Archive of Our Own

When Travis looks up at the vaguely Regency styled building from the street below, there’s a part of him that immediately begins to harbor this fantasy of taking the nearest car and riding it all the way into the northern mountains. Far away from any sign of civilization, he can just imagine building his own little log cabin, subsisting entirely off the land…his own little Thoreau paradise.

This is only a small part of him, and it’s easily tucked away and dismissed, but it’s always just a little bit there, as an oasis to soothe himself when everything becomes too overwhelming.

Besides, Travis thinks to himself, this is a pretty nice foster home. He just got a set of new clothes, and got to pick out his own backpack, filled with clean notebooks and empty folders and unused pens and pencils. It’s really the little things, he’s come to realize – there’s something uniquely degrading about always having to ask to borrow a pencil every single day. But that wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. It just reminds him of what to appreciate.

The groups of kids sprawled across the open lawn start to slowly pick up their things and head inside, two and three at a time, so Travis figures it’s probably getting close to the first bell. Pulling out a wrinkled paper from his jacket pocket and smoothing it out on his knee, he checks it one more time – Pd. 1: Spanish I, Rm. 202, Alvarez, Sofia – before finally making his way into the building.

“Hey, you there!” Travis halts in his path, knowing the shout is directed at him. He hasn’t even made it down the hallway, and he’s already getting in trouble? There’s a man coming towards him, shorter than him and a little bit overweight, but there’s a smile on his face and his demeanor isn’t angry, so Travis waits instead of running. “You must be Travis Marks, huh? I know all of the faces in my school, and yours is new. I’m Principal Sutton.”

“That’s pretty incredible. You’re right, I’m Travis.” Travis shakes Sutton’s hand, and can’t help but smile. A serenity surrounds him, wraps around him, and the hint wisps of incense that follow Sutton around certainly helps too.

“Now, where’s your first class? Let me walk you to it.”

This is where Travis starts to back away, not because he doesn’t like this new, very interesting principal, but rather because he’s a junior in high school and definitely doesn’t need to be walked to class like a first grader. “It’s 202 but I’m sure I can find it no problem—“

“Nonsense! Right this way, young man,” Sutton grabs Travis by the shoulder and starts to shepherd him through the hallway, seemingly unaware of all the pairs of eyes following them as they moved, faces hidden to attempt to smother the soft snickers that he still felt behind his back. “Let me impart a few words of wisdom on down to you – never look a gift horse in the mouth, Mr. Marks. You just never know when an act of kindness can be a saving grace. Ah, here we are!

“Ms. Alvarez, I’ve brought you a new student. I hope that the class will help to welcome him as he settles down in our great school. Have a nice day, Mr. Marks!”

Principal Sutton leaves him standing in the front of an entirely quiet classroom, all faces peering forward at him, as the bell rings loud and obnoxious above him. Ms. Alvarez is a fairly young teacher, with dark black hair and warm eyes and a thick accent that reminds him of good memories of families in the past. “There is an open seat next to David,” she urges kindly.

“Thanks,” Travis smiles and nods, looking out and seeing a young Asian teen casually pointing at the seat next to him. “I take it you’re David?”

“Just call me Paekman, everyone does.”

“Travis.” Another handshake, this time much more relaxed and familiar. He’s getting into his element, slipping right into the midst of the class with barely a ripple. A couple of the girls had eyed him curiously, customary peaks of interest that Travis tucks into the back of his mind for future reference. No reason not to have a little fun and make the most of it, especially considering how terribly boring this particular class surely is going to be.

Paekman leans over again. “Hey, what’s your next class? Mine’s English.”

“Chemistry,” Travis replies, noticing the slight dips of disappointment not only within the boy in front of him but a few of people around him as well, not talking but clearly eavesdropping. Gotta love being the shiny new object.

“Gross.”

He’s about to respond when Ms. Alvarez taps a ruler on the board to get their attention, signaling the definite beginning of class. “Please turn to page 35. Today we’ll be studying introductory conversations. Travis, why don’t you take the role of Pablo, and Wes, please take the role of Juan.”

Picking up his book and flipping to the page in question, Travis props it up in his hands and swivels around to find whoever was this Wes; finally locating him in the back of the class, tucked into a corner, straightening up and reluctantly also picking up his book. “’Sup!” Travis calls out, just to break the ice, and watches the blonde’s face crumple in confusion.

“That’s not your line in the book,” Wes retorts drily, looking Travis in the eyes – and it hits him, all at once, practically dizzying, the feelings of loneliness and sadness hiding behind this huge giant wall of stoicism.

Normally this would just make Travis very sad, but there’s something else lurking there, underneath all of that, but he can’t quite place his finger on it. It’s not an emotion, per se…maybe something that happened to him, to define him. Whatever it is, it intrigues Travis, makes him want to unravel Wes slowly and surely like the first stitch undone on the sleeve of a sweater.

He realizes everyone is staring at him now, and Wes’s eyebrows raise in impatience, so he guesses he has the first line of the conversation. “Buenos días. Me llamo Pablo. ¿Y tú?”

Travis doesn’t think he’s said this particularly fast or spectacularly, but the look that Wes, as well as everyone around him, is currently giving him says otherwise.

Wes responds, haltingly and with a terrible accent: “Me llamo…Juan. Ig…Igual…mente.”

Really, honestly, Travis tries not to wince and when he feels that it’s going to inevitably happen he at least has the decency to cover his face and hold back the groan that’s threatening to bubble up. Obviously it’s not enough because Wes suddenly snaps, “I’m sorry but we can’t all be perfect at Spanish.”

“Hey man, I wasn’t judging. I’m sure you have other…talents…”

Ms. Alvarez ‘tsk’s in annoyance and calls out, “Please stay on track!”

Travis has a feeling this is going to be a very long day.

*

After Wes storms out of Spanish, gathering his things with a truly alarming pace, Travis doesn’t see him again until lunch time.

Paekman’s caught up to him once again, chatting about video games and cars, and when Travis says the phrase “foster parents” he doesn’t bat an eyelash or ask any questions, so he knows he’s in good company. It’s not until he’s walking with his tray in hand that he sees Wes, sitting by himself near the window, lunch box open but untouched in front of him.

Travis takes two steps and feels Paekman gently take him by the arm. “You know, a lot of other kids in my shoes would tell you that you’ll be making a huge mistake if you do this, and tell you not to sit with Wes. Social suicide, and all that.

“I’m not saying any of that, but I guess I just wanted to tell you that in case you didn’t notice. I don’t think you’re that kind of person, but I would hate it if you get Wes’s hopes up only to just dump him because you can’t handle all the other assholes in this school.

“So here’s your one chance. Sit anywhere you like, I don’t really give a fuck in the end. But only sit with Wes if you actually want to be his friend. Otherwise, I’ll raise hell for you. And while that might not frighten you, Jonelle will too and trust me, she’s the last person you want on your case.”

With that being said, Paekman drops his arms and goes to sit across from Wes, with all the ease of routine. Travis hasn’t even placed his tray on the table next to Wes, has only just thought of doing that and has started towards Wes’s side of the table, when the other boy looks up at him stonily and simply states, “No.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. I just want to make friends,” Travis whines in return, making a bit of a pouty face in the hopes that it might elicit a laugh or pity…yet there isn’t much of a change in his expression, except maybe the addition of confusion.

“You gave him the whole spiel, and he’s still here?” Wes asks Paekman, who just shrugs around a mouthful of chicken sandwich.

“Gotta give him credit, he’s persistent. Why not give him a chance?”

Wes sighs and looks over at Travis, who shines his most charming smile and bounces a little on the balls of his feet in anticipation. “…alright, fine.”

He wastes no time in snagging the seat beside Wes, peering into the open top of his lunch box. “So whatcha got?”

“Hey! Boundaries!” Wes shrieks as if Travis just walked into his house and started opening all the drawers in his bedroom.

Paekman just laughs and shakes his head, “You’ve got a lot to learn about Wes, dude.”

Wes just glowers and opens up the container of his chicken parmesan, as if daring Travis to make a comment – he doesn’t really want to give him the satisfaction, but then the aroma hits him and makes his mouth water. “Holy shit, that smells so good.”

“I made it,” the blonde says tonelessly, taking a very calm bite as if he were eating the bland school food and not a gourmet meal.

“Cool! Can you make me some?”

“Absolutely not.”

Setting down his juice, Paekman puts on his best Humphrey Bogart voice to proclaim, “Wes, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Wes rolls his eyes but Travis knows that inside he’s totally agreeing. (Or at least, that’s what the vibes are telling him, and the vibes are never wrong.)

*

The next few weeks are spent in a very similar way; skating through his classes, sitting with Paekman and Wes during lunch. It’s a little different for Travis, who doesn’t really cultivate routines, particularly when there’s such a high probability of it being taken from him at any given time.

But it’s nice, and Travis can finally see now why people get so comfortable in their habits.

So when it comes the time where quizzes are handed back and Travis sees the look of discontent and slightly flushed shame cross Wes’s face from across the room, he figures he’s established enough of a rapport to offer his assistance. “Hey, you know, if you ever need someone to study with-“

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

Travis raises an eyebrow as he jogs to keep up with Wes’s fast pace, reaching out to grab his arm to slow him down – recoiling a little when Wes yanks himself away. “That’s not what your face said when you got that quiz back. C’mon baby, I’m offering free lessons here! Don’t do it for me, that’s fine, but at least do it for your grade.”

Wes just crumples the paper in his hand and storms off to his next class without another word.

*

“You know, I’ve been thinking. We should throw a party soon! Travis hasn’t even met Jonelle yet, and she’s like, half the gang. It’d be nice, like a ‘welcome to the group’ party.”

“No.”

Paekman’s grin doesn’t falter even with Wes’s refusal. “It’d be super cool. We should do it at your house, Wes. Your aunt is always super cool with us and maybe she’d even make those-“

“No.”

“-brownies we all like, and convince her to play some board games with us. You’d like her a lot, Travis, she is such a nice lady.”

The fork in Wes’s hand is shaking slightly, his knuckles white; he’s radiating a myriad of malcontent emotions that chalk up to an almost desperate desire to make sure that this get-together never happens. But there’s an interesting one that Travis can’t help but pick apart and wonder about: fear.

He’s not quite sure what to make of that one yet. “That sounds great, just let me know what it’s going down and I’ll be there.” The fear intensifies and he almost expects to see cartoon sweat droplets start to fall off Wes. But why?

Before he can ask, the bell rings signaling the end of lunch. Just another mystery to add to the pile.

*

The sun is reflecting off the gentle waves of the blue-green sea and half-blinding Travis as he paces the length of a small wooden boat. There’s no explanation, nothing but the compulsive need to search, search, search through the water for something he’s not quite sure of.

Back and forth, back and forth. Between the sun in his eyes and the constant rocking, he’s feeling nauseated, and he wants to turn back and head for land, but he stays. Looking.

After a while, some bubbles pop on the surface, and Travis’s heart starts to pound in his chest over whatever it is that he’s searching for. Eagerly leaning forward, half of his body exposed, he peers into the water, but before he can see, a cold hand shoots forward and—

Sitting up in the darkness, Travis gasps as though the freezing, salty water really is shooting down his throat to rob him of his oxygen.

*

There are some things Travis just knows. Like the time when he was seven and packed his bags an hour before his foster family even told him that he was being moved again. Or when he was thirteen and felt compelled to climb up the little treehouse that was reserved as a playground for the seven to ten year olds to find his teenage foster sister hanging a rope. Travis can never explain why he knows these things, he simply does, and he’s found throughout life that he should never question these oddly specific gut reactions.

So when every fiber of his being tells him to go to the park at dusk instead of doing his homework like a good student, he simply drops his pencil and slips out the window of his ground floor bedroom. It’s unfamiliar but it’s only a few blocks away, and he ignores the signs indicating that it’s closed, simply hopping the low fence.

Wes is sitting on a swing by himself, the soles of his shoes gently dragging through the mulch. For a split second Travis almost imagines that there is another person sitting on the swing next to him, but then he blinks and the image is gone, like it had never even existed in the first place.

Noticing Travis, Wes startles, but only slightly, as if there was only a partial surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Just felt like a walk.” Travis takes the other swing, feeling its sturdiness. It’s been a while but he had always loved the weightlessness when he was younger, and can’t help but wonder just how high he might get from a good push off. “What about you?”

Shrugging, Wes looks down at his feet. “Just needed to get some air.”

Lie lie lie. Travis feels like a walking polygraph and Wes is spiking all over the place. “Man, you are a terrible liar. I could help tutor you in that too, but I’ll charge for that one. I can’t be giving away all my knowledge for free, it’s just not good business.”

“Why are you so hell bent on helping me?” I don’t understand why you want to be my friend./i> “My grade doesn’t affect you at all.” What do you think I have to offer you? “It’s really none of your business, I’m doing just fine.” Nobody has cared before and I don’t know how to deal, so stop asking.

The mixed messages make Travis’s brain spin a little. If Wes is anything, he is the king of wrapping miles of subtext around millimeters of sharpened speech. “Because that’s what friends do for each other – they offer to help each other out when they see the other person needs it. Aren’t we friends, Wes?”

Silence, except for a light metal on metal squeaking from the swing set as Wes adjusts awkwardly. “…no. No, we are not friends, Travis. Maybe acquaintances at best.”

Travis has never felt so repelled by a person; naturally, others are drawn to him, or draw him to them, as though he’s forever a magnet getting pulled towards all metallic objects. But this is like Wes has drawn up a shield to keep him out, as though wrapped in a bubble of negative energy that Travis can’t quite penetrate. Go away go away go away.

He takes the hint, but only for the night. “My offer still stands. I’ll see you around, Wes.” There’s a heat on the back of his head, Wes’s eyes boring into his skull as he walks away, mind already swirling with all the different ways he could potentially pop that bubble.

A few streets feels like endless miles. When he finally sneaks back into his room, he collapses on the bed and cries into his pillow until he falls asleep, still fully dressed.

*

“Hey, Travis? Do you mind running out and grabbing some more milk for us? And whatever else you’d like, of course.” His foster mom presses a ten dollar bill into his hand with a smile, and waves goodbye as he leaves with a quick, “sure, thank you!” thrown over his shoulder.

You’re too trusting, he wants to say to her sometimes. You’re not cut out for fostering. Other kids, they’re gonna walk right over you. They’ll leave you jaded and mean.

But he sees in her eyes that this is what she wants, to have a house full of kids to love and adore. He doesn’t have to ask to know that it just wouldn’t be possible otherwise.

Travis tries not to think too deeply about it as he opens the door to the local convenience store. It’s not too far from his new high school, so it doesn’t surprise him to see a fairly large group of teenagers lingering around the snack aisles, comparing potato chip flavors.

Passing them to get to the dairy section, he can’t help but hear, “…about the ghost freak? Should we invite Sixth Sense too?”

“Might as well, it’s not like he’d ever come. He refuses to even hang out with his own little weirdo friends, so why would he?”

Sounds like Wes, Travis can’t help but think, smiling a bit. Another girl adds, “But we’re cooler than them. And if he does then we might as well just give it up and switch schools. That’s way too much of a risk. Don’t invite him.”

No one seems to notice that it’s taking him twelve years to decide between whole milk and two percent. One of the boys of the group says, “I don’t know, man. Isn’t his aunt, like, into voodoo or something? If we don’t and she hears about it, she might curse us forever.”

There’s a chorus of, “Don’t be stupid, Phil,” that rings out amongst the others, but Travis can hear in their voices the worry that their friend might be right. He’s just decided that he’s heard more than enough and about to grab a tub of whole milk when the store door makes a noise and a hush falls over the small crowd of teenagers.

Travis doesn’t need to turn around to know exactly who’s just walked inside, that familiar mix of fierce independence and utter loneliness washing over him like a favorite sweater. He turns anyways to maintain at least a minor sense of normalcy, calling out, “Hey Wes!” just to watch the others squirm.

Wes turns and glares at him, yet still heads over towards him, so he counts it as a success. “Sent out on a milk run too?”

Travis watches the blonde reach in and grab a tub of skim milk. “That stuff is going to give you a heart attack, you know.”

“But it’s delicious. You might as well just make your cereal with water. And that’s just no way to live life, baby.”

The other kids stare at him as though he’s grown a second head, but thankfully life in foster homes has made him accustomed to the adverse attention; Wes’s ears, however, are the same shade of red that Travis has seen in the pictures of Mars they always have in science textbooks. There’s not much of a line and Wes speed walks to the cashier. Why does he care so much? They’re just dumb kids.

Grabbing a handful of candy bars and one of the large, soft, chocolate cookies at the counter, Travis waits in line behind Wes. “I lied. You’re going to die from diabetes long before whole milk gets a chance to give you a heart attack. Do you even know what a fruit is?”

“Aw, Wes. It almost sounds like you care. Maybe you should make me some healthy snacks and I’ll totally try this whole ‘eating green’ thing.”

For a split second, it almost feels as though there’s a crack in the bubble. Maybe not so much a crack even as just a general weakening of the walls, and Travis is about to take a step forward and try to wound it even more when the others step up behind them, arms full of party snacks and laughing in a way that’s all too clear what it’s about.

Wes’s shield is reinforced so suddenly and so deeply that Travis feels the whiplash like he’s been emotionally backhanded across the face. He can barely think to push his own items forward towards the cashier as he watches the other boy storm out of the store, walking away in the opposite direction.

*

After Ms. Alvarez hands back the last quiz before their first test, Wes comes up to him, limbs tense and refusing to look Travis in the face when he says, “Okay, okay. You win. Can you help me?”

Travis just grins and replies, “Your place or mine?”

Shaking his head, he says, “No. Let’s study at the park instead,” as if the other options are so unacceptable that they aren’t even debatable, and this is the only clear solution.

Figuring that Wes isn’t usually the type to reach out for help, Travis lets it slide – after all, it is a nice park, and wouldn’t be a bad place to do a bit of studying in the late afternoon anyways. “Sure, sounds like a plan.”

“Meet me at five. Don’t be late.”

It isn’t until after Wes has already turned the corner that Travis notices Principal Sutton beside the lockers, watching. He gives Travis two thumbs up for the exchange, and he feels that it doesn’t so much mean glad you’re making friends than it does you’ve made the right choice in friends.

*

With his bag packed with the necessary supplies and a quick explanation to his foster parents as to where he’s going for the next few hours, Travis leaves the house at exactly 4:45 pm in full belief that he has more than enough time. Hell, I’ll even be early for a change! He’s actually pretty proud of himself.

Yet the second his feet touch the grass after hopping the park fence – man, is this park ever open? – Wes immediately calls out from one of the park benches, “You’re late!”

“What? Man, that is impossible! I bet you’ve been sitting there since 4:30 just so you’d be the first one here to yell at me for being late.”

The blonde boy simply raises his wrist, tapping the front face of his watch with a very insistent index finger and saying, “It’s 5:01,” as if this means it’s perfectly reasonable now to be throwing the ‘late’ accusations around.

“I didn’t even know it was possible for a person to be so anal retentive. Do you live with perpetual constipation?” Travis still sits down next to him, their knees bumping slightly, as he plops his bag down on the ground beside his feet and pulls out his Spanish books. Wes already has the textbook on his lap, open to the relevant chapters, staring down at it as though it were written in hieroglyphics. “Okay, so, present tense conjugations are probably going to be a huge part of this test so we should probably start there…”

They spend an hour working on the conjugations and memorizing vocabulary. Somewhere along the way, something clicks inside of Wes’s head and it all comes together, and Travis has never felt such a warm pride bubble up inside his chest before. “Okay, I think you’ve earned a break time. But see? It’s not too bad. You’re doing great.”

Wes ducks his head, staring down at his notebook and refusing to look at Travis. “It’s still pretty awful, actually.”

“You’re just the King of Positivity, aren’t you? The proper thing to say is actually just, ‘oh, thank you, Travis. I could never have done it without your genius tutoring skills and devilishly handsome features’.”

“No, that absolutely is not the ‘proper thing to say’. And what even does your looks have to do with anything?” Wes tends to glare at him a lot, with slightly squinted eyes and completely flat lips, looking like the picture of a complete lack of amusement. Travis thinks it exudes affection, and he can’t help but smile in the face of it, which simply earns him even more squinting and crossed arms, a heavy sigh of discontent if he’s really feeling ornery. But this time, Wes instead simply licks his lips and continues, a little softer, “But thank you, Travis.”

It feels like a victory.

So of course Travis, being himself, has to ruin the moment. “So why don’t you want people over your place? Is there something up with your aunt, or what?”

For some reason, this makes Wes pale a little, straightening up and looking straight ahead at the empty playset. The colors are sun bleached and look like they haven’t been touched by any real kids in years. “I just don’t like people over my house. That’s my area, and I like everything as is, not all touched and moved around by you guys.”

“So it’s a territorial thing? Yeah…I don’t think so. Try again. What’s up with your aunt?”

Right as Wes is about to respond, there’s movement near the tree line of the beginning of the forest behind the park that he catches out of the corner of his eye. The other teen responds as well, peering into the old oaks at the figure of a person, a dark silhouette not quite in focus.

Travis remembers the first time he’s seen one of those; five years old, standing in the doorway to his room while he tried to sleep. “Don’t worry, it was just a dream,” his foster parents insisted. He almost would’ve believed it too, if he didn’t start seeing them at school, in the store, at his friends’ houses…

He used to try and talk about them, but after getting dubbed “schizo” in one of his foster homes, when he moved on he figured it was for the best if he simply ignored the apparitions. But now, here is Wes sitting beside him, looking in the same direction at what should just be a delusion from his mind.

By the way that Wes is looking back at him, unadulterated shock on his face, tells Travis that he’s thinking pretty much the same exact thing. “What are you looking at?”

There’s a split second in which Travis thinks about lying, because this isn’t the first time he’s been caught staring at imaginary people and he’s become so comfortable in his little school routine in ways he never thought he would ever have, that to ruin it by letting Wes think he’s actually insane seems unimaginable. But there’s a voice ringing in his head – “that ghost freak” - and the blonde is exuding hope so strongly that instead, he says, “There was a person over there. Or at least it looked like one. They must’ve gone into the forest or something.”

The look in those blue eyes tells him this was the right answer, even as Wes swallows hard and reopens his textbook. “We should get back to studying.”

Even with the deflection, though, Travis can still tell that this is the most open Wes has ever been with him, starting to feel that magnetic pull that means I like you, I want you to stay.

But this is the only time he’s ever felt as though his own energy is replying, I want to stay too. He tries not to think about it too much as he opens up his textbook once again.

*

When Paekman bounds up to their table at lunch, grinning as though he’s just won the lottery, Travis knows that whatever he has to say, Wes is not going to like it. This suspicion is confirmed when he wastes no time in saying, “I’m sorry, Wes, but I had to go over your head. I asked your aunt if we could have a party to welcome Travis into the group and she loves the idea. She’s totally for it. It’s definitely happening now, so clear your schedules for next Friday at seven.”

“No, you didn’t. She would’ve told me if you did.”

“I told her that I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

Wes doesn’t look convinced, lips pursed and brow slightly furrowed. Travis expects more of a fight than is happening. Even Paekman looks slightly confused, as though half prepared to deal with a complete fallout for such betrayal.

Instead, the blonde simply shrugs and continues to eat his salad. “So I’m finally going to meet Auntie Wesley?” Travis asks tentatively.

“Her name’s Abigail. She typically goes by Abby,” Wes corrects. Travis takes that as a yes.

*

A seagull cries out somewhere above him and all Travis can smell is salt – he almost doesn’t want to open his eyes, trying to force away the sea.

He can’t. Accepting his fate, Travis opens his eyes to find himself back in the tiny boat, surrounded by water. This time, it isn’t so long a wait before the bubbles appear on the surface of the waves again, indicating the presence of some living being.

Half expecting some kind of deep ocean monster, he’s much more wary when he peeks over the side of the boat, hanging on to the edge of his seat for dear life. He’s bracing himself for massive tentacles, huge jaws and rows upon rows of sharp teeth, terrible and deadly.

Instead, what greets him is a pair of very familiar blue eyes, framed with soft blonde locks floating as if weightless in the water. Wes. For a moment, Travis panics, looking around the boat for a life vest or a rope to throw at his friend when he realizes…

Wes is breathing perfectly fine underneath the water.

It doesn’t make any sense. Travis opens his mouth to call out, but has no chance, as Wes reaches out above the water to grab at his wrists, impossibly strong, impossibly—

Jolting awake, Travis still feels the weight of those cold hands on him, dragging him down.

*

There’s no worse anxiety than waiting for a test to be handed back, and Travis is considering just hiding in the bathroom until it’s over with, considering the way his heart is palpitating in a very alarming way and he feels as though all his oxygen is getting squeezed down the tiniest tubes, barely making it to his lungs.

Honestly, it’s more annoying than anything else – he’s not even worried about his grade – but as Ms. Alvarez makes her way to the front of the class, and everyone lets out a breath and starts to murmur comparisons, Travis can replenish his air supply and flip over his test. 95%. With a smiley face next to his name and everything.

Paekman’s peeking over his shoulder and saying something about how impressive that is and that Ms. Alvarez is known for being a hard grader, and while Travis is kind of listening, he is mostly just looking back at Wes, who has already folded his test and placed it in the back of his folder. He’s sitting ramrod straight, textbook on his desk, waiting for the class to start, but for a split second he looks over at Travis and smiles ever so slightly.

It’s easy to read what Wes is trying to send: could be higher, but okay. For some reason, this is more exciting to him than his own grade.

Yet when the bell finally rings, and Travis is about to turn and talk to Wes in between classes, the blonde is already packed up and out the door.

When it’s finally lunch time, the first thing Travis does after putting down his tray is clap Wes on the back, grinning. “Congrats! I told you it was going to go well.”

“I haven’t even gotten a chance to tell you what I got yet, though,” Wes points out, slightly perplexed.

Yeah, what was that about? Travis thinks, but instead, says, “Because I know I’m a great teacher, obviously.” Wes is pushing around his home cooked meal, refusing to look him in the eyes. He amends, a little softer, “I saw the look on your face after. It was a good one, I could tell. I know my vibes.”

“It could’ve been better,” Wes sighs, opening up his backpack. Bingo! Travis tries not to look so triumphant. Unfolding the test packet, he lets it rest on the table where both Travis and Paekman can see it: 77%.

“That’s great, Wes!” Paekman immediately says, but Travis can feel the underlying disappointment regardless of the initial elation.

So instead, Travis says, “Nobody’s perfect, baby. You put in a lot of hard work and that score shows it. Be happy about it!”

He’s not really sure it helps, but at least Wes isn’t stabbing his food too violently, so there’s that.

*

The first thing out of Paekman’s mouth that Friday morning is, “Remember, we have Wes’s party at seven tonight, don’t forget!”

Because Wes had so much to do with the planning and all. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about that. I’ll be there!”

Which is exactly how he ends up half running down the street at six fifty, trying to pretend that he isn’t nearly late because a quick after school cat nap without an alarm turned in an actual, real nap lasting a few hours. But at least the cool, fall air is waking him up, and he’s only five minutes past when he finally does arrive on Wes’s street.

7000 Dallas Avenue. It’s a nice little white two-story house with light blue curtains, a wooden fence and a very well taken care of lawn – it’s exactly what Travis was expecting, yet still there’s a moment of surprise, like he doesn’t live up in a castle on some hill with all the other exiles, given the way so much of the town seems to act.

Walking up to the door, Travis takes a second to catch his breath before ringing the doorbell. He’s glad of this, since it immediately opens to reveal a petite woman with very familiar blue eyes. “You must be Travis. Welcome! I’m Abby, Wes’s aunt.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Travis says, stepping inside and extending a hand. Instead, he’s pulled into a hug, engulfed by the smell of sandalwood and a type of incense he doesn’t quite recognize.

Yet there’s nothing more than a gentle maternal warmth radiating from Abby; not quite like Wes’s shield, but still an obvious reservation about how much she’s presenting. “The others are just right in through here.”

It’s just a short walk down the hallway before it opens up to the living room, the coffee table covered in snacks, the other three sitting in various positions on the two couches. The girl, who Travis presumes has to be Jonelle, looks familiar but only from passing in the hallway, and has always given the impression of haughty fierceness with her long, straight, black hair and angular face. This is only intensified when she looks at him with dark eyes, more than just a cursory glance, which normally would excite him from someone so beautiful, but now only makes him feel judged.

Opening his mouth to introduce himself and hopefully win a few brownie points, he’s beaten to the punch by Wes, who intones, “You’re late,” as if it is the gravest injustice that can ever be inflicted upon him.

“Sorry for depriving you of my presence. I know it must’ve been difficult and tears were probably shed, but I’m here now,” Travis retorts, which earns him an eye roll, and the faintest reddening of the tops of his ears.

He takes that as his cue to sit beside the blonde, before waving at Jonelle. “Hey, I’m-“

“Travis, I know. And I’m sure you know who I am.”

“Yup. The brawn of the group.”

Jonelle gives him half of a smile, so he figures he isn’t doing too badly so far.

“So, now that we’re all here! What game should we start with?” Paekman is up and rifling through the bookcase beside the television, hosting a small variety of DVDs, video games, and board games, with all the familiarity of a lifelong friend. The fact that Wes is actually sitting back and allowing this to happen speaks wonders too.

“Territorial, my ass,” Travis whispers to Wes, who simply shrugs in a defeated, ‘well, what can I do?’ sort of way.

“If nobody chooses, I’m just gonna pick and you guys know what that means.”

“Nobody likes Monopoly, Paekman!” Jonelle shrieks, looking at the box as though she wants to set in on fire. Travis doesn’t really blame her, remembering some very heated game nights in some of his previous homes.

“Why not Balderdash?” Wes offers. Everyone just stops and stares at him as though he’s suggested flying to the moon.

“Monopoly it is, then,” Paekman declares, setting the box down with such finality that it’s not questioned again.

Travis steals a chip and settles in for a long night of arguing.

*

By the end of twenty minutes, four arguments have already broken out, two of which ended in tiny plastic houses being flung, everyone has been to jail at least once, and Travis is the only one without any property. They only last ten more minutes until the tiny iron almost takes Paekman’s eye out, which seems to be an omen of sorts. “One of these days, you guys will appreciate this game as the masterpiece that it is.”

“And one of these days, you’ll actually find some taste and like fun board games,” Jonelle retorts, as Wes packs all of the pieces carefully away. Travis watches him organize the tiny houses into small baggies by color, placing them in their corners of the box on top of the folded game board – it’s almost hypnotic, watching him do this with such diligence, as though the organization of the inside box of a board game is of paramount importance.

Sure, he feels the way Paekman and Jonelle are giving each other pointed looks and wondering what the hell Travis is doing here, instead of at whatever party those popular kids were throwing, staring at Wes like some kind of awkward stalker. In fact, he can just imagine them sitting him down, alone, and asking, “So what are your intentions towards our Wesley?”

Travis doesn’t even really know, but he’s always been great at going with the flow.

“I hope you guys weren’t having too much fun without me, now,” Abby calls from the doorway, and with her voice comes the aroma of homemade chocolate chip cookies. It takes all his willpower to wait until she sets the plate down on the table, but the second the soft ‘thunk’ is heard, it’s free for all – clearly the others feel the same, as Paekman and Jonelle are also half rushing for first grabs, but Travis just happens to be closest to snag the first three cookies off of the top.

The fact that they’re still scalding means nothing to Travis, who burns off probably half his tongue stuffing one into his mouth. “These are amazing, Abby!”

“Aw thanks, but these are actually Wes’s. I just put my brownies in the oven.”

With a gasp and a bit of a twirl, Travis falls dramatically into Wes’s lap, looking up at him and saying, “Marry me. I need this deliciousness always in my life. You’ve ruined me for all other cookies now.”

“What makes you so sure I would make these all the time for you if we were married, hm?”

“Why, Wes, I didn’t think you were the type of man to leave his husband out in the cold like that. It’s just cruel to withhold such talent,” Travis chides, still sprawled over Wes even though it left the aforementioned confections out of reach. Wes’s legs are quite comfortable, actually, and maybe the next time Paekman reaches over, he’ll oblige if Travis sticks out his hand and pouts or something.

“It’s not cruelty, it’s called healthy living. There are these things called vegetables, Trav, they’re good for you and you should try them sometime.”

“You only live once, man! Excuse me for wanting to fill it with good food and not with your sad limp salads, okay.”

“Did you just YOLO me?”

“I’m proud of you Wes, for knowing what YOLO stands for. That’s truly impressive for you-“

“Can you two be more sickening? I mean, really.” Travis finally lifts himself back up into a sitting position, noticing the way the other two teenagers have been staring at them.

Abby just laughs and gently smoothes Wes’s hair down affectionately, while he tries his best to dodge her hand and pretend he isn’t blushing. “I think you guys are cute. It’s nice to see you loosen up for once, Wes.”

“I am loose,” Wes proclaims haughtily, before realizing what he’s said, but by then it’s too late; everyone else is already laughing, distracted by the double entendre.

It’s starting to feel a lot like the home he’s always wanted.

*

A few hours in, and it’s Travis’s turn to grab the drinks, and he’s standing in the kitchen trying to remember the orders when Abby steps quietly into the room. He doesn’t actually quite hear her movements (so that’s where Wes gets his stealth ninja moves, the thought making him smile slightly) but it’s hard to mistake the sudden desire to turn around and cling to her while she feeds him cookies and tells him there’s nothing to worry about.

And with that comes the increasing difficulty not to say, “Hey, ma,” when he does turn around and greet her. Instead, he shortens it to just, “Hey,” to be on the safe side.

“Need some help?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Still, she reaches above his head and starts pulling down glasses – I was just going to grab some cans, but okay – as she says, “You know, Travis. I meant what I said earlier. Wes has never really loosened up for anyone before.”

The phrase “loosened up” just makes him think of Wes’s invisible shield and how it’s been getting curiously weaker as the days went by, and there’s something in her voice that almost makes him think that’s what she’s referring to as well. But that’s just something Travis made up, some silly metaphor his imagination painted for him. “I tend to bring that out in people a lot.”

“I can imagine. But Wes isn’t someone easily swayed.”

Travis is cracking the ice tray, popping few cubes per glass. “Are you trying to say I’m special, Abby? Aw shucks, I’m so flattered.”

“You are.” She opens up the fridge, starts pulling out cans of soda. “Just think about it, okay?”

Travis nods, watching as she grabs the now full cups and starts to make her way back to the living room. He grabs the others and follows suit.

*

It’s late when the party ends, and Travis remembers he didn’t think to ask his foster parents for a ride home. They’re probably in bed right now anyways, being the ‘early to bed, early to rise’ type he thought didn’t exist outside of, like, television sitcoms.

Jonelle’s dad comes to pick up both her and Paekman. “His house is on our way,” she says loftily, but it’s in the opposite direction and Travis refuses to press.

“Would you like a ride home, Travis?” Abby asks.

“Oh no, it’s fine. Honestly, I’ve been out way later in worse towns than this, I’ll be alright.” At the quizzical look on Abby’s face, Travis figures Wes didn’t tell her about being in the system. “This is my eighteenth foster home,” He adds as a way of explanation.

“Even so, it’s getting colder and I would hate for you to get sick.” Spoken like a true mother. “It’d be my pleasure. Wes, would you like to come?”

There’s no reason for Wes to agree, and yet he’s nodding, opening the hallway closet to grab a jacket. Probably to make sure Abby doesn’t tell me all his embarrassing stories.

Abby’s car is a nice, normal sedan – a little older, but well maintained. It’s so clean it almost feels dealership new, which probably continues to explain the enigma that is Wes.

Underneath it all, though, there’s a light hint of the smell of sage, which just grounds the idea that he is definitely in the Mitchell Mobile.

Figuring that Wes probably mentally called shotgun, Travis immediately slips into the backseat, pulling on the belt. Yet when he looks back up, the blonde boy is beside him instead. You’re special, Travis. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Where do you live, Travis?” Oh, right. For some reason he’s found himself just expecting them to know, as if they’ve done this a thousand times, as if he’s been here all his life. But they aren’t mind readers, and he’s only been here for a month, so instead he has to tell them the street.

Abby knows where it is, without further question. This is starting to get a little awkward, sitting in the dark in the car of a woman he’s just met, while his only lifeline sits in silence, staring out the window as if he can see a damn thing. It all just looks like unfamiliar dark blurs to him, with the occasional backlit window or yellowy street lamp to help illuminate.

But then, Travis figures, it could also probably be a lot more awkward. All his life, he’s been surrounded by rambunctious kids always begging to play and teenagers trying to prove themselves with their loud mouthed street talk – there’s been nothing but noise, buzzing in his ear, overstimulating and harsh.

It wasn’t too hard to learn to adapt, and after a while it simply became a source of comfort, a normalcy he’s come to enjoy, but there’s still a part of him that has always yearned for that silence. His little Thoreau cabin in the woods.

Wes is giving him this silence, almost as a gift. Which is ridiculous, considering how Travis has never even said anything of the sort to Wes, so how could he possibly know about any of that, and yet everything in his gut is telling him that’s the truth. Travis stares out the window and soaks it all in, the peace and quiet that has never been a part of his life, accented only by the feeling of Wes’s own presence, pressing up beside him. Unobtrusive, calming.

Abby’s warm parental guidance is there as well, but it seems so muted and far away, as if the front half of the car was detached from this little island of the backseat, miles and miles away.

Travis isn’t really sure what to make of all this, except for the fact that he should probably be running far, far away, and isn’t. “Thanks for the ride,” he says, when the car finally comes to a stop in front of his house.

“Anytime, Travis. Our house is always open to you.”

He wants to tell her that saying that means she’ll probably have to pry him out of that wonderful little place she calls home with a crowbar in the near future, but then again there’s something in her eyes that’s accepting of that possibility, so instead he simply nods and gives a quick half wave before ducking inside.

*

If there’s one thing that Travis has learned about Wes so far, it’s that he needs to stop expecting anything reasonable from him. Because there’s a part of him that assumes now that Travis been introduced to his aunt, it means the Spanish lessons can now take place in the controlled environment of Wes’s house.

Yet here he is, once again exposed to the very cold elements, trying to focus on teaching when all he can think about is how his fingers feel like they’re going to fall off. “C’mon Wes, why can’t we just do this at your place? We’ve already done introductions, and your aunt is great. Plus she loves me, so denying her of my wonderful personality is just cruel. Really it’s win-win all around.”

“Travis, it’s sixty five degrees and you’re wearing a jacket. I think you’ll live.”

Huffing, he crosses his arms over his chest, making sure to shiver and look at Wes with the most pathetic face he can muster. “But I’m freezing…”

“Oh for the love of…”

And that is how Travis now finds himself at Wes’s dining room table, pleasantly warm and now fully capable of focusing on Spanish. “Do you guys need anything?”

“I think we’re okay, but thanks, Abby,” Travis beams, just to see her small smile in response before she leaves them alone.

There’s still a lot of questions that Travis wants to ask. Like if Wes has a bedroom like a normal teenage boys – what posters would he even place on his walls? Probably something boring like the periodic table or elements or a photocopy of the declaration of independence – or why his aunt is looking after him. But Wes want to work and he’s already tried his patience enough.

They spend an hour and a half studying, which probably could’ve even been a bit longer had Travis not looked up from his books just in time to see a man pass by the open doorway, as if walking down the hall towards the living room where Abby is watching television. “You didn’t tell me Abby’s boyfriend was over,” he says, conversationally.

Wes literally drops his pen midsentence and looks up at him, all round eyes and white lips. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend, what are you talking about?”

“A dude totally just walked by. Like, I am not fucking with you, Wes, I saw him with my own two eyes.” Travis waits a beat, but there’s no screaming, or shuffling as if Abby was in any kind of danger, and there’s no way that the man hasn’t made it to the living room by now.

The look Wes gives him can only be described as his best Bad Cop impression, and the next thing Travis knows, he’s spitting out all kinds of questions like this is an interrogation. “What did he look like? About how tall was he? What was he wearing? Did he seem-?”

“Woah, woah. One at a time, man. Uh, normal? I didn’t really get a good look at his face, I just got a glimpse of him as he walked by. Like, 6 feet I guess? Maybe a little taller. Dark skin, short hair. Wearing, uh, red flannel and jeans, with scuffed up working boots? It’s no one I’ve seen in town, but lately all I’ve really seen are you guys and whoever’s at school, so…”

Travis trails off at the look on Wes’s face; pure, unadulterated horror. “I can’t…believe…this is real…really happening…”

“What?”

It’s almost as if Wes has forgotten for a moment that Travis is sitting beside him, listening to his half frantic murmuring, because he looks at him so suddenly and with such intensity. “You need to leave. Right now.”

“Wha-?” Wes is packing his things for him, neater than he ever did himself even in the haste. Placing the bag in Travis’s hands, Wes quickly marches him to the doorstep, unceremoniously half pushing him out. (Although, he’s so wrapped up in Wes’s sudden change in attitude that he can’t tell if the push was literal or merely imagined, a manifestation of Wes trying to shove him out of his life.)

Travis catches Abby standing in the hallway, about to say something, but Wes is too quick; with a sharp, “Goodbye, Travis,” he shuts the door with such a finality that leaves him wondering what on earth he just did to alienate one of his only true friends.

*

The boat doesn’t make him seasick anymore. He feels as if he’s spent an eternity on it now, gently rocking to soft waves, looking out in all directions at the dark blue sea.

Only this time, he knows he won’t find what he’s looking for. “Wes? Wes!”

There are no bubbles rising to the ocean surface, no cold hands reaching out to grab him. All he sees are the seagulls circling ahead, calling out to one another in harsh bellows that echo around him.

It’s silence, but it isn’t the silence he wants.

“Dammit, Wes,” he mutters under his breath, before jumping headfirst into the water himself.

*

The next few days are hard. Wes barely even wants to look at him, much less talk to him as a normal human being; but he doesn’t seem happy about the self-inflicted cold shoulder either, if the way he stabs the lukewarm pasta is any indication. So why are you doing this to me? To us?

By the third day, Travis can’t help but groan and slump over his desk in Spanish, asking Paekman woefully, “What did I do? How can I fix this?”

“I dunno, man. You said he just freaked out on you?”

“Yeah! I told him that I saw a dude in his house. Which I did. And then he asked all these freaky questions asking me to describe him, and that was that! Next thing I know, I’m freezing on the street and now he’s all like…that.” Travis vaguely gestures over to where Wes is sitting in his usual corner, and by the sudden spike in frustration, he guesses that Wes is now glaring at him, probably noticing their conversation. That’s your own damn fault, asshole, I think I’m entitled to a little ranting.

Paekman’s biting his lip, looking conflicted. Travis sighs, tired of the secrets and the hidden meanings. “Just say it, please. I get that I’m late to all this but just enough with the whole ‘mysterious happenings’ bullshit. It was cute at first but it’s getting real old.”

This makes the young Asian boy reconsider, before leaning down even closer and lowering his voice to the point where he’s barely audible, even to Travis. “Look, I’m just not sure if it’s my place to say, okay? Wes and I have been best friends since we were in pull ups, and there’s still a ton of shit he doesn’t even tell me. It’s not out of malice or anything, that’s just how he is.” Travis just rolls his eyes and grunts slightly. “Okay, fine. Meet me outside the school library after last period. I’ll tell you then. But you have to promise you won’t tell Wes what I’m going to tell you.”

“It’s a done thing. I pinky swear, cross my heart and hope to die, blood oath promise!”

Now it’s Paekman’s turn to just roll his eyes at Travis’s dramatics.

*

Every second of the rest of the day feels like an hour. More than an hour. Especially lunch, the one period he used to actually look forward to, spent once again frustrated and out of the loop.

But everything must come to an end, and finally the last bell of the day rings. He tries not to rush, slowly visiting his locker and letting the crowd die down before meeting with Paekman.

They hide out in the back – Ms. Langston never asked many questions – and sit down, before Travis turns to him and asks, “So what’s the dealio?”

He considers himself very disciplined for waiting this long, but even so there’s a flicker of annoyance crossing Paekman’s face. It could also be from the fact that this feels like a betrayal, but in Travis’s experience, people like Wes sometimes need others to tell their stories in order to get anywhere with them. It’s for the greater good!

“Alright. Here’s what I’m kind of thinking: when Wes was a baby, Abby used to have a husband. They were like high school sweethearts or something, been together for ages. Like, totally inseparable, the kind of gross ‘love you pumpkin!’ every two seconds type.”

“Woah, really? She seems so reserved, I didn’t think she was the type.”

“Yeah, apparently he was the only one who brought her out like that, you know?” Where have I heard that before? “Anyways, her husband used to work in this old factory. It’s since been shut down, but everyone who worked there always used to joke that it was super unsafe and everything. Like, ‘man am I sore today but at least the radiator didn’t fall on me!’ People were always complaining but at the time a ton of people were employed there. Most of the town, actually. So nobody really wanted to do anything about since then they’d all be out of a job.”

Travis has lived in towns like that before. All hail the mighty Lumber Mill. “So they just kept working around all the hazards.”

“Exactly. Until one day, an old pipe just burst out of the ceiling and cracked Abby’s husband right across the skull. He was dead before he even hit the ground. We were in first grade.”

Even though it was easy to see where this story was going, Travis can’t help but be shocked. “Damn. That must’ve been rough.”

Paekman nods. “The factory shut down since it wasn’t like anybody could deny the conditions anymore, obviously. But Abby, man…she couldn’t take it. I hate to say the word ‘crazy’ because that’s not really how I see it, she was just a woman torn up with grief, but that’s how everyone else was looking at it. Honestly, if she didn’t have Wes, I don’t know what she would’ve done.”

“But what did she do?” Travis asks, because he has a feeling this isn’t quite an end to the story, even though it’s far more than he could’ve expected to hear.

“She…she became obsessed with seeing him again. Talking to him. She tried everything, Ouija boards, séances…the whole nine yards. And Wes was with her every step of the way, because that guy was practically his father and he loves his aunt more than he’ll ever say. Plus, it’s not like she didn’t know by now that Wes was, how can we say, gifted.” Travis raises an eyebrow at this, but Paekman doesn’t explain. “And I mean, Abby has her own gifts too, so I guess she just figured if she combined her’s with Wes’s, then there was more than enough, I don’t know, power behind it all that she’d at least be able to see her husband one last time, and have a proper goodbye.”

“But they couldn’t do it,” Travis finishes, as if trying to contact the dead was a completely normal reaction to the death of a loved one. Well, it’s better than others. About the same time frame, he was just settling in to a new foster home when the couple next door lost their son. He happened to glance out the window when they were coming home after the funeral, and the mother had looked up and caught him staring; he had never seen such dead eyes on anyone before, just utterly destroyed with grief.

Thinking about, he never saw her again after that. Maybe she never left the house again. Comparatively, Abby’s séances seem almost healthy.

“So, basically…you think I saw the ghost of Abby’s dead husband, and Wes is upset because they were searching for him for years and he decides to just show himself to me instead?”

Paekman just grins and pats him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the ghost whisperer club. It sounds cool as hell, you and Wes should make t-shirts.”

No wonder he doesn’t talk about anything. “Yeah, I really don’t think Wes wants to wear matching t-shirts with me right now.”

“You’ll figure it out, don’t worry.” Paekman squeezes his arm once again reassuringly, before leaving Travis in the library with his own thoughts.

*

Confrontation seems to be the easiest route, to just get everything out into the open, so they can talk about it like the almost adults they are. But nothing with Wes is easy, so Travis decides on a more subtle approach.

He talks. Every day at lunch, Travis acts like Wes didn’t literally pick up his shit and throw him out of his house for no good reason, like he didn’t just cut him out of his life, just like that, over seemingly nothing.

Instead, Travis tells him funny stories about past foster homes, about how the couple he’s staying with now is new to fostering but they’ll be getting a couple new kids in a few weeks and he’ll have to keep them in line if they’re rowdy. He even talks about why he’s so good at Spanish – how one of his early foster homes most of the kids barely spoke English, and for a while Spanish was the language he was most fluent in, as he spent most of his time outside, playing ball with everybody. “Sometimes when I get super flustered, I can only think in Spanish and I switch languages accidentally.”

Maybe that sounds like bragging, shit! But there’s still nothing from Wes, not even a hint of disapproval or a hum of amusement.

Travis isn’t really sure how much longer he can take the white noise.

*

All throughout dinner, Travis tries to ignore this sinking feeling in his gut that says, Go to Wes’s house. Honestly, he thinks that’s a pretty terrible idea, all things considered; it’s what got him in this mess in the first place, and Wes doesn’t seem the type to take lightly to those who show up totally unannounced on his porch.

But by the time he’s finished his plate, the feeling is pounding so hard he thinks he might just see his dinner again if he doesn’t do something, so he grabs his shoes and tells his parents that he’s taking a little walk. (“To help, um, digest that totally delicious meal!” Okay, so maybe not the most convincing lie he’s ever told.

“Okay sweetie, don’t walk too fast or you’ll cramp!” Or more reasonable than he was actually expecting.)

The outside of Wes’s house seems perfectly normal, the shutters pulled shut and everything quiet. They could easily just be watching a movie together (I wonder what kind of movies Wes likes, probably documentaries or some other boring shit like that) and Travis should really just leave, it’s none of his business and Wes clearly doesn’t want anything to do with him…

So of course that means Travis’s feet move him forward, up the small lawn and the porch steps to stand in front of the door. He’s about to press the doorbell when he hears a loud crash and something shatter, as if a glass has just been dropped on the floor and broken.

That doesn’t sound good. Without thinking, Travis turns the knob to find it unlocked and walks in, going straight to the kitchen to find Wes, hands up against some force that he can’t really make out.

The lights are flickering, but that’s hard to tell with the shutters drawn and the kitchen being tucked off to the side. It almost feels like a whirlwind, as if some kind of mini tornado has decided to land just in Wes’s kitchen to torment him. Travis watches a plate fly off the counter to crash against the wall beside Wes, as if of its own volition. “What the fuck?”

“What are you doing here?!” Wes is angry which, okay, yes, Travis did kind of barge into his house without warning but given the circumstances he would’ve preferred a little more, “Oh, Travis, you’re here to save the day!”

There’s just too much to explain and there’s no time. “What do you need?” He shouts from the doorway, somehow assuming that Wes knows exactly what is going on and how to fix it. From what he’s been hearing through the grapevine, he’s the resident town expert on all things paranormal.

“Living room! Black rug, now!” Travis runs, trying to remember a black rug while playing their party games. Had he sat on it? Was it on the ground, or…?

Sitting rolled up by the arm chair. At one point he did lay down and rest his head on it like a pillow – nobody had said anything to him about it.

Thankfully it’s fairly lightweight, and he keeps it folded, so that once he turns into the kitchen doorway, he can waste no time in lobbing it at Wes, like a football. The blonde catches it while simultaneously dodging flying forks, rolling it out in a single, graceful movement.

“Come on, just a step closer…” There are some kind of golden runes written on it, nothing like anything Travis has seen before, and as the windstorm gets closer to Wes, he pushes it out into the center of it, and ducks his head.

All of a sudden, everything just stops. Cups and plates fall back onto the counter where they had been hovering with deep thunks, a spoon lands in front of Wes’s face, still spinning.

Travis is about to step inside and offer his hand when Wes pulls himself up instead, not even brushing himself off first before turning to Travis and saying, “Why are you in my house?”

“Damn, it’s usually customary to thank someone for saving your life first before you start with the accusations.”

“I had it all under control, thank you very much-!”

“Really? Because it sure as hell seemed like I was saving your ass, man!”

They’re standing in the mess of the kitchen, staring at each other. To anyone else, it would’ve seemed as though Wes is pure anger; all Travis sees is the tense stance and balled fists of the defensive.

In fact, Travis is about to open his mouth and say something comforting, try to convince Wes that it’s okay, he doesn’t think of him as weird or crazy, when he’s interrupted by the front door opening.

“Can you believe, I had to go to three different stores to find…" Abby trails off at the sight of Travis standing in the hallway, her eyes slowly swiping over the bits of broken plates and silverware that littered the floor. “Wes, what have I told you a thousand times? We never try to contact alone. My God, if Travis hadn’t thought to come over-!”

“I can’t believe this, you’re taking his side? I had everything under control without help, thank you very much!”

It’s not that he means to be purposefully inflammatory, just that this overworked statement was getting less and less believable, and Travis couldn’t help but shake his head at Abby, who reaches out and gently pats his cheek with a slightly sad smile. “Thank you, honey. If you stay a little bit, I can whip you up some treats real quick before I take you home, alright?”

Travis thinks that sounds more than alright. As she moves into the kitchen to set down the two bags she had brought in on the counter, he shoots Wes a look of victory that earns him an eye roll that seems more tired than irritated.

*

Because Travis was raised to be a polite young man, he assists in the clean up by picking up the metal spoons and forks off of the ground and placing them into the dishwasher while Wes sweeps up the jagged pieces of broken ceramic, despite protests from both of the Mitchells. “If I’m here, I might as well help,” he insists.

He can almost feel Wes’s cold shoulder falter at this. He adds the soap and turns the wash cycle on for good measure.

When the kitchen is finally decent once again, Abby shoos them out with a simple, “I think there are some things you boys need to talk about.”

Wes huffs at this, arms crossed over his chest and a petulant frown pouting his lips. “She’s right, you know.” The blonde merely huffs louder and drops himself down onto the living room couch.

Where to start? There’s a lot of things that Travis wants to say but can’t, harboring the secrets that had been bestowed upon him as if his life depends on it. Instead, he just stands awkwardly, not quite wanting to sit down, shifting his weight and trying not to pace. “I know Paekman told you.”

“About what?” Travis replies innocently, briefly wondering if a few bats of the eyelash might be overkill. It’s worth a try.

If Wes is affected, he shows none of it. “His name was Ralph.”

“Did Paekman tell you or is mind reading one of those gifts I keep hearing about?” Travis finally sits down beside the other boy, refusing to leave a space and bumping their knees gently together. He always thought it more comforting when talking about past hardships with a degree of physical closeness, not overwhelming, but enough to be noticeable, and when Wes doesn’t move, merely allows it to happen, he figures it was the right call. “Because if it’s the latter, then we might need to have a talk about some of things you might’ve heard.”

This makes Wes smile ever so slightly, just a twitch of the lips, but Travis has become attune to every little expression. “No, I can’t read minds. But Paekman didn’t tell me. I just…I figured that’s what happened when you refused to give up. I mean, anybody else in their right mind would’ve just dumped me ages ago.”

There’s a certain sadness in his voice that tells a story of past abandonments. Sure, Travis may have been annoyed at the sudden 180 in their friendship, but giving up had never crossed his mind, not when he could see so clearly the sadness and loneliness of this obstinate boy who had been through hell. “An argument could be made that I’m not exactly a person in their right mind.” A pause, to appreciate Wes’s short snort of a laugh. “But come on, Wes. You had to realize it wasn’t gonna be that easy to get rid of me. You could’ve just told me what was going on.”

“And what? Have you laugh in my face, and go around telling people how fitting it is that ghost boy lives in a haunted house?”

“Why would I laugh? I was the one who saw him! Clearly you’re not the only ghost boy around anymore.”

But people don’t know about you. He can practically hear Wes’s voice in his head as if it had been said, but there was no lip movement or the slight ringing in his ear after speech. “You know, Paekman even said we should have matching t-shirts made. Like Team Ghost Whisperers, or something.”

“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life.”

“I don’t know, I thought it was funny.”

Neither of them jump when Abby makes a quiet entrance, a slight touch of white flour resting on her cheekbone and her hair falling out of her messy bun. “It’s so good to have you over again, Travis. You know, I was worried for a moment there. You boys are so good for each other, and that’s not something to waste over a small squabble.”

“It wasn’t a small squabble. He saw Ralph.” Wes defends, but it even falls false on Travis’s ears.

“Still. There’s a reason for all things in life, Wes. Maybe Ralph simply felt you needed confirmation of Travis’s own abilities to be able to finally see what you two have.”

A blush is creeping up from the back of Wes’s neck, slowly attempting to overtake his ears. “I don’t think I’m following.”

Abby smiles softly, and Travis flashes back to their time together in the kitchen, pouring drinks. You’re special, Travis. Her voice had rang in his mind constantly afterwards, wanting to believe but not quite. “I think it’s safe to say that we all know by now how very empathic Travis is, particularly in regards to you, Wes.”

“Empathic?” Travis interjects – it’s not any label he’s ever been faced with before. “You mean like emotions and stuff?”

“Think of it more as a sensitivity. An openness to the frequencies of those around you, which can then be translated into their emotional state, or even in brief contacts with the other side.”

Travis had never really thought much of this, had just figured that most other people thought the same. So maybe there were a few instances he couldn’t quite explain, but couldn’t it just be boiled down to having a very strong gut instinct?

Deep down though, Travis knows Abby is right. He figures “empathic” beats “schizo” any day of the week.

“If that’s the case, maybe we should try a séance. I mean, he popped up once for me right? Maybe he’ll do it again.”

With a soft smile, Abby takes his hand and squeezes slightly, her pink skin soft and warm. “No, that’s quite alright. A séance opens a door for any of the other side to cross, which can quickly become an uncontrollable thing, as Wes could probably tell you.” She shoots her nephew a pointed glance, who refuses to reciprocate and instead stares sheepishly at the wall. “I know he knows everything I want to say at this point anyways. Endangering the two of you for it would just be selfish.”

A timer dings in the kitchen, and with that Abby stands, gives both Travis and Wes a soft kiss on the forehead, and leaves to go check on her baking. “So…you’re really an empath, huh?”

“Guess so. And you’re a medium. Paekman is totally right, we need matching t-shirts.”

Wes sighs and throws his hands up in the air as if to say, this is out of my hands now. It’s all the apology that Travis really needs.

*

There isn’t even the pretense of a boat this time. When Travis dreams, he is already floating, weightless in the cool water. It makes no sense; he can taste the salt on his lips, but his eyes don’t burn as he looks around. He feels as though he’s breathing through porous gelatin, but it’s air and his lungs aren’t struggling.

Wes is there, blonde strands moving with the waves. Travis feels as though he’s made it, as if this was the main goal the entire time, this impossible bubble they’ve forged in the sea.

A cabin in the woods would’ve made a nice analogy too, but then, he figures he’s always been a big fan of the beach as well.

*

Two weeks later, Wes places a small gift bag on his desk, black and orange striped, crumpled orange tissue paper poking out of the top. “Aww, how’d you know it was my birthday, babe?”

“You’ve been telling us every day for two weeks,” He replies huffily, hovering awkwardly beside Travis as everyone else in the classroom stares. “Now are you going to open it before the bell or what?”

“We’ve got five minutes, relax.” Leisurely pulling off the bits of paper, Travis peeks inside and gasps. “No! You shouldn’t have!”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have,” Wes responds immediately, grabbing at the bag to take it back, but Travis is too quick – he’s pulling out the black shirt, that has printed on the front in white ink, “TEAM GHOST WHISPERERS”, with a cartoon ghost smiling and saying, “Boo!” underneath. Travis is actually speechless as he presses the shirt up against his chest, pure excitement on his face. Wes adds softly, “The ink glows in the dark.”

There’s a second shirt underneath, proclaiming the same saying. “I’m totally changing into mine next period and so should you. C’mon Wes, it’s my birthday, you can’t say no!”

Travis doesn’t need to see his face to feel the smile that is there when he takes the second shirt and turns to sit down at his desk. “I can’t even believe this. At the rate you two are going, you’re going to be even more disgusting than Abby and Ralph ever were.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have quoted Casablanca at us. You know that’s like number one on every Top Twenty All Time Greatest Romance Films list, right?”

Turning the shirt over once again in his hands, Travis shoots another look over at Wes, who’s doing the same. “So that means I get a cut when you guys end up as famous ghost hunting duos with your own television show, right? I’ll be nice, say, 10% for my amazing matchmaker services.”

“Sure, sure. But you know I’m only agreeing because there’s no way in hell that Wes would ever do a show like that. I mean, I had to fight for these shirts.”

Paekman merely shrugs, and smirks a bit. “I mean, I was right in the end about that quote, so…”

Travis is beginning to wonder if everyone in this town has some form of preternatural senses.