#lessluck ( ray. )

[luminarot]

plotted starter for @lessluck ( ray. )

Autumn creeps in like a coyote through the dark, bringing promises of death in its yellowed teeth and bloodied maw. Wesley's been trying to rid himself of the stench for a week; standing in the shower until his skin is raw and red, picking imaginary graveyard dirt from under his nails, running his tongue over his teeth just to be sure they're still there, still his own. ( Is there really anything left of him at all? )

Rot stretches his frayed nerves thin, even miles and miles from home, and he finds himself drifting more as the day nears. It's been years since he died — years since he ran, since he crawled out of the earth, since he ever had someone look at him with so much hate — but the memories are always waiting. They just get a little louder around this time of year, like he needs a reminder of just how bad things can get. Like maybe something, somewhere, is trying to call him back home.

He's pulled from the fog by a hand at his shoulder, gripping tight, and his blood runs cold because he knows what comes next: all the screaming, the first punch, a boot in the ribs, face bashed against the floor until he's nothing but a gory stain. It's useless to try and escape, but he does anyway; breath caught in his chest and muscles taut, he flinches away even though he knows it's a mistake.

( Flinching only ever made things worse. It was defiance, it was weakness, and his dad always hated both. At this point, Wesley's only bringing this on himself. )

It's not until he's already stumbled a step back that he realizes just how much he actually did screw up this time. Because it's not his dad staring back at him all; there's no anger here, no violence trying to drag him back to the grave, but instead the only friend he's ever had — the only safety he's ever found and known, and thought he could try to keep. It's Ray standing there looking stunned, and for good reason, too, because Wesley usually doesn't mind him reaching out. He's actually grown to like all the little touches, believe it or not.

But this time had been different. This time, he'd been too scared to play it off.

"I'm sorry," Wesley says. It's all he can think to say for a moment, shame thick on his tongue and clogging his throat; his heart still won't slow down, waiting for something bad to happen, forever stuck in the habit of preparing for the worst.

"Sorry, I... guess I wasn't listening. Did you say something?"

[luminarot]

✨ - for wes about ray ~~

send ✨ for my muse to talk about their favorite thing about your muse.

"Well, I 'spose... I like that he's warm. Not like his temperature or anything, but the way that he just is — always so damn friendly, and kind. I don't even think I've ever heard him say anything bad about anyone; it’s like he can't help but shine on everyone he meets, whether they deserve it or not." There's a brief pause, and Wesley glances away for a moment, deep in thought. "I've never met anybody else like that," he says. "I'm real lucky we met. I dunno where I’d be otherwise." Or he knows exactly where, but he doesn’t want to say it. “I bet it’d be cold.”