Wallace is much more nervous than he likes to admit, and all too aware of his feelings, the ones that waver towards Mikhael and cling to Scarlett. He knows this isn't normal, that he should slay these monsters dwelling within the person that he is.

But he can't.

Mikhael is looking at him. He isn't talking. Wallace notices him glance back at the sea, and suddenly, he’s glad Mikhael’s never been the type of person who makes long silences turn awkward. Wallace feels at ease when he’s beside him, for Mikhael isn't difficult, even if it does seem as though he is more than meets the eye; Wallace dares not pry. He is only happy. Happy that Mikhael hasn’t mentioned the handcuffs—in comparison to Scarlett’s endless teasing—nor treated him differently so far. And he revels in it, this feeling of peace, lingering between the empty spaces that separate them.

They arrive at Mikhael’s apartment, void of Logan, who stayed behind to help Scarlett with her final piece in a dusty clubroom he hasn’t started missing yet.

Wallace wonders what they think—especially Scarlett—of this, of everything.

He hears Mikhael sneeze. It breaks his train of thought.

"Are you coming in?" Mikhael asks, nonchalant and deadpan—the usual.

"Y-yes sorry!" Wallace stutters as he rushes over to the door, finding himself to have almost forgotten why he was here in the first place. He takes a single step into Mikhael’s appartment. It isn’t the first time, however, there haven’t been enough instances for him to be able to call this routine either. He observes Mikhael’s shoulders moving beneath his shirt and swallows hard. It is hard for him to shake them away. His wants, desires, everything. Everything.

"I'll go get it. Wait here," Mikhael says as he motions towards the living room. “Want something to drink?” he asks Wallace—who politely declines—before shuffling over to his room without another word.

Wallace overhears Mikhael rustle through his papers. He figures he should move, or else Mikhael might wonder what is wrong with him. Something in the corner of his eye catches his attention. A laptop; Mikhael's laptop. And, for the first time in his life, Wallace dares let his curiosity get the betters of him.

He listens for any signs of Mikhael having finished, but it seems like Mikhael will be retrieving more than a single piece of paper. Or, perhaps, he is drawing again; for the noises of scribbles against sheets is the only noise that can currently be heard across the apartment.

Five minutes—Wallace thinks that is how long Mikhael will take.

He hopes he isn’t wrong.

He grabs the computer and opens it. The screen takes a few seconds to light up, seconds in which Wallace catches a glimpse of himself, and fails to understand why the reflection staring back at him causes unease to stir within his mind like every single day, when he gets ready in front of his own mirror.

Wallace pushes the thought away. A gasp almost makes it past his lips once the screen blinks with more than bleak darkness. His findings are as follows—one tab with the best and cheapest oil paints around, and another that directs him to an article titled: Domination, submission, and everything else in between. It makes his stomach turn. So he reads it again, trying to convince himself his eyes have played terrible tricks on him.

They haven’t.

It’s real.

The thumping of Mikhael's feet near. In a panic, Wallace closes the laptop and puts it back in its original place. He hopes Mikhael will not notice the sweat trickling down his temple, nor see the panic in his eyes—equal to the panic in his mind.

Mikhael stuffs various papers, quick sketches and articles on color theory, between Wallace’s trembling fingers. And Wallace thinks that he can never tire of staring, nor at Mikhael, or his extremely neat handwriting that rouses the feelings of fascination he feels towards him even more.

He entertains the question of how Mikhael manages to be so organized in this aspect of his life, despite being as wild as a never-ending storm—that sails across the ocean—in most others.

And then, it is time to leave.

Wallace thanks Mikhael.

He walks out the door.

The silhouette on the convenience store’s window makes his chest tighten. He knows it is supposed to be him, yet it feels off, like something is terribly wrong and dreadful even though he isn’t in any kind of danger right now.

William wants his heart to stop hurting for invisible things. He does not want this sickness to be his anymore. He wants to apologize, to Mikhael, and Scarlett, for thinking of them in ways they should not be thought about. For it doesn't feel like a privilege I am allowed to breach, are his thoughts. I’m still the on other side of this glass, an invisible coward, a fake mannequin who bleeds purple and never more.

William finally looks away as he starts to make for the station.

By now, the moon has replaced the sun, and William is all too glad to see this day end.

It will be better tomorrow, he tells himself—just like he does every other day.

Tomorrow, I will wake up, and this pain will be gone.