#wyatt threads

Wyatt smiled as he reached into his backpack and took out a bottle of water which had water, juice and snacks. The weather was perfect, the cool ocean breeze was blowing and he loved the smell of the sea. It was one of his favorite things about Turtle Bay. He could not imagine himself anywhere else. Wyatt and Luca had made plans for their kids to have a play date. The detective was off today and his wife was at work so it thought it was perfect. He sat, watching as his daughter played with Luca's kid, a smile on his face.

"Looks like all the kiddos are finally asleep," Wyatt sighed as he sat down and took a sip of his beer. Wyatt was always thankful and loved that his family was close. They always had each other's back and were there for each other. Sometimes he loved and dreaded sleep overs like this. His daughter always loves spending time with her cousins and he and his wife tried to make sure she spends a lot of time with them and family. His wife was out of town on business so it was just Wyatt.

Wyatt could not imagine what his brother was going through, his heart broke from the younger male and he hated that he and Iza had go through all of this. He knew could understand how stressful things was and he admired his brother for being strong. Wyatt always looked out for his siblings, he was protective of them and he wished he could take his brother's pain, at least some of it. He had spoken to his wife, they had plan that she would stay over with Iza while he took his brother out to lunch and just catch up. Giving him a moment to breath.

"I'm gonna be real with you," he says, having left the pen and clipboard in the car. The thing that authorised this delivery in the first place. The delivery that—he wasn't judging—was a stack of magazines with headlines he couldn't possible give a fuck about. "I'm gonna sign your initials for you 'nd call it a day." That signature was the only thing standing between him and a cold beer in his fridge. "After this, I'm probably gonna go home and take a phat nap."

He's been doing a lot of that lately. Sleeping the afternoons away, waking up because his stomach growled, and heading out for the night to find his way home by an act of divine intervention. At least he could rely on his sense of direction—couldn't rely on. his brain for much else. Too many incomplete thoughts, too many half-baked ideas, waaaay too many fights to not have some sort of permanent concussion. Such is life.

"Maria....?" He hadn't taken stock of a surname. Cranes his neck, tilts his head to catch the name addressed on the stack, bundled together by a rubber band made of some kind of groundbreaking science, meaning it was really fucking big and Wyatt kind of wanted to keep it for its novelty. Lifts it with a pinch of his fingers to make out her name. "Ber-tow-lah?" Butchered the beauty with a thick english accent. "That's real lush," he commented, a crooked grin. Charming. Disarming. Stupid. "Rhymin' 'nd shit."

He could feel that tingle down his spine, then. He's said something dumb. He's working on it.

"I'm pickin' up what you're puttin' down," he started, justifying his after hours arrival with a six pack of beer and an envelope addressed to her. Had been stuffed at the bottom of the leather satchel he fucking detested—not because it was hideous, which it undeniably was, but because it was a void that sucked up letters and seemed to spit them out whenever he was feeling especially incompetent. He saw an opportunity when he read the name on the front. Took his time changing, disregarding time, urgency, disrespecting the fact that she might already have plans.

He answers an unspoken question between them, "Solid yap sesh, innit?" Obviously. Had that shit-eating grin creeping to his face that radiated like sunlight, even as it set overhead. He's disarming. Genuine. Comfortable with Maeve.

So, naturally, he wasn't picking up the vibe. Not even a little bit. Was ignoring it, actually, as he reaches out the arm holding the letter to her in an offering, lifting the six pack beside his head to give it a little jostle. Take it and shut the door, the gesture said, or hang out with me. That dumb smile, friendly and warm, eyes beaming with an invitation that he'd decided was in his wheelhouse to offer, didn't falter. Not when the silence stretches a little too long to be comfortable, and not when he starts to feel like he might actually be turned away.

A sliding whistle from wet lips signalled that Wyatt had come to terrorise another of the city folk with a delivery. Businesses expected to see his face—didn't mean they liked having him round. He'd gotten that impression almost immediately from Lux, but it didn't stop him from wearing a dumb smile, small and friendly, as he walked through the open roller-door without much of a further introduction.

"Nice ride," he said, entirely sarcastic, of course, though who was he to talk? He barely made enough in a month to cover his cabs home from the club, peddled over to his mates houses on a fucking bicycle. Self-inflicted grievances of the working class, of course, in more ways than one. What he should use the money for was obvious; pants that actually fit. His sock-covered-ankles showed when he stood, but it wouldn't be the last time he looked like a dick in public.

"Delivery," he stated the obvious, using both hands to steady the heavy box as it shifted from under his arm to an empty work bench along with his clipboard and pen.

"Need'a get your sig for thi—where the fuck are you?" He finally asked as eyes lifted to a seemingly deserted garage floor.

"Don't report me," he said.

His run was late—shocker—and he still had a few more deliveries to go. But they could wait. The drag from his cigarette was far more important. Did he need to do it on the hood of the city-owned van? Probably not, but he didn't care enough to find a discreet corner to park it in to take-five.

It wasn't that he'd been avoiding Cyrek, but he certainly wasn't going out of his way to make time for him. Maybe he was taking the back routes. Trying to find a time when he wouldn't be at home and was most likely to be working the bar.

Okay, so he'd been avoiding Cyrek.

It was fruitless—It'd been years since he'd been at the heels of the other, eager to hear a friendly word that would mislead him yet again from little more than his own romanticised notions of friendships. Pair the inability to cut him off with said lover boy aching for his approval and of his labour came a delectably confusing friendship that left him bewildered by the blurred line that separated being wanted from being valued.

"You doin' alright?" He didn't want to strike up a conversation, but that was Wyatt. Unable to keep his mouth closed in an uncomfortable situation if it killed him. Besides, he liked Cyrek. Those feelings didn't quite waver with time or distance. Not with Wyatt.

He perched a drink—a smooth blend of scotch and ale with a single ice cube—in front of the other blonde. Wyatt knew the back of Max's head like he knew the back of his hand. Even in strobe lighting. Even in a haze of fog and vaguely fading smoke. He wore a grin on his lips, the lucky courage of a gentle buzz clear in the way his lids were lazy and a little heavier than usual. And the very faint, hardly noticeable tinge of pink across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Besides that, he ran hot. Could have helped to explain the black mesh crop he wore, sitting just above his navel, and the pants that were genuine button down, fly-zip, and tailored. He even had a pair of loafers, that had clearly never seen the light of day before. Could thank the club's dress code for that. He hadn't been avoiding Max, per sé, he knew odds of being in the same club at the same time were usually pretty high. But he certainly didn't expect to see him so early in the night, let alone find him so effortlessly between writhing bodies.

Long limbs had made it easy to slide his way between patrons and rest his back against the bar, much to the dismay of the people behind Max. But he couldn't care, and had even less desire to take a glance at them. As always, his tunnel vision won out.

He leaned forward then, lips at the other's ear. His voice was glossy and easy, and just as relaxed as his mind—thank you gin. "You alone, or?"

No, there was no hello. No small talk or subsequent pleasantries between them. The greeting in question was the drink he bought for the other. They were far too close, knew each other too intimately, to bother with anything of the sort anymore.

"Lookin' well-fit," he continued with the smile on his lips echoed in his voice.