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It should’ve been common sense. In Deacon’s head, everything was going smoothly without much fail. They were just collecting narratonin and trying to make ends meet with Buddy until Wave appeared out of nowhere, showing up in each book that felt too planned to be a coincidence, which sounded ridiculous when all he did was act like a goof.
Deacon thought he knew better. He was the oldest; he should’ve known better than to let his guard down.
But this? He never saw this coming.
Deacon's composure crumbled before his voice did, but he remained frozen in place. His jaw clenched tightly as the chill of the room pressed against his skin. His brain scrambled to find something–anything, to say to the man in front of him.
Meanwhile, Wave just stared on, his face unreadable for once. Somewhere behind him, the door had already sealed them in.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Deacon’s voice cracked, raw and trembling as realization sank in. Wave looked different. He wore the same plain clothes Deacon had seen him in a thousand times, but now he reeked of an intoxicating arrogance–a look so foreign to the Wave he thought he knew.
Wave, who was his friend even when they kept their identities secret. Wave, who stayed when Chase and Buddy were too busy knocking heads together. He was the one who'd sat with him during the most mundane moments; the only one, besides Chase, who’d always known how to comfort and ease his anxieties.
He had a way of making Deacon feel grounded, and Deacon had gotten used to it.
It used to be so easy to read Wave’s expressions; the slight furrow of his brow when he was thinking too hard, and the way he’d looked after Prunella as if she was his own sister. Was that fake too?
Deacon noticed all the little things. Even stupid things, probably.
He thought, once, that he knew what lived behind those eyes.
He didn’t.
The man in front of him hummed, a low, grating sound so obnoxious that Deacon wanted to scream. Escape was out of the question. To hell with escaping, anyway. After all, it was Wave out of all people who said that he should be more confident.
“Oh Dorkin,” Wave’s voice came out like a croon, almost gentle. “I wish I knew.”
All this time. All this time, Wave had been pulling the strings–acting careless, naive, making Deacon believe he was one of them, even while he answered to the old man. Deacon really believed he was, even for a quick moment. He could be an optimist if he’d believed enough, thinking that once this was all over, Wave could escape Ex Libris and live a normal life. Despite having his suspicions, he still let him in.
Now he was paying the price for being gullible.
“How could you betray us like this?”
Wave only sighed at him. He seemed to relish in their predicament, taking a good look at Deacon’s face.
Sucking in a breath fueled by desperation, Deacon inched closer, each step carrying a weight that made his chest tighten. He was angry, tired, but worst of all, he felt the humiliation seep into his skin.
“Hit me all you want.” Wave challenged, as if he read Deacon’s mind. “If that’ll make you feel better.”
And so he did.
Deacon swung with unbridled force, connecting the palm of his hand to the side of Wave’s face. The sound bounced across the room, and Deacon scared himself.
He slapped him just once.
He didn’t have the strength to land another. His hand burned and he didn’t want to sit in the pain of landing continuous punches–heart too heavy and too aware.
The silence that followed was deafening until Deacon heard ragged breathing. With Wave quiet, he realized it was his own.
He looked at Wave’s left eye, then his right, hoping for an explanation, but found none. The man didn’t even flinch, as if insulted by the lack of power Deacon exerted. Deacon kept looking. He didn’t know what exactly he was looking for–a flicker of guilt, maybe. Or a sign that confirmed that their friendship was genuine and not for show. There was nothing. He swallowed.
Deacon settled on curling his hands around the collar of his shirt, firm, and kept their eyes locked. They're unrecognizable now.
He was surprised he’d maintained his composure, until he felt his shoulders shake. Then the sting came next, hot and traitorous. It was only then he’d realized they were his tears. Shit. Shit.
So embarrassing.
His hands, tightly clenched around his collar, shook.
Ironically, Wave carefully enveloped both his hands with his own, as if he was trying to steady him like before. Deacon flinched, expecting him to hit back, because what else could he expect? And yet nothing came.
“Don’t cry on me now,” Wave taunted, like Deacon was a child who got upset over every little thing. He would’ve laughed along, like he usually did when Wave would compliment all his faults, but the humor masked as comfort irritated him now.
“You’re cruel.”
In a beat, and with the sudden tangle of legs, Deacon pushed, hard, until they both came crashing down on the floor like the waves Wave never shut up about.
Deacon went still first, keeping Wave locked between his knees. For one fleeting second, he felt something rush through him–a sense of power, when he looked down. Wave looked unreal underneath him. His styled hair was now a mess, and his shirt was askew. His expression remained unbothered, but a slight smirk played on his lips.
“You’re really gonna do this?” Wave teased, his hands finding a good grip on Deacon's thighs from where he was trapped.
“Shut up,” Deacon’s ears burned, but he couldn’t pinpoint why.
“Leave Chase and Buddy out of this, I’ll do anything.” His voice shook, frustrated with how helpless he felt against him, even when he had the upper hand.
Wave’s expression finally shifted just a tiny bit for Deacon to catch as he considered his request. Of course he did, having control over him probably sent sparks up his brain. Thrilling for someone as twisted as him.
Seconds passed. Deacon felt his hold falter, and Wave suddenly charged. Deacon yelped when the back of his head hit the cold floor, and he panicked.
“Wave–” He warned, until Wave knocked their foreheads together.
Too close–Deacon’s throat went dry. He’d been pinned, and that was all it took to diminish his motivation to fight back. For too long, their breaths mingled, and the humiliation Deacon tried so hard to bury finally resurfaced, hitting him harder than the physical impact.
Under Deacon’s gaze, Wave lifted his rough hand, and rested it against his collar bone. Then he slid down and cradled his sides, from his upper ribcage to the low dip of his exposed hip–where Deacon inexplicably shuddered–before the other man instinctively pulled away.
Before Deacon could entirely push him off, Wave got up by himself without stumbling, leaving Deacon stunned and breathless on the floor.
“...You’re too kind for your own good.”
Deacon’s heart thumped. He'd told him that before.
They stared, unmoving, until a loud crash just outside the room snapped them out of their stillness. Wave sighed.
“I'm not gonna do that," Wave scratched the back of his neck. Deacon looked down in shame, embarrassed by his initial suggestion that he, in the heat of the moment, thought would help.
"Well. You did hit me. Feel better now?” He murmured, turning away before Deacon could answer.
Deacon licked his lips, and cringed at the dryness of it. At the absurdity of him, for betraying them, for betraying him. He had come for answers, but was left with more questions.
Did he really feel better now?
No. He clutched the hem of his shirt. Not at all.