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that day lives on vividly in wilbur's head.
he can’t forget the glow of the hazy gray sky above, the collection of sliver puddles on the pavement, the way alex's hair stuck to his skin, saturated by rain.
dainty fingers wrapped around wilbur's wrist, pulling him under the roof of a building. if this were a romance movie, they’d be giggling as the rain kissed their skin. wilbur would slip his fingers through the hair that wetly draped over alex's face, tucking it back behind his ear. he'd watch those amber eyes swirl into honey pools and sinewy skin burns with scarlet. he'd kiss the droplets on his lips, pressing him into the wall and mumbling sweet “i love you”s in between each peck.
reality overwrote fantasy and instead of turning to wilbur with a soft laugh and even softer eyes, he groaned in annoyance, picking at the wet cloth that stuck to his skin.
“we should go to george's,” alex suggested, rolling up his damp sleeves. “i'm not walking home in this weather.”
“schlatt's closer. let's go there.”
alex wrapped wilbur's arm around himself, holding his shoulder. “yeah, but...”
“c'mon, that way we won’t be in the rain for long,” wilbur said, tone light but brows creased. “unless you want to go over and see george?”
alex shrugged, rubbing his shoulder. “what if i did?”
wilbur couldn’t comprehend the hidden meaning behind his words. in the past, he patted himself on the back for being one of the only people who could dissect the emotion alex showed through his small actions and smaller words. though, for once, he couldn’t wrap his head around this.
sure, alex liked, at least he hoped he liked, his friends. he never strained away from them and when one of them would make plans, alex tagged along surprisingly. though, alex never went out of his way to hang out with them. he never suggested plans, called any of them up out of the blue, ditched his planned activities just to spend a few hours with them. it was always wilbur, schlatt, or george who initiated any plan of quality time involving the four of them.
all the puzzle pieces fell into place. though, instead of getting washed with the relief and satisfaction for solving yet another puzzle in the “why is alex acting like this” book, he felt sick.
“you like george.”
the way the words spill from his lips sound more like a sudden realization—sickening realization, he should say—than a question.
the reluctance, the soft tone of voice, the fidgeting, the prolonged gazes. every new pattern of recent behavior added up to this theory that made wilbur feel as though concrete was drying in his chest.
“you like george?” he repeated in a less accusation tone. he looked at him, hoping to be met with knitted eyebrows or a confused, maybe a light laugh and his usual flirty joke.
but instead,
alex was looking heavenward, watching the light pitter patter of rain with unfocused eyes. he rolled the loose thread hanging off his jacket into a ball, the tip of his ears glowed red and wilbur didn’t need an answer.