has another visitor. Alex doesn’t know why he is surprised. He shouldn’t be. What Wesley does when Alex isn’t there isn’t any concern of his.
Taking in a deep breath, Alex shoulders his laptop bag and steps onto the winding walkway to the front door. Flickering lights in the front window suggest that someone is present in the living room.
Alex lifts a hand, pulling open the glass door first before rapping his knuckles against the white-painted wood. The knocker rattles noisily. He hears a grunt from behind the door, and the creaking of furniture. No need for a second knock then.
He feels something inside of him twist and flip. He looks forward to seeing Wesley again, almost as much as he fears it. He has missed Wesley, and yearning to see the other man is what has driven him to this tiny suburb in the first place. As it always has before.
The door opens with a noisy squeak and a stranger stands in the entryway, glaring down at Wesley through beer-soaked eyes. “Whatya want?” he slurs, thick-knuckled hands scratching at his shirt covered chest.
Alex blinks, straining to look past the inebriated gorilla. “Is Wesley home?”
“Who?”
“Wesley Graves?”
The stranger shakes his head as a low burp burbles from between his lips. “Ah, is that the guy who lived here before me?” he asks, but the question appears to be rhetoric because he shakes his head a minute later. “Nah, he moved out a month ago.”
Alex can’t stop his jaw from dropping, feeling as if someone has pulled a rug out from under his feet. His gaze shoots past the drunken man, catching sight of furniture he doesn’t recognize in the living room. He remembers the car that doesn’t belong in the driveway.
“He… what?” Alex is dumbfounded.
Wesley has lived here for the better part of eight years. They’d actually found this rental together because it’d been perfect for their living arrangement at the time. Its location had been perfect, as had the price and the neighborhood.
Drunken stranger drags his hands through his greasy hair, tossing a look over his shoulder at his television, obviously upset that he is missing a show. “Sorry, man. He don’t live here anymore. Guess he didn’t bother to tell you, huh?”
Alex isn’t given a chance to respond, the door slamming in his face without so much as a goodbye and leaving him staring at the painted wood. As if to prove how much the stranger doesn’t care, Alex hears the sounds of the television grow louder, drowning out all other noise.
Beyond confused, Alex turns away, letting the glass door close behind him. He digs into his pocket, fishing out his cell phone, and dials a number he knows by heart. It doesn’t even ring, heading straight into a pre-recorded message.
The number you have dialed is either disconnected or is no longer in service. Please, hang up and try again or contact—
Alex ends the call before the computer voice can finish its spiel. A moment of defeat crawls over Alex before he shakes his head and searches through his contacts, scanning the names for a specific number. It will be a miracle if he has kept it, but Alex is desperate.
The reality of the situation hasn’t really settled in. Alex isn’t sure what to expect. All kinds of explanations crowd at the back of his mind; he isn’t ready to settle on just one of them. He doesn’t know anything to hazard a guess. Not yet. No need to get worried.
A stroke of luck remains with Alex as he locates the correct number, nearly shouting with glee as he presses the button to call Shannon, Wesley’s ex-wife. Though they had divorced years ago – eight to be more precise – Wesley and Shannon are still close friends. They chat like a couple of unrelated buddies, as though a failed marriage doesn’t sit between them. Alex has often thought they were better that way, as friends rather than lovers. Certainly, the two of them have been happier separated than they were together.
Still, Alex never really understood why they split. They hadn’t argued over finances or children or jobs or any of the normal couple problems. Wesley hadn’t cheated; Shannon hadn’t fallen in love with someone else. It could have been something as normal as them simply falling apart, but Alex isn’t so sure. He has always felt like he is missing some piece of the puzzle.
Shannon has one of those cell phones that plays a song instead of a traditional ring. Alex winces as the jarring racket of “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” assaults his eardrums. Shannon’s sense of humor has always been a little warped.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Shannon,” Alex greets, knowing she will recognize his voice if nothing else. He does have the bad habit of constantly having to change his cell phone number after all. “I’d hate to bother you but--”
“Yes, I know where he is,” she interrupts him curtly, her voice thick with annoyance and something else – chastisement perhaps. “And no, I’m not going to tell you.”
Alex’s brow crinkles as he stares out at the surrounding neighborhood, watching the rain come down in even thicker sheets. “I… what?”
“Don’t play that dumb shit with me, Alex. I’m not stupid,” Shannon says sharply, and in the background, Alex can clearly hear the sounds of her kids playing and some sort of television set with a cartoon on it. The one with the annoying, laughing, piece of sponge.
“I just want to talk to him,” Alex says, trying not to sigh. Shannon has always been difficult and Alex has never particularly liked her, but she was Wesley’s wife, not his. Liking Shannon hadn’t been a requirement for Alex.
“God, you’re such an idiot.” Shannon breathes heavily into the phone, creating an annoying burst of static. “You don’t even know why he left.”
Well, Alex can think of a few reasons, one of them being Shannon herself, but then… it just isn’t enough explanation. “I’d like to be given the chance to ask.”
“He did it to get away from you!”
Alex’s breath catches in his throat. “… What?”
A burst of curse words attacks him from the phone, vile enough that Alex flinches. Shannon has never been very ladylike but good god, this is awful.
“You never even asked why we split, did you, Alex?” she demands, though she obviously has no intention of giving him a chance to respond because she barrels right on. “You never even wondered why I ended things. It never mattered to you because you had Wesley back, you two and your little homo-dance you keep playing with each other. And I’m not going to be your game piece. I’m not an idiot.”
Alex gapes, though Shannon can’t see the dumbfounded look on his face. He feels something curling in his belly, twisting and churning uncomfortably. “Shannon--” Her words are like a knife through his chest, stabbing into something painful and debilitating.
“You don’t even know what you want and it’s killing him,” Shannon continues, spitting at him through the phone. The background noise fades; she must have gone somewhere for some privacy. “You’re just too blind to see it. So yeah, the coward up and ran because he can’t say no to your big goo-goo eyes and it’s killing him. But know what? You’re a fucking coward, too.”
Alex sags, grip so tight on his cell phone that he can hear the plastic crackling worrisomely. “What? I--”
Shannon interrupts him again, as though his words mean very little to her. “He’s a good man, Alex. So stop your little half-hearted dance and either stop running, or end it for good.”
“How am I supposed to do that if I can’t find him!” Alex demands, feeling like tearing his hair out from sheer frustration alone.
“That’s your problem; not mine,” Shannon snarls. “So do me a favor and lose this number.”
The call goes dead before Alex can bring up further protest, leaving him to stare blankly at the numbers flashing across his screen. A five-minute conversation with Shannon and Alex feels like crawling under a rock. But that won’t hide him from her words, not when they bombard his heart and mind like rapid gunfire, sharp and strong with guilt.
What is he supposed to do now?
Alex stares blankly at his phone, long after the screen has darkened. What other friends does Wesley have? None that would give Alex his location if Shannon has been warned. And Wesley’s parents are dead. His only sister lives way out on the east coast. She might know something, but Alex doesn’t have her number. He’s never gotten along with Rebecca so he makes it a point to avoid contact with her.
Wait!
Assuming that Wesley hasn’t quit his job, he must still be in Damascus somewhere, and would have to return to work at some point. A quick glance to his phone and Alex remembers it’s far too late for him to swing by the local high school and catch Wesley there. It’s almost seven in the evening after all. Wesley would have long since gone home. Wherever that is now.
Sighing, Alex dials 411 for the number to the only cab service in town. For now, he’ll just have to find himself a hotel room and wait until tomorrow to confront Wesley and find out what the hell is going on.
He ends up having to stand in the rain for another twenty minutes before the beat up, dark purple Crown Victoria pulls up, allowing Alex to slip inside. This time, the cab is much cleaner and less smelly, and Alex tips the driver more than he needs to, in order to make up for halfway soaking the seats with his damp clothes. The grizzled driver drops Alex off in front of the local Holiday Inn, probably the best place to be found in Damascus.
Alex pays way too much for a single night and can’t ignore the fatigue crawling over his shoulders as he swipes the keycard and steps into his room for the night. It’s clean, smelling faintly of freshly laundered bedding, which he supposes makes up for the cost. He throws his bags onto one of the two double beds in the room and sits down on the other, idly tugging at the collar of his shirt.
It’s quiet here, no sound save the rain pounding at the window. A constant noise, one Alex is used to. He grew up here in Damascus; he’s used to wet weather. He’s used to a lot of things.
He sits and stares, contemplates his cell phone, resisting the urge to dial Wesley’s disconnected number again. It’s not like it’ll make a difference.
Why wasn’t he there? Why had he moved?
Alex sighs, stands, and tugs off his clothes, leaving them in a damp pile in the middle of the room. Belatedly, he wanders over to close the curtains on a dingy, early evening before taking a shower, hoping the heat of the water will chase away the chill of the rain. He’s distracted as he scrubs shampoo through his hair, staring at a small nick in the shower’s lining.
His thoughts are moving faster than light and dragging like molasses all the same. He thinks of Wesley. He thinks of all the reasons he returned to Damascus, a town he hates. He thinks of Julia, his editor, and the disappointment etched into her features. Of the heavily marked manuscript in his bag, stamped with signs that it’s just not his usual quality.
He thinks about Wesley and what could have caused him to leave. Why Shannon would sound so bitter. Her accusations of cowardice. Wesley had never said anything! How was Alex supposed to know? He can’t read minds!
With a growl, Alex slams off the water in the shower, still feeling cold despite the heat, which made the small bathroom hazy and the mirror cloudy. He towels off with jerky movements, swiping the cloth over his much shorter hair. Julia’s idea, of course. She thought he would do better with a much more professional appearance.
Alex crawls into bed because he has nothing better to do, staring at the screen of his cell phone as though expecting it to suddenly ring. The battery bars show him it has less than a third life left. He throws it onto the bedspread of the second bed, unconcerned, and reaches for the TV remote, anything to fill the silence that seems to crawl over him, making his heart race and his palms sweat. It’s far too warm in the room, the heat notched up to combat the damp chill of the rain, but Alex still feels cold.
He flicks through the channels offered, and finally settles on a marathon of House, MD reruns. Something that can usually entertain, but only offers background noise at the moment. Alex’s thoughts are far too much of a whirlwind for him to focus on a show. There’s a feeling inside of him, twisting and churning unpleasantly with worry.
What if Wesley quit his job at Damascus High as well? What if he’s not only left the city but the state as well? How the hell is Alex going to find him then?
Why is he trying so hard for that matter? Shannon’s words only highlight the fact that Wesley is attempting to avoid Alex, to put distance between them. Without even so much as a goodbye or an explanation.
Alex turns over in the bed, staring at the plain white walls, snarky comments from the TV floating to his ears.
He doesn’t know what to call what stands between himself and Wesley. It’s more than friendship, but it’s not on the level of lifetime lovers either. Alex only knows that Wesley has always been there, there’s always been Wesley. Something Alex never even had to look twice to know. They’ve been friends since they were kids, since living next door to each other in a ratty trailer park on the outskirts of Damascus, subject to the teasing and tormenting of other children who had far too much and bullied the kids who didn’t.
Time stands between them. Alex can’t even remember when it started. When they went from wrestling like a couple of idiot boys to touching each other in startling intimate ways to sharing the same bed. There were women, countless women, in and out of each other’s life. But to Alex, there was always Wesley, no matter whom he dated and eventually left him in one way or another.
His father would be laughing at him right now, Alex thought. Though the man was hardly the picture of success, what with his alcoholism and failure to hold a steady job for more than six months, he’d always told Alex just how little Alex’s own life would mean. How impossible it was for Alex to succeed. Wesley had hated him; Alex had trouble not hating his father himself.
Alex forces his eyes closed even if it is early. He doesn’t have a regular sleep schedule, what with rampant insomnia, so it doesn’t matter. If he can sleep, he’ll sleep. And right now, Alex doesn’t want to be awake, staring up at the ceiling, running if ands and buts through his mind.
Tomorrow, he’ll go to Damascus High and see if Wesley is still there. He’ll worry about the rest later.
Nostalgia creeps over him, sitting on his shoulder like a gargoyle, whispering of past memories into his ear. Some fifteen years ago, Alex remembers graduating from this tiny, underfunded high school. He remembers throwing his cap in the air, convinced he was going on to bigger, better things. He remembers Wesley smiling at him as they shook hands in congratulations. He remembers Lucy – blond, tiny waist, thousand watt smile – as she hung on his side, planting wet kisses against his cheek. He remembers a promise to always be friends. Funny how he can’t recall Lucy’s last name anymore.
Damascus High is a squat building, low ceilings and dim lighting. It smells of mildew that no amount of scrubbing, Pinesol, or Clorox can erase. It’s lunch time; Wesley can hear the chatter of hundreds of high school students in the cafeteria, but he passes it by, making way to the front office. Rather than wander the sprawling compound in search of Wesley, he’d rather see if the man still has his job here.
The sound of printers and light conversation fill his ears as Alex steps into the main office, a light, floral scent teasing at his nose. Someone’s received a delivery of roses today, he notices.
The woman behind the counter smiles as he approaches and she’s familiar to him, but no matter how much Alex wracks his memory, he can’t recall her name.
“Can I help you?”
Alex puts forth his most charming expression. “I’m looking for Wesley Graves. Does he still work here?”
Before the secretary can so much as answer, another voice breaks into the conversation, startling in its familiarity. “Dear lord, Alexander Worthy. Is that you?”
He turns, catching sight of a white-haired woman who looks very familiar indeed. Alex doesn’t even have to strain to remember her name. Mrs. Dumont had always been his favorite teacher, unsurprising considering that she taught Advanced English. And Alex had been one of her favorite pupils. She is the one to have inspired his current choice in occupation.
The smile curling Alex’s face this time is completely genuine. “Mrs. Dumont,” he says, inclining his head in greeting. “It’s good to see you, though I’m surprised you recognized me.”
Her blue eyes sparkle at him as she crosses the distance, pulling him into a motherly hug that smells of baby powder and coffee. “If you hadn’t mentioned Wesley, I probably wouldn’t have made the connection. You two always were connected at the hip.” She draws back, her hands on his shoulder, looks him up and down. “I read On The Mountain,” Mrs. Dumont adds. “It was wonderful. Very vivid. I always knew you had talent.”
Somehow, her words warm him more than the glowing praise his single successful novel had produced. “Thank you,” Alex says, and then looks around hopefully. “Is Wesley still here?”
She nods, tightly coiled bun bobbing with the motion. “Yes, dear, of course he is. The students are quite fond of him.”
Alex isn’t surprised. Wesley has always been the more friendly and outgoing of them. He has great charm and charisma and a killer smile.
Of course, this is overshadowed by the great sense of relief that floods Alex. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders sagging. Wesley is still here; Alex still has a chance to talk to him. To find out what went wrong.
“Would it cause any problems if I went to talk to him?”
Mrs. Dumont purses her lips in thought. “I think something can be arranged,” she says, and Alex watches as she instructs the secretary to whip Alex up a visitor’s pass, pinning the almost childish bus-shaped piece of laminated paper to his shirt. “Any idea what’s coming out next?”
Alex, lost to his own thoughts, blinks as he tries to decipher her question. “What?”
“Your novels, dear,” she says, and as she looks at him, Alex swears it’s like she knows, as though there’s a sign on his forehead that reveals how much he feels like falling apart. “What’s next?”
Alex thinks about the marked up manuscript in his bag at the hotel. He thinks about Julia’s disappointed look, her suggestions that he start over, that he somehow get his act together because crap like his isn’t going to sell.
“A murder mystery, I think,” he lies, and forces a smile onto his lips. “I always thought that would be interesting to try.”
She walks along with him as they turn toward the door into the hallway, a hum of approval in her throat. “Not quite my cup of tea, but I’ll read it nonetheless.” Mrs. Dumont laughs, full of color, as they slide into the corridor. “I tell my students all the time that I taught you, but they don’t believe me.”
Maybe, someday, Alex will return just to show those students the truth of Mrs. Dumont’s words. She was the best teacher Alex had; it’s the least he can do.
“Anyway, Alexander, Wesley is on the east hall. Room 37. I’m sure you remember the way.”
It’s been fifteen years, but Alex hasn’t forgotten. How can he? Nothing’s changed. Not even the cracked linoleum of the floor, or the peeling, aging posters on the wall. The dusty trophies in an equally dusty case and the flickering EXIT sign.
“I do. Thank you, Mrs. Dumont.”
She smiles at him again, something penetrating in her look, and pats his shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you,” she says, and turns away, a little slower in motion now thanks to her declining age.
Alex watches her go, thinking fondly of so many years ago when she had been the only one to notice what talent hid behind his shy, awkward exterior. Her words of praise and gentle corrections still stuck with him, even after all these years.
Shaking his head, Alex adjusts the collar of his button-up shirt, and starts down the hallway. The silence is magnified by the sound of his footsteps, but is abruptly broken when a loud bell rings, nearly making him leap two feet in the air. Lunchtime is over. It won’t be long before the corridors are filled with hundreds of noisy teenagers.
He takes a short cut through the empty stage, halfway decorated for this years production of Little House of Horrors, he notices. Empty seats, marked with graffiti, serve as reminders that Damascus High really hasn’t changed at all.
The short cut puts Alex in the middle of the east hall where he’s nearly swept along in a tide of rushing teenagers, jabbering noisily, not even noticing the adult in their midst. They are too focused on their gossip, their cell phones, the clanks of their lockers, and hurrying on to the next class before they are deemed tardy.
Alex fights against the rising tide, eyes searching for room 37. It takes him several minutes to realize he’d initially chosen the wrong direction and he has to turn around, the halls growing noticeably emptier. Pangs of nostalgia continue to hem and haw in his ear – old classrooms and rickety water fountains and the same wobbly bench in the corridor outside the janitor’s closet. Alex doesn’t miss high school, but he didn’t hate it either. He rests nicely between utter loathing and fondness.
Room 37 comes into view just as a second bell chimes announcing that any lingering students are officially tardy. Not that there are any to be found. He peers through the rectangular viewing window, catching sight of Wesley standing at the front of his class, looking rather professional in pressed slacks and a pale blue business shirt, tucked in with the top button undone. He turns toward the blackboard, gesturing to something written up in chalk.
Alex lifts a hand and knocks. He probably shouldn’t interrupt a class in progress, but if there’s on way to guarantee that Wesley will at least talk to him without making a big deal of things, it’s by showing up in front of Wesley’s students. Selfish, yes, but Wesley up and disappearing on Alex wasn’t a selfless move on Wesley’s part either.
Wesley turns toward the door at the sound of the knock, but Alex steps out of sight, forcing Wesley to actually approach and open the door.
It swings out and Alex steps into view, unsurprised when pale brown eyes first widen in surprise and recognition, before narrowing with resignation.
“What’re you doing here?” Wesley demands in a low tone, half in and out of his classroom, the door concealing the right half of his body.
Alex can see a few curious faces straining toward the door – curious teenagers determined for a scrap of gossip. “How else was I supposed to find you?” Alex says, keeping his own voice low for Wesley’s sake. “You moved out and changed your number.”
Wesley shakes his head and Alex notices that his usually spiked reddish hair is neatly brushed on his head, a more professional look. “No, I meant here,” Wesley says, waving his hand in gesture to the school. “You can’t just come into a school like this.”
“Mrs. Dumont’s the one who told me where you’d be. And gave me the hall pass.” Alex fingers the bus-shaped tag pointedly. He licks his lips, looking his fill at Wesley, unable to ignore the flipping of his stomach. “What the hell’s going on, Wesley?”
Wesley sighs, his lips firming. “I’m not talking about this,” he says, and rubs his forehead with one hand before moving to slide back into his classroom.
Alex is not letting him escape that easily. He’s fully capable of making a scene if need be. All he wants is a damn conversation, some answers. Is that too much to ask?
“Yes, you are,” Alex says, and grabs his arm, stopping his retreat. “I deserve an explanation.” His voice rises a little, louder than before, loud enough that Wesley’s students can probably catch echoes of it.
Wesley slides out of the classroom and lets the door shut behind him, making things seem a lot more private. “You deserve an explanation?” he demands, his tone incredulous and angry, standing on a precipice of outrage as he works his jaw before coming to a decision. “Fine, but not here. Fourth period’s free for me. I’ll meet you in the courtyard.”
Alex doesn’t let go of him, not just yet. “If you avoid me, I’ll just come back.”
“You always do,” Wesley mutters, but Alex isn’t even sure if he is meant to hear it because Wesley opens the door and slides back into his classroom. Shoulders straight, composed, easily ignoring the curious glances his students are shooting him.
Alex feels something curl in his belly but is unsure how to label the emotion. Attraction and lust are both there, for certain. Wesley looks incredibly attractive like this, dressed up and professional, at ease in front of a classroom of students as he lectures them on some scientific topic. He’d always been such a science geek.
But there are other emotions there as well. Concern. Fear. Guilt. Regret. Hope. Alex can’t even name them all.
He spends the next hour wandering the halls, looking at the banners plastered over the aging paint, listening to the sounds of a school in progress. Remembering the old days. He makes his way to the courtyard, something shaded by tall trees with several stone benches arranged in a half-circle around an aging statue whose features have smoothed over by time and weather. It’s warm and humid outside, making Alex’s clothes feel sticky against his skin.
He closes his eyes, sits on the bench, and waits, letting the heat soak into his flesh. He still feels chilled, as though the rain from last night – evident in the still damp ground – remains over his head. He wonders what the hell he’s going to say to Wesley, apart from demanding answers. He wonders why he feels an apology would be first and foremost appropriate. He wonders why he keeps hearing Shannon’s accusation echo in the back of his mind.
The bell rings, ending third period, and Alex has only to wait before Wesley comes to find him. If Wesley comes to find him.
“What was it this time?”
Wesley’s voice spills into the afternoon and Alex turns to see him approaching, looking suave and controlled, if not a little annoyed about Alex’s sudden appearance.
Alex clears his throat pointedly. “I have to have a reason?”
“You would have stuck around otherwise,” Wesley says, and he arrives at Alex’s side, looking down at him from two feet away. “What was it? Another woman left you? A bad review? You only ever show up when you need me.”
“Then that should tell you something, shouldn’t it?” Alex says, and looks up at Wesley, unable to deny just how attractive his best friend is at the moment. “Why did you leave?”
“Because if I didn’t, I was going to fall apart.”
Alex, stunned, stares at Wesley. “You…”
“I’m not doing this anymore,” Wesley says, and lowers himself onto the stone bench beside Alex, brushing aside a few fallen leaves “I’m tired, Alex. Of this situation and of being hurt.”
Alex swallows thickly, surprised himself by how difficult it is. He isn’t sure he is processing Wesley’s words correctly, as though it’s not sinking in yet. “What do you want from me?”
“Permanence.”
“What?”
Wesley’s hands settle in his lap, his back rigid as though he’s trying to hold onto his composure. He doesn’t look at Alex, focused instead on one of the drooping willows. “Either be with me or let me go. I’m not walking the line anymore.”
Alex struggles to breathe, his fingers flexing against his thigh. His heart is a pitter-patter inside his chest that can’t be good for health. “I didn’t… you never…” He’s never been the most eloquent, but even now, Alex is particularly speechless. “I’m--”
“Don’t apologize,” Wesley says, and he finally looks at Alex, the darkness in his pale eyes completely unreadable. “You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”
Alex can’t fight the urge to fight. Wesley’s right, even if Alex won’t say so aloud. He recognizes that he hurt Wesley, and he wants to apologize for that. But he never even knew he had such power. Wesley has always been important to him, more than anyone, but Alex never even fathomed, never even suspected, that Wesley felt the same about him.
He runs his tongue over his lips, staring at the rigidity of Wesley’s shoulders, at the warm wind teasing his hair. “Shannon accused me of being a coward.”
A sharp bark of laughter escapes from Wesley’s lips, more bitter than amused. “She said the same thing to me,” Wesley admits and his gaze bores through Alex. “I never asked, you never offered. I never wondered what kept driving you back; I was just glad it did. But I can’t do that anymore, Alex. I can’t.”
He swears that the warm air has turned cold around them, making a shiver race down Alex’s back. “So what is this? An ultimatum? It’s not like I can’t find you again.”
Wesley makes a sound in his throat, one Alex isn’t sure he can interpret, as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m leaving after this semester,” he says quietly. “I’m leaving Damascus. I’m a teacher. We’re pretty much in demand everywhere. It won’t be hard.”
Alex feels something inside of him crack, some faint thought that whatever insane things Wesley is saying can’t be true because he can always just find Wesley again. But the semester ends in less than a month, driving Wesley’s point home. There’s a pain in Alex’s chest, and he rubs at it with his palm, breathing shallow. He feels hot and cold at the same time.
“Where are you going to go?” Alex asks, his mouth strangely dry.
“As far away as I need to.” Wesley sounds so strong, so sure of his choice, as though it doesn’t bother him at all, despite the pain swimming in his eyes. “I never asked you what you felt about me and I’m not going to now. The choice is yours, Alex. And you have until I leave to make it.”
There’s a sound somewhere in the distance, like something shattering, a window maybe. Or perhaps that’s just Alex’s imagination. “No matter what I say, you’re going to leave.”
“Damascus? Yes.” Wesley rises to his feet, his height casting a small shadow over Alex now that he’s moved in the path of the sun. His expression is impossible to see, what with the sun shining over his shoulder. “Though depending on your answer, you might have the option to come with me.”
Alex isn’t sure what to say. Wesley’s asking for more from him. Alex’s never known that he even wanted to. Alex has never asked himself if that is what he wants from himself. He can’t imagine his life without Wesley in it. But is he ready for this? For a completely homosexual relationship? Is that what he wants?
“Wesley…”
“I’m going to be busy, packing and making plans. I’ll call you.” He sounds distant, as though removed from Alex, much farther away than the half-dozen steps between them.
Alex can’t even find the words to say. He doesn’t know what he needs to say, what he wants to say. He doesn’t want Wesley to leave.
He says nothing, only watches as Wesley walks away, heading back inside the school. It is the first time Alex can ever remember watching Wesley leave him as opposed to the other way around. He can’t deny how the sight makes his gut squirm, makes him want to throw himself to his feet, chasing after that solid back.
Alex has less than a month to make a decision. He can’t shake the fear that he’s already lost Wesley, that even if he gets over himself, Wesley won’t be there to accept Alex or his apology.
a/n: Cliffhanger! Whoops. I had intended to end their story here but it was not to be so. There is definitely a third in the series, yet to be written, but soon to come. Thanks for reading!
As always, feedback is appreciated.
