This chapter was inspired by the song 'I Wanna Go' by Yuna.

I Wanna Go

Gilbert pressed his hands into his pockets and watched the café on the other side of the street. An art student sat at one of the small, round tables with a sketchbook in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

He bit his lip and glanced at Gilbert before returning his attention to his work. He knew that Gilbert was watching him, and why not? Gilbert had been standing on this particular corner at this exact time for five weeks. He came to watch the student, and the student knew.

But he still showed up at the same place, at the same time everyday, and sat where Gilbert could see him. It was like some sort of long distance love affair; Gilbert did not know his name and the student did not know why he was there but it worked and they did it anyway.


Gilbert leaned against the side of the building, under the awning and away from the rain. He thought about going somewhere else, somewhere warm, but his feet refused to move.

The art student was sitting inside the café today, looking out the window at Gilbert. His blonde curls were a mess and his clothes were damp but at least he was warm. He touched the windowpane with his fingertips and stared at Gilbert.

Gilbert thought about storming across the street and walking into the café. He thought about sweeping the student into his arms and kissing him.

He thought about it, sure.

But he stayed where he was.


Gilbert examined his fingernails and tried to ignore the fluttering in his stomach. The art student was staring at him more intently than usual. The pencil in his hand flew across the piece of paper in front of him.

He was wearing a knitted hat in orange and blue, with a dreadful pompom perched precariously on top. It looked homemade. His sweater was just as offensive and his jeans were tattered and torn. His shoes were untied and stained.

And Gilbert thought he was lovely.


Gilbert checked his watch and frowned. It was 1500h. He should have been here by now.

It was strange. He felt like he had been stood up, even though they had never spoken.

Gilbert had first laid eyes on the art student three months ago. He had been walking home after a bad day, stomping his feet and cursing. He worked as a lawyer and his latest client was an asshole of the first degree.

He had spent the afternoon arguing semantics on the behalf of someone he would string up himself, given half a chance. He loathed defending the indefensible but he was not a partner yet and he went where the law firm sent him.

He had kicked a can and turned the corner and there he was. The art student was hunched over his sketchbook with a smudge of graphite at the corner of his mouth.

It had been love at first sight.

And everyday after Gilbert had stood on that same corner, waiting the one ray of sunlight in his otherwise stressful existence. Eventually, the student noticed his admirer, and instead of disappearing, he made sure to sit where Gilbert could see him.

And where he could see Gilbert.

But he was late today. The café was bustling and crowded but it could have been barren as far as Gilbert was concerned. It was meaningless without the blonde.

He felt rejected.

Suddenly, someone tapped him on the shoulder with two sharp fingers. He turned on his heel to find the student closer than he had ever been before. He was wearing another frightful combination of second hand knitwear and ragged jeans. Gilbert opened his mouth to say something but the student beat him to it.

"I think I'm in love with you," he said bluntly. Gilbert blinked.

"What the f… I mean, excuse me?"

"I'm in love with you," he said again. He shrugged and handed his sketchbook to Gilbert.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow and opened the sketchbook.

And forgot how to breathe.

The sketchbook was filled with drawings of him leaning against buildings, biting his lips, and smoking. The detail was incredible; the student had caught the double piercings in his left ear and scar along his collarbone. He had studied the tendons in his hands and the buttons of his expensive suits. There were sketches of his hair either ruffled or soaking wet; there were drawings of his eyes and his lips and his flushed cheeks.

The entire sketchbook was dedicated to him.

Gilbert looked at the student in awe.

"I saw you watching me," the blonde whispered. "My name is Matthew."

"… This is all… These are all of me," Gilbert gestured to the sketchbook, at a loss.

"Yes."

"But I thought… Why?"

"Because it was love at first sight, of course." Matthew reached up and tangled his fingers in the pale hair at the nape of Gilbert's neck. He pulled him down and kissed him, softly and with the slightest hint of hesitation. Gilbert wrapped his hands around his waist on instinct, dropping the sketchbook, and held Matthew against him. He was warm. He smelt like modeling clay and papier-mâché. He was a little shorter and a lot younger and just plain perfect.

When they broke apart, Gilbert traced his bruised lips with his fingertips in wonder. Matthew chuckled and leaned into him.

"… My name is Gilbert."


Author's Notes:

And I have a problem. So does Gilbert. Please stop stalking Matthew, alright? It's unbecoming.

I see an age difference of ten to twenty years between them in this. When I was writing it, I pictured Matthew as eighteen or nineteen and Gilbert as thirty five. I've written other pieces with similar age gaps. Also, why is it always so surprising when someone wants us as much as we want them? Humans are weird.