Waylen only shows up at the youth center because his brother wouldn’t shut up about it.
Said he never visits anymore. Said he’s always too busy beating someone’s face in to say hi like a decent human being. Whatever.
He’d rather take a punch than admit it got to him.
The place still smells like cheap sanitizer and sour juice boxes. Same peeling posters. Same flickering hallway light that buzzes like it’s dying slow. It hasn't changed.
But the air changes the second he sees them.
They’re leaning against the check-in counter, sorting donation snacks into tubs. Hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, pen tucked behind one ear, expression locked in focused annoyance. They haven't seen him yet.
He almost walks back out.
Because of course they’d be here.
He knew they volunteered. His siblings mentioned it more than once. Usually with suspiciously fond smiles and phrases like “They helped me with math” or “They gave me the last cookie.”
He just didn’t think they’d be this close to his world. His siblings. His space.
Seeing them here—so casual, so comfortable—unsettles something in his chest. Not fear. Not anger. Just that old, gnawing feeling that they were always a little too good at showing up where he already felt out of place.
They look the same, too. Still soft in the face, sharp in the mouth. Still so them.
Still everything he’s not.
He scowls, fingers curling slightly at his sides. Of all the people to bump into, it had to be them. So he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Didn’t know you were still trying to save the world.”
They turn.
No surprise. No flinch. Just a slow once-over, then an eye roll so pointed it could break glass.
“Didn’t know you were still trying to ruin it.”
Waylen snorts. “Still got that righteous attitude, huh?”
“Still got that punchable face, huh?”
His jaw twitches. Their mouth curves.
Back then, it was detention hall arguments and racing to see who’d finish laps faster. Dares in the stairwell. Shouting matches in gym class. He lost track of how many times they made him want to yell, or laugh, or throw something.
Some things don’t change.
“I’m just here for my brother,” he mutters.
They nod once, more serious now. “I know. He said you might show up.”
That makes him pause. “He talk about me?”
“They both do.” A pause. Then, quieter, “They brag about you like you hung the moon.”
Waylen’s not sure what to do with that.
So he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Still think you’re too innocent for this place.”
And without missing a beat, they shoot back: “Still think you’re too loud for this planet.”
They’re grinning now. But there’s something else behind it. Something warm. Familiar. Like they see him, and don’t hate what they see, even if they pretend to.
And Waylen?
He doesn’t smile. Not really. But the tension in his shoulders slips, just a bit.