Chapter Text
Wylan Van Eck wasn’t born anxious.
He was actually a rather social child. His mother would bring him along to her book clubs and music rehearsals and all the other adults would coo about how intelligent and well spoken he was. Little Wylan would grin at them, his front tooth missing, and tell them he got it all from his momma.
He would sit on his mom’s lap at the piano, carefully playing the chords while his mom played the sweeping melody overtop. She would read to him. She would point at words and ask him to sound them out and she would never push him further when the letters swam. She would never bring up his father’s growing concerns about him falling behind the other kids.
Wylan’s favorite, however, was when his momma painted.
He never picked up the brushes with her, but he would watch in rapt attention while she painted in the sunroom. She painted the landscape around them, portraits of Wylan, portraits of herself when Wylan asked her to. She’d throw a vinyl on the record player and dance around the scattered paintings as the sun set.
They would spend entire days there together when she began to grow ill.
Even after she died, eight year old Wylan Van Eck would spend hours in the sunroom staring at her unfinished paintings, listening to her music and playing her abandoned piano.
Chapter 1:
“Ooookay, okay okay… okay!” Wylan exhaled, rubbing his hands roughly over his eyes.
He’d walked by the stupid coffee shop three times already and, every time, had walked past it and around the block like a coward. He was keeping track of the faces he passed, but luckily it was a big city. No one had seen him walk past the place three times. If they had, he’d probably die right there on the street.
At this point, Wylan was considering cutting his losses and texting his therapist that he just couldn’t do it today. But he knew she’d give him that pitying, slightly disappointed look and tell him it was okay. Tell him he could try again next week.
It was this new exposure therapy thing they were trying.
Go figure, when you tell a professional you have panic attacks just thinking about going outside, they tell you to suck it up and go outside. Not in those exact words, Wylan’s therapist was so much nicer and supportive about it. But he did feel like a deer being forced onto a busy highway.
“You’re turning right here,” Wylan whispered to himself. “You’re turning right and opening the door and…”
Wylan walked past the coffee shop.
Instead of circling the block again, he wrinkled his nose and started walking home. His plan had been to do the exposure therapy thing, sit down to get some work done, and go home feeling accomplished and cured.
But fuck all of that, Wylan was going home.
He walked a new direction on the way home. Normally he stuck to the same two streets between his flat and the local library, so truthfully every direction was new.
A few blocks from home, he realized he was walking by another coffee shop.
This one was a lot different than the one he’d stalked on Instagram the night before. It looked less corporate, with colorful decor that didn’t quite fit the boring streets around them. The sign outside read “No Mourners Cafe” with a crow perched on top of the logo.
The place was beyond curious.
Wylan walked towards it without pulling out his phone to Google it. His therapist was going to be so proud.
When he walked inside and was faced with actual social interaction, Wylan felt like he was breaking out in hives. His body itched and his heartrate spiked and oh, Ghezen, why was he doing this again?
“Welcome in!”
Wylan jumped when the woman at the counter greeted him. She had long, pin straight black hair tied into a braid. And she was smiling at him. Wylan didn’t have the calm to smile back. He quickly looked up at the menu framing the counter, fumbling for a picture or something to go off of. Which felt a little stupid considering he knew exactly what he wanted. He’d scripted out exactly what to say last night, but of course it left his mind as soon as he had to speak.
“Take your time,” the woman said kindly, busying herself with cleaning the counter. It was already sparkling clean, but Wylan appreciated her efforts to not make him feel as awkward. A useless effort, really, but he still appreciated it.
Behind him, the bell on the door rang with a jarring violence.
“Sorry! Saints, sorry Inej!”
A man taller than Wylan rushed towards the counter. He was undeniably handsome, even in his disheveled state. Tall and lean and oh, shit, his smile.
Wylan watched, fiddling with the strap of his bag while the man pulled on an apron and continued to ramble to his coworker about why he was late. Something about a dog and a sandwich… Wylan was too busy staring at his lips until he realized that was a little creepy and moved to staring at the windows.
“Lucky for you, we’ve been absolutely dead,” Inej said. She looked him up and down. “Your name tag is upside down.”
The man smiled. “What would I ever do without you, ‘Nej?”
Inej hummed. “I’m taking my break. Make me something when you get a chance.” She leaned up to kiss him on the cheek before disappearing into the back room.
The man then turned to Wylan so sharply that he flinched. He had incredibly striking grey eyes, a color Wylan didn’t know eyes could be until that moment. Carefully, he approached the counter, trying not to gawk or let it show that his hands were shaking.
“Hi there,” the man greeted him.
“Hi,” Wylan exhaled, pausing rather stupidly.
They stared at each other for a long moment and, honestly, Wylan debated turning around and running away.
But… he had already made it this far.
When Wylan opened his mouth to order, he and the barista spoke at the same time.
“Could I–”
“What would you–”
Dear Ghezen, if you’re listening, please strike me down.
The man only laughed. Nothing mocking. Just a laugh.
“Sorry about that,” the barista said. “What can I get you?”
Wylan cleared his throat and attempted a smile. He had a death grip on the strap of his bag as he ordered. “Could I get um… tea? English Breakfast, please.”
The barista pressed a few buttons. “Got it,” he said, “anything else?”
Was it weird to just order tea? It was, right? It was around lunch time, so he should probably get something to eat as well. Wylan’s legs were growing weaker by the moment and he was afraid each word he spoke brought him closer to curling up on the floor and hyperventilating.
“No. That’s… that’s it.”
“Alright!” The man grinned at him. “A name for that? Maybe a number as well?”
The barista shot him a wink and Wylan was certain he would actually collapse.
“Um–” Wylan’s voice cracked. Heat flooded his face and Ghezen! Are you listening?! Lightning! Now!
“You don’t have to,” the barista told him. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. He was still grinning at Wylan as if this whole thing was fun rather than Wylan’s worst fear. “But I do need a name for that order.”
“Wy–Wylan,” he stuttered out.
He paid for the drink, nearly dropping his entire wallet in the process.
“Wonderful! That’ll be out in a moment.”
The man winked at him again, this time very obviously looking him up and down. Then Wylan was left standing at the counter, holding his breath until the barista walked away.
He sat down at an empty two person table and allowed his heart to beat out of control for a moment. Something about allowing himself to feel a feeling before attempting to get rid of it… his therapist had spent a lot of time talking him through strategies like this.
She’d coached him on how to identify what he was anxious about, determine how serious it realistically was, then how to work through it without dismissing the validity of his feelings. He was still working on that last part…
After a moment, Wylan turned to breathing exercises.
At first learning to control his breathing had felt a little ridiculous, but now it was almost natural to count his inhales and exhales. He liked the numbers and the structures and how he could feel his heart slowing down in real time.
“Wylan!”
He flinched, closing his eyes and telling his brain to fuck off for just a moment before standing to grab his drink. It was sitting on the counter with a small heart drawn next to what looked vaguely like his name. The barista was already busying himself with another drink, probably for himself or his coworker considering no one else had walked in.
“Enjoy!” The barista smiled at him.
Wylan melted a little bit and picked up his drink. “Thank you,” he managed.
He didn’t even stop to put in a packet of sugar like he usually did before he was out of the coffee shop and very quickly walking home.
Saints, if exposure therapy wasn’t going to kill him the barista certainly could.