Chapter Text
Wesley stopped waiting for his father when he was thirteen.
Before that, he used to try.
He used to sit on the living room couch with homework spread across the table, pretending he wasn’t listening for the sound of the front door unlocking. Every pair of headlights outside the tall glass windows made his chest jump hopefully for a second before disappointment settled back in.
Sometimes he waited until midnight.
Sometimes later.
William always came home eventually.
Expensive shoes against marble floors. The quiet sound of keys placed into a bowl. A tired sigh.
Then silence again.
Wesley used to run downstairs when he was little.
“Dad!”
William would pause, startled every single time like he forgot another person lived in the house.
Back then, William still smiled sometimes.
Small ones. Weak ones. But smiles nonetheless.
As Wesley got older, even those disappeared.
Now at sixteen, Wesley knew better than to expect warmth from a man who seemed permanently exhausted by life itself.
Their mansion looked beautiful in magazines.
Modern architecture. Huge windows. Soft expensive lighting. Minimalist furniture carefully chosen by designers.
But none of it felt lived in.
It felt like one of those luxury hotels people stayed in temporarily before leaving again.
No family photos covered the walls.
No clutter existed anywhere.
No signs of life.
Just silence.
So much silence.
Wesley sat cross-legged on the couch scrolling mindlessly through his phone while rain slammed violently against the windows outside. Thunder rumbled across the sky hard enough to shake the glass.
The digital clock read 11:47 PM.
William still wasn’t home.
Again.
Wesley sighed and tossed his phone aside.
He told himself he didn’t care anymore.
Really.
It wasn’t like William forgot to pay school fees or neglected responsibilities. Everything material Wesley could possibly want already existed before he even asked for it.
New laptop? Done.
School trip? Already paid.
Expensive birthday gifts? Delivered neatly with short notes written by assistants instead of William himself.
The problem was never money.
The problem was that Wesley sometimes felt like a responsibility being managed instead of a son being loved.
The front door opened downstairs.
Wesley instinctively looked up before immediately hating himself for it.
Footsteps echoed softly through the hallway.
William appeared moments later, loosening his tie with one hand while staring down at his phone. His dark coat dripped rainwater onto the marble floor.
Even exhausted, William looked painfully handsome.
Sharp jaw. Perfect posture. Cold eyes.
He looked more like a CEO from television than someone’s father.
Wesley watched quietly as William walked past the living room entrance without noticing him.
“Dad.”
William stopped.
Turned slightly.
Like he genuinely hadn’t realized Wesley was there.
“Why are you still awake?”
Not hello.
Not how was your day.
Just that.
Wesley looked away first.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
William hummed absently, attention already back on his phone.
“Don’t stay up too late.”
Then he disappeared upstairs.
That was it.
Wesley stared at the empty hallway long after the footsteps vanished.
Something bitter twisted inside his chest.
He didn’t know why he still tried.
—
The storm worsened after midnight.
Wind rattled against the windows violently enough to make the lights flicker.
Then suddenly—
Darkness.
The entire house went black.
Wesley groaned softly.
“Seriously?”
Thunder cracked overhead.
He grabbed his phone flashlight and headed toward the kitchen, muttering under his breath while searching drawers for candles.
Nothing.
Not a single flashlight either.
Of course.
The staff probably kept emergency supplies somewhere else.
Wesley leaned against the counter tiredly.
The only room likely to have anything useful was William’s study.
And William’s study was forbidden territory.
Not officially.
William never directly said Wesley couldn’t enter.
But every instinct screamed that room mattered in a way nothing else inside the house did.
William always locked it.
Always.
Still…
Wesley climbed the staircase slowly.
The hallway upstairs remained dark except for flashes of lightning illuminating polished floors silver-white for seconds at a time.
William’s bedroom door stood closed.
But halfway down the corridor—
The study door was slightly open.
Wesley frowned.
That had never happened before.
Carefully, he pushed it wider.
The room smelled different from the rest of the house.
Older somehow.
Dust. Paper. Something faintly nostalgic Wesley couldn’t name.
Lightning flashed again.
Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
Stacks of documents covered the desk in careful piles.
A leather chair sat near the window.
And in the corner beneath a dark cloth rested several old cameras.
Wesley froze.
Cameras?
His father hated cameras.
At least Wesley thought he did.
William avoided photographs constantly. Never smiled in pictures. Never allowed personal photos around the house.
Yet here sat at least seven professional cameras hidden carefully in the shadows.
Thunder boomed overhead.
Wesley stepped deeper into the room before he could stop himself.
Something about the space felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
Just… alive.
Like this room belonged to a completely different version of William than the one Wesley knew.
His flashlight beam landed on a cardboard storage box shoved partially beneath the desk.
Blue ribbon wrapped carefully around it.
Wesley crouched slowly.
The ribbon looked old and worn soft with time.
For some reason, his chest tightened.
He pulled the box out carefully.
Inside sat dozens of polaroids bundled together with rubber bands.
Train tickets.
Movie stubs.
Pressed flowers.
A silver necklace.
And journals.
So many journals.
Some black. Some blue. Some nearly falling apart from age.
Wesley stared silently.
Then picked one up.
The cover read:
YEAR TWO.
His fingers hesitated over the edge.
This felt wrong.
Private.
But curiosity burned too strongly already.
Slowly, Wesley opened the diary.
The first page contained messy handwriting slanting across paper wildly unlike William’s current neat business-like signature.
March 14.
Today I met the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.
Wesley blinked.
I think I’m doomed.
His stomach flipped strangely.
Because the words sounded young.
Happy.
Alive.
Nothing like his father.
Wesley sat cross-legged on the study floor and kept reading.
_
March 16.
Hong says I’m being dramatic but I genuinely think Est smiled at me today and changed the chemical structure of my brain permanently.
I forgot my own phone password afterward.
That cannot be normal.
Also he smells like vanilla.
I don’t know why I noticed that. Actually no. I know exactly why I noticed that.
Because I’m pathetic.
God.
Wesley frowned.
Est.
The name appeared everywhere already.
Every other sentence.
Every paragraph.
Almost every margin contained little doodles beside the name too.
Tiny stars. Hearts. Polaroid sketches.
Wesley tried imagining his father drawing hearts in notebooks and nearly laughed out loud from disbelief.
Another entry caught his eye.
March 22.
Today Est stole my fries again.
That’s the third time this week.
I told him one day I’m going to marry him just so I can legally stop him from stealing my food.
He looked me dead in the eyes and said: “Marriage won’t stop me.”
I think I blacked out for a second.
Nut says I smile like an idiot whenever Est exists near me.
He’s jealous because nobody looks at him lovingly.
Wesley covered his mouth slowly.
His father wrote like this?
Like a lovesick idiot?
No.
Impossible.
And yet the evidence sat directly in front of him.
Wesley kept turning pages.
The further he read, the stranger the feeling inside his chest became.
Because university William sounded warm.
Soft.
Emotional in ways Wesley had never once seen in real life.
April 2.
Est fell asleep during lecture today.
He looked exhausted so I carried him coffee afterward.
He complained it tasted terrible.
I told him love was the secret ingredient.
He said love tastes bitter then.
Rude.
Still drank the whole thing though.
Also important update: He smiled at me while half asleep and I almost proposed on the spot.
The corners of Wesley’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Then his eyes landed on another paragraph written lower on the page in smaller handwriting.
Sometimes I get scared.
Not because I’ll stop loving him.
I think that’s impossible already.
I’m scared because I love him so much it physically hurts sometimes.
What if one day I lose this?
What if happiness like this isn’t meant to stay?
Wesley’s smile faded slowly.
Something about the words made his chest ache unexpectedly.
He turned another page carefully.
A polaroid slipped free and landed in his lap.
Wesley picked it up.
And forgot how to breathe for a second.
The boy in the photo had to be Est.
Beautiful wasn’t even enough to describe him.
Dark messy hair. Bright eyes. A smile so warm it practically glowed through the faded photograph.
And beside him—
William.
Young William looked completely different.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
He grinned openly into the camera with his entire face lit up like the world itself existed only inside that moment.
One arm wrapped tightly around Est’s waist.
Like he never wanted to let go.
Wesley stared at the picture for a long time.
Because he had never seen his father smile like that before.
Not once.
Not in sixteen years.
Another diary entry waited beneath the photograph.
July 27.
Est dragged me onto the rooftop tonight because apparently “the stars look prettier after rain.”
We stayed there for hours.
At some point we started arguing about future baby names.
I wanted something artistic.
Est said I sound pretentious.
Which is unfair because I am pretentious.
Eventually he got quiet and pointed at the stars.
Then he said: “If we ever have a son, let’s name him Wesley.”
I asked why.
He smiled softly and said: “Because it sounds warm. Like someone you can always come home to.”
I think I fell in love with him all over again tonight.
Wesley stopped breathing.
His hands trembled slightly around the diary.
Wesley.
His name.
Not randomly chosen.
Not meaningless.
His father named him after a conversation shared beneath stars with someone else.
Someone William clearly loved more than life itself.
A strange painful feeling settled heavily inside Wesley’s chest.
Because suddenly his name felt less like his own.
And more like a memory William refused to let die.
Thunder cracked outside again.
But Wesley barely heard it anymore.
He kept reading.
Page after page after page.
And with every new entry, the distance between the William inside these diaries and the William raising him now became more heartbreaking.
This William laughed too much. Complained dramatically. Cried during movies. Followed Est around campus like a lost puppy.
This William loved loudly.
So loudly it spilled from every page.
Meanwhile the man upstairs barely remembered to ask Wesley about school.
What happened to you?
The thought appeared before Wesley could stop it.
What happened that made you stop smiling like this?
As if answering him, the next diary entry began differently.
The handwriting looked shakier somehow.
September 3.
I saw bruises on Est’s wrist today.
He said he bumped into a door.
He lied.
Wesley’s breath caught.
The tone felt wrong immediately.
Heavy.
Uneasy.
I know he lied because he wouldn’t look at me afterward.
Something’s wrong.
Something’s been wrong for weeks now.
He smiles less lately.
Sleeps less too.
I asked if he wanted to talk.
He just kissed my forehead and changed the subject.
I hate this feeling.
I hate not being able to protect him from something I can’t even see.
Wesley stared at the words.
Then slowly turned the page.
September 12.
We fought again.
Not really fought.
More like… collided.
I asked him where he disappeared every night lately.
He got angry immediately.
Said I was suffocating him.
Maybe I am.
But I’m terrified.
I know something’s hurting him.
And I don’t know how to help anymore.
The handwriting pressed harder into paper here.
Like William had been gripping the pen too tightly.
Wesley swallowed hard.
Outside, rain continued crashing against windows.
Somewhere upstairs the house remained silent.
But downstairs inside the hidden study, surrounded by old photographs and journals stained by time, Wesley felt like he’d accidentally stepped into another person’s life entirely.
Not his father’s.
Someone else’s.
Someone softer.
Someone human.
And for the first time in years, Wesley wanted desperately to know the truth about the man raising him.
Wesley didn’t sleep that night.
Not even for a minute.
By three in the morning he was still sitting on the floor of William’s study surrounded by scattered polaroids and open journals, completely unable to stop reading.
Rain continued outside endlessly.
The storm should have felt cold.
Instead, Wesley felt strangely warm for the first time in years.
Because every page he turned made the mansion feel less empty somehow.
Like pieces of a forgotten heartbeat still lived inside these walls.
He picked up another diary carefully.
YEAR THREE.
The cover looked more worn than the others.
The edges bent softly from overuse.
Wesley opened it slowly.
A photograph slipped out immediately.
This one looked candid.
Est stood near a vending machine holding instant noodles while glaring at the camera.
Underneath, William had scribbled:
“He looks angry because I took twenty-seven pictures before this.”
Wesley laughed quietly before he could stop himself.
The sound startled him.
This room felt dangerous somehow.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Like every new page pulled him deeper into a version of William he wasn’t prepared to meet.
Still—
he kept reading.
—
January 8.
I think I’m going insane.
Est wore my hoodie today.
MY hoodie.
Do you understand what this means?
This is basically marriage.
Hong says I need psychiatric help.
Maybe he’s right.
But Est smelled like my detergent all day and I nearly cried about it twice.
Also he kissed my cheek in front of people and now I physically cannot act normal around him anymore.
If anyone needs me I’ll be dying dramatically in the corner.
Wesley pressed his lips together to stop another laugh.
His father sounded ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
He turned another page.
January 11.
We went grocery shopping together today.
Correction: I went grocery shopping. Est committed crimes.
That man throws random snacks into the cart like he’s trying to bankrupt me personally.
Then he had the audacity to pout when I said no to expensive strawberries.
I bought them anyway.
Obviously.
Because he smiled afterward and suddenly I forgot how money works.
I’m weak. Terribly weak.
There was a tiny doodle beside the paragraph of a stick figure collapsing dramatically.
Wesley stared at it for a long moment.
This couldn’t be real.
No matter how many entries he read, his brain still struggled connecting this affectionate disaster to the man upstairs who barely spoke during dinner.
Another page.
Another entry.
Another piece of William Wesley had never known existed.
January 16.
Est fell asleep on my chest while we were studying.
I didn’t move for two hours because he looked comfortable.
My arm went numb.
Worth it.
Would lose circulation again.
Without warning, Wesley’s chest tightened painfully.
Not because the entry was sad.
Because it wasn’t.
It was unbearably happy.
And somehow that hurt more.
Because Wesley suddenly realized something awful.
William wasn’t naturally cold.
Life had made him that way.
Which meant somewhere beneath all the silence and distance, this version of him still existed.
Or at least… existed once.
Wesley leaned back against the bookshelf slowly.
His eyes drifted around the study again.
Now that he looked properly, the room felt less like an office and more like a graveyard.
A camera sat untouched beneath dust.
Film rolls remained unopened.
Every object looked abandoned halfway through a life.
Like William entered this room one day carrying grief so heavy he never truly left it again.
The thought made Wesley’s throat ache.
A sudden sound upstairs startled him.
Footsteps.
Wesley’s eyes widened.
Shit.
He grabbed the journals quickly, heart pounding hard enough to hurt.
The footsteps moved slowly down the hallway outside.
Then paused.
Right outside the study.
Wesley stopped breathing.
For one horrible second he imagined William opening the door and seeing everything.
The diaries. The photographs. His entire hidden life spread open across the floor.
Silence stretched endlessly.
Then finally—
the footsteps continued past the room.
Wesley exhaled shakily.
A few seconds later he heard William’s bedroom door close again.
His heartbeat took much longer to calm down.
Carefully, Wesley looked back down at the journal in his lap.
Then continued reading.
—
February 2.
I think I’m going to marry Est someday.
Not joking.
Not exaggerating.
I know people say things like this all the time when they’re young and stupid and in love.
But when I look at him, I genuinely can’t imagine a future where he isn’t there.
He feels… permanent.
Like home.
Wesley swallowed hard.
The next sentence looked smudged slightly like William paused before writing it.
Sometimes I wonder if happiness scares me because I know life takes things away eventually.
Then Est laughs at something dumb and suddenly the fear disappears again.
God, I love him.
Wesley stared at the page for a long time.
Then quietly whispered:
“What happened to you?”
The room offered no answer.
Only silence.