#wyle

Wyle didn’t mean to get this attached. He swears he didn’t.

It started with Trey. Sweet Trey. Trey “I enable all of Wyle’s sugar cravings” Clover. Wyle started stopping by Heartslabyul after shifts at the Lounge (or, okay, sometimes during) just to ask for pastries. Any kind. It didn’t matter. Macarons, matcha crepes, chocolate scones. If it had sugar in it, Wyle was downing it like a starved eel-beast.

He liked the quiet in the kitchen, too. The rustle of flour packets, the soft scrape of frosting being piped into neat, trefoil shapes. The way Trey didn’t really ask him why he was there. Just let him exist in the corners, licking the spoon and wiping powdered sugar on his apron like he belonged there.

But the first time he saw Cater, Wyle nearly dropped a cherry tart right onto his tail.

"Woah," he muttered.

The dude was standing outside the dorm, phone in one hand, tapping away like he had ten accounts to juggle. Orange-ish hair catching the light just right, rings glinting, outfit far too coordinated for 8 a.m. Wyle stared.

And then realized—"Oh crap. That's Magicam guy."

That’s what Wyle always called him in his head. Cater from Magicam. The one he totally wasn’t stalking. Who posted fit checks and skincare tips and group selfies with captions like #vibes4days.

Without thinking, Wyle marched up to him and said:

"Yo. Are you real?"

Cater blinked, slowly lowering his phone. “Uhh… I think so? Unless this is a simulation—which would totally explain why Trey’s pies are always too perfect, lol.”

Wyle gawked. He was talking. With him. Magicam guy. Talking. And not blocking him!

“I follow you,” Wyle added lamely. “Your stuff’s cool.”

Cater lit up like a firework. “Aww, thanks~! What’s your user? I might’ve seen your likes!”

“…uh. Angler_Wyle_77.”

Cater squinted, thinking. “Wait, you’re the guy with all the sweet-themed comments?? ‘Macaroncore is a lifestyle’ and ‘inject frosting into my veins’?”

Wyle flushed. “I—maybe.”

Cater cackled. “Dude, you’re iconic.”

From then on, Wyle’s visits weren’t just about sugar. It was about bumping into Cater outside the dorm, trading nonsense small talk about nail polish or weird dreams, and pretending he didn’t mentally rewatch every interaction like a cringy film reel.

They didn't hang out much outside of Heartslabyul—not at first.

Wyle still clocked in at the Lounge (barely), still dropped by Trey’s kitchen twice a week, still acted too cool to care. But slowly, something shifted.

One day, Cater waved him over and said, “Wyleeee~ I need backup at club. You in?”

Wyle blinked. “Pop Music Club?”

“Yup! You’ve got ✨vibes✨ and you hum constantly. You’ll fit right in!”

Wyle was already regretting this. But he followed anyway.

The club was chaos. Wyle stayed mostly silent, poking the keyboard and pretending he knew what a bass line was. He still came. Even when he swore he wouldn’t. Even when Floyd found out and called him a has-been disco shrimp. Even when Cater roped him into matching outfits for the group photos.

The truth? He liked it.

Cater wasn’t just the cool influencer guy anymore. He was the guy who gave Wyle blot-smoothing sunscreen and rubbed it in with gentle fingers, muttering “You’re lucky you’re cute or I’d let you crust.”

He was the guy who tried Wyle’s lemon bars and made a face like he’d swallowed a battery, then still gave him tips on lighting for photos.

He was the guy who, one day, offhandedly said: “You know, you’re pretty sweet yourself.”

And Wyle—who’d always felt a little too much, too loud, too lazy for anyone to deal with—didn’t know what to do with that.

So he said, “I’m gonna tell Trey you said that. He’ll put it on a cake.”

Cater grinned. “Make it rainbow.”

Now Wyle sneaks into Heartslabyul early just to catch Cater before the first bell.

He sits on the windowsill, lazily kicking his legs while Cater does his own skincare routine—explaining toners and serums like a true prophet—and then helps Wyle fake a glow with tinted balm and highlighter stick.

Wyle doesn’t care to do it himself. But he cares when Cater does it.

It’s not romantic. Not really. It’s worse.

It’s trust.

It’s mornings that taste like vanilla bean chapstick and stolen scones.

It’s Cater poking his nose and saying, “You’re sweet enough, y’know. You don’t need all the frosting.”

But Wyle still brings it anyway.

Because he wants to share it. Wants Cater to have just a bite. Even if he makes a face and says, “Eugh. Why does this taste like liquified candy corn?”

Wyle just shrugs, grinning. “Because I made it. And I’m a professional sugar gremlin.”

Cater rolls his eyes. “Aesthetic menace.”

“Your aesthetic menace,” Wyle corrects.

They laugh. The bell rings. Wyle doesn’t move.