I've Been Down solo

wearing | song the title's from

A fifth-floor unit in a shitty building with a broken elevator meant Wyatt had the pleasure of hauling old furniture up several flights of stairs in the summer heat. Having a room at the end of the corridor felt like a good idea until now that he had to get this shitty sofa all the way down there.

His studio was a trek from the stairwell and the elevator, shared the fewest walls, and made him feel a bit more separated from the rest of the floor. Not to mention the lights were flickery down there, so it felt distinctly unwelcoming: just the way he liked it. Wyatt saw perks where many others saw problems, or even possible hauntings. The place was well within his modest budget, and though it was a muggle flat, no one would know if he used magical means to clean it up once the doors and windows were shut. Wyatt elbowed the handle and nudged the door open with the heel of his shoe. He and the muggle mover he’d hired maneuvered the sofa inside and set it down among the rest of Wyatt’s belongings. Or, rather, Wyatt’s mother’s belongings.

He’d cleared out the Cokeworth house to sell, but salvaged what hadn’t molded or broken. He hadn’t taken much. The sofa smelled like cigarettes, which was comforting but far too strong, and Wyatt intended to scourgify it the moment the muggle left.

A piece of Wyatt’s soul died as he paid the mover for a job he had done half of, and could have done alone if he’d only used magic. But Wyatt knew he couldn’t risk being seen. Being busted by the ministry just months after graduating would likely be an even worse humiliation than his last race. Wyatt shut the thought down instantly. Nope. Not the time to think about that one.

He shut the door and leaned his back against it to take in the mess that was his studio. The clutter made him anxious, and Wyatt knew it was going to be a long night. He was not the type to sleep until things were in order. The mess in question consisted of a coffee table, a wobbly console, an eleven-year-old television, a new bedframe and mattress in their boxes, a rolled-up rug leaning against the wall, a trunk, his guitar case, his other “guitar case” (which stored his broom), a nightstand, two suitcases, a trunk, and several boxes. Doable. The sun was only just setting.

Siobhan pushed the lid off the cardboard box she was resting in and slithered out, looking around the place. She saw nowhere to get comfortable, and gave Wyatt a look, sticking her tongue out.

By the time he had unpacked everything, moved around the furniture, and built his bed, it was damn near the witching hour. Wyatt sat on the floor, eyes passing over every bit of his flat again and again. This was it. He was finally, truly on his own. He’d have to wake early to make it to the track in the morning for training, but he imagined that would be difficult considering his alarm was going to go off in about three hours and he was hardly tired. Wyatt opened his window and sat out on the fire escape, one leg dangling inside his flat and the other bent. He patted his pockets until he found his lighter and carton of cigarettes, opened it, lit one and took a long drag. He’d made himself wait until his task was finished to have a smoke.

Siobhan had curled up on the rug beside the couch. She didn’t like being in her enclosure unless they had company and she wanted to avoid them. Otherwise, she enjoyed lounging about in the open. She got to lounge a fair bit.

The fresh air cleared his mind, but the cigarette was doing a lot of the heavy lifting. His last year at Hogwarts had taken its toll. Hell, he'd moved to Wales to get as far from it as he could. Or... well, that wasn't totally true. He could have gone a lot farther from Scotland than Wales, but at least this way he could still commute to practice and races, and in his day-to-day, there wasn't a great likelihood of seeing any familiar faces.

Reminiscing on his schooling didn't do him much good. After years of moving up, proving himself, patching sour relationships, even “breaking” what the student body thought to be a curse placed on Slytherin House’s broom racing team, he had ruined it all by shutting down at the last game. He didn’t even make it halfway down the track. The one area he’d found real joy in throughout school, the sport he loved and made him feel free, the team that gave him a place and a purpose after keeping to himself for so long... he had messed it all up. He’d let them all down, and himself. His poor performance got him kicked from the team, and though the Basilisks didn’t say anything rude to his face, he could hardly face them to receive any of the possible criticism. He should have known it would impact his career. When he went for professional tryouts, he’d been dismissed again and again.

As much as Wyatt would loathe to leave his Starsweeper behind, he had dreamt of being a Comet racer. But it was their coach who told him with painful clarity why he was not being asked to come back the next week: “We can’t afford to bring on a racer who will shatter under pressure.”

He nearly didn’t show for his first trial with Fleetwood RAC, though he was glad he did. Whether they felt lucky or just needed bodies on brooms, Wyatt couldn’t know, but he left his third evaluation with a uniform and a contract. And he got to hold onto his old broom. Maybe it was meant to be. Regardless of what the universe had decided for him, it still didn’t feel very good. Everyone had seen his greatest failure, and he lived with the constant shame leering over him. Should I be racing again? What if I fail? What if I bring the old curse with me? What if I can’t break it again?

Wyatt put his lips to the filter and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with smoke, then watched it join the night air on his exhale. He let his head fall. The heel of his left palm came to rest against his forehead, his cigarette dangling between his fingers. Smoke curled from the burning end as if he were saging the windowsill. Wyatt supposed things didn’t need to be okay just yet. He closed his eyes and took a few breaths, trying to think about anything but that race.

Maybe… ah, shit. He hadn’t eaten.

Mentioned: The Basilisks :-(
Intreracting: Siobhan, his lovely snake.