Warning: Profanity.

A/N: Okay, I'm enjoying the writing process for this so far. I'm taking a different approach with this story by focusing on one character per chapter instead of multiple in the same one. I just want to be able to crank out the story much faster, so that's my reasoning behind this. Plus, it's fun to switch things up and try something new.

I enjoyed creating details about Wyatt's upbringing and home life from scratch. As a black woman, telling black stories, whether fictional or otherwise, is super important to me. While I'm slightly annoyed by the fact that Wyatt's character wasn't explored as much as it should have been in canon, this does allow me to take artistic liberties and essentially do what I want with him as a character (as long as it makes sense with his personality, of course). He's just caffeinated sweetheart who's trying his best. (Although, we're gonna ignore that the writers had him make a shrine to Serena. I love selectively ignoring canon.)

Hennyways, excuse this long-ass author's note, but I hope this story inspires more people to possibly write about Wyatt. I know he plays the role of a genuinely nice guy in the show and that can be perceived as boring, but there's so many interesting directions you can take that characterization. I know this is just fanfiction,—in a dead fandom of all places—but characters of color and their life experiences matter, y'all.

Now that I've stated my piece, let's get on with the story.


Wyatt, Part I

Wyatt prayed to God that his dreams would be realized. He didn't care when, though. He could withstand a wait since youth stood by his side. Unlike Jonesy, he didn't like instant gratification. Gimme gimme gimme and now didn't sate his soul. He didn't want something that would fizzle fast into nothingness. He'd been honing his craft since kindergarten. Earning cash on a flash-in-the-pan single before fading into obscurity didn't suit him. He promised God that his head remained in music for the transmittal of positivity, not the fickleness of fame. Until his success arrived in a way that signaled stability, he would be working, waiting, and praying.

Dressed in his Sunday best, he stood in a pew with his parents to the left of him. To his right stood his three older sisters and paternal grandmother. With his head bowed and eyes closed, Wyatt listened to the pastor's prayer over the church congregation. The pastor asked that each person—whether in pews or bound to wheelchairs—be delivered from their sins, sorrows, and sicknesses into the hands of salvation, satisfaction, and success.

Upon hearing amen, he lifted his head, opened his eyes, and took his seat. He anticipated his butt going numb from being seated for a few hours. Early service always held him hostage. He used to be more involved in the church, being in the choir for a couple years as a child, but he stopped to focus on school and other activities. Now he only went one Sunday per month. His whole family did. The seven of them would go and feed their spirits, then go home and feed their bodies after preparing a big meal. His parents suggested such a tradition when his last sister left for college. They wanted the family unit to remain tightly bound and be able to bond.

It made sense why their parents wanted to keep them together. After all, a thirteen-year gap separated Wyatt and his oldest sister Whitney. She was thirty, thriving, and the definition of black girl magic. She made Jen look unpolished and careless. She made their parents' dreams come true on the first try, raising a doctor… At least, she would become one when she completed her medical residency and mended other loose ends.

Next came Wynter, older than Wyatt by eight years. She took on twenty-five, the LSATs, and an engagement after years of guys doing her dirty. He looked to her for hope, for signs that things would turn out alright. Romantic love could be an elusive force, and it would never work out when forced. When she gave up on finding it and focused on herself instead, the right one came along. Wyatt hoped his dreams would manifest into reality the same way: by working hard and trusting the process without high expectations, success would hopefully find him.

Last in his line-up of sisters was Willow, older by five years. She was twenty-two, a decorated track athlete, and a recent college graduate with a marketing degree. Of all his sisters, he remained the closest to her. She gave him the most perspective about high school when he still floated through elementary and middle school. Through her first year in college, he saw what flunking a semester and incurring Caribbean wrath looked like. He also learned how to recover from her, too.

Being baby boy and baby brother didn't exempt him from excellence. If anything, he felt the watchful eyes of his family upon him. While unspoken, after Willow earned her degree, he could hear them say, "Your turn."

In all that he did, his parents wanted him to be excellent. Though they didn't expect perfection, he sometimes put more weight on himself than he should. From the Mother's Day song he wrote as a child to the coding he did for fun, he threw his essence into his work. His desire to stay up and finish what he started led to long, caffeinated nights.

Like last night.

He couldn't refrain from yawning during church service. No offense to the pastor. He just didn't know when to leave a song alone. Tweaking lyrics and messing around on his audio software enticed him more than sleep. Skimping on rest always bit him in the end, though. He replenished his energy through coffee and crashed without it. A vicious cycle.

Note to self: Stop at Starbucks before going home.

He needed a brew to get himself through the day, especially if he'd be around his grandmother. He loved her, but the woman was a wildcard. She spoke her mind without censorship. If irritable, pre-coffee Wyatt—who lacked the filter and stable mood of post-coffee Wyatt—retorted, then she might scale a tree for a switch to hit him with. Mama Cynthia, while seventy-five, remained agile.


He emerged from church with an aching forehead and a sore behind. Luckily, stopping for coffee on the way home relieved him of the headache. Sitting in the cushioned backseat of his mom's sedan rid him of his soreness.

Now he could help prepare lunch with his family without worrying about irritability. As soon as they got home, his mom blasted some old-school soca and put them all in the mood to cook.

Together, they stewed oxtails, added black-eyed peas and coconut milk to the rice on the stove, and scurried out the kitchen when Mama Cynthia shooed them away from her special collard greens. No one—not even their father—knew the recipe. However, they did know how divine it tasted. Wyatt likened it to manna from heaven. It tasted even better with age. He could taste the years of hard work that went into it, so he savored everything from the greens to the ham hocks to the pot liquor.

Lunch always started in silence, since their meal interested them more than forming sentences. Utensils clinked and scraped against the porcelain plates. Willow smacked on her food with her mouth agape.

"Willow, chew with some class, not like a cow," their mother scolded in her thick Trinidadian accent.

"Sorry, mama," she said, albeit muffled.

Though being called out by their mother could be quite embarrassing, Wyatt silently thanked God that she reprimanded Willow. He always winced at the way he could hear her every chew.

As everyone slowly conquered the food on their plates, conversation picked up. His parents discussed going to the grocery store while Whitney and Wynter conversed about a girl they used to know.

However, Wyatt could feel the burn of Mama Cynthia's eyes on him.

Uh oh, he thought, preparing himself for controversy.

"So, baby boy," she started, her Jamaican accent rife with mischief, "you still dating that white girl?"

I knew it.

Everyone abandoned their sidebar chats to tune into this.

"Ma," Wyatt's dad chastized. "Leave him alone. You know these kids date who they wanna date these days."

She held her hands in the air. "Hey, I'm just asking an innocent question."

"Innocent with a hint of shade," Wynter snarked under her breath, making her sisters laugh.

"What was that, Wyn?" Mama Cynthia asked with a knowing smirk.

"Nothing, grandma."

"Mmhmm." His grandmother leaned in, focusing her attention on Wyatt once more. "So, you still dating her?"

He cleared his throat and looked away, finding his remaining oxtails more amusing and less judgmental. "Actually, I am," he answered. "We're still going pretty strong."

"Her name's Marlowe, right?" Whitney asked.

"Yeah," he said, pushing around a few black-eyed peas with his fork.

"Aw, Mama Cynthia, you done scared my baby boy," his mom said, noting the way Wyatt still wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.

"So you're fond of the girl he dating?" she asked in return.

"Mmm, I wouldn't quite say that, but she's… pleasant."

Wyatt groaned before finding the strength to meet his family's eyes again. His pre-coffee irritability seeped into his words. "Yes, I'm still dating Marlowe, and, yes, I know she's not black. But we have so many things in common, and we really care about each other. Isn't that all that matters? Can't we talk about something less… incriminating?"

"Mkay," Mama Cynthia replied. A beat later, she asked, "So what schools you lookin' into?"

Ah, another dreaded subject. Discussing his girlfriend's race and acknowledging his mother and grandmother's desires for him to date a black girl (as if he didn't already date Serena) didn't sound so bad anymore.

He had wondered how to respond to such a question for a while now. Unfortunately, he'd never figure out the right way to dash his parents' and grandmother's expectations. As much as he wanted one, no such handbook existed. He would have to do it all at once.

He awkwardly cleared his throat. "Um… UToronto, Montreal Institute for the Arts, Nova Scotia School of Music, Walter Wiggins Conservatory, and Banting. So, yeah… Those are my top picks."

If he sandwiched music schools between two fine universities, perhaps they wouldn't notice.

After a tense and unbearably silent minute, his father asked, "Music schools, Wyatt? Music schools?"

So much for that brilliant plan.

"Wyatt André Williams, have you lost your mind? Have you fallen and bumped your head? Huh?" his mother asked, paralyzing him with fear.

The way she said his full name and proceeded to ramble in her native tongue meant that he might meet God sooner than he planned. Even Jesus couldn't save him now.

"What happened with programming? Has computer science never crossed your mind?" his dad questioned.

"Programming's cool and all, but I just… I just really love music."

"How wonderful. My son loves white girls and music," his mom huffed. "God save us all."

Don't I feel great about my life choices? he asked himself, using sarcasm to distract himself from his developing crisis.

"Wyatt, I could've sworn you loved programming. I mean, you do so well with math and logic. How could you not go into that?"

Without aiming to be disrespectful, he replied, "Because it's not my passion, dad."

"Passion don't pay the bills," his mom interjected. "And I'm not burning my money for you to mess around with a guitar."

His sisters gasped. His grandmother appeared aghast.

Wyatt's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. Fiery acid gnawed away at the tissue. He looked at his father, foolishly hoping that he wouldn't second his mother's decision.

They never asked what he wanted to major in. They never asked where he wanted to go. Always assumed. Always told him what schools they wanted him to look into and assumed he would follow through with them.

"Your mom's right," his dad said. "I can pay for you to study programming, but I can't pay for you to study… whatever else you got in mind."

A foolish hope. Literally a foolish hope.

Wyatt didn't know what to say. He wanted to speak, to fight for his dream, but nothing—not even a sigh—fell from his lips.

Willow slammed her fist against the table, demanding everyone's attention. "So you'd rather not have Wyatt go to school at all?" she asked, being the first of anyone at the table to break the godawful silence that plagued them.

"You better watch your fist," their mother scolded before their father answered her question.

"We never said that," he replied. "If he chooses to study computer science like we expected, we'll pay his tuition, no questions asked. But if he chooses music like he intends, he's on his own."

Wyatt knew his parents would be disappointed in his pursuit of the creative arts, but he didn't foresee this ultimatum coming. He'd have to fund a future of his own design alone. Seventeen. With years' worth of tuition to pay for.

Salty tears stung his eyelids and clouded his vision. Damn it all, he felt like submitting to his body's desires and weeping like an infant, but he didn't want to do it in their midst. He didn't want to do it at all. He didn't want to be trapped in this circumstance.

Why couldn't he fall in line with his parents' plans like his sisters? Why didn't he fit into their design? Why did baby brother have to be the anomaly?

"Isn't him getting a degree in something better than nothing?" Wynter asked, just as infuriated as Willow.

"You're right. Which is why he definitely needs his CS degree," their mother retorted.

"We're not going in circles about this anymore," their father stated. He looked at Wyatt and said, "Son, you're either going into STEM, or you're on your own."

Wyatt's world fell out of orbit.


Lunch ended early. After the ultimatum, no one knew how to speak. They all washed dishes without dancing or chatting. However, before they left, his sisters hugged Wyatt in support and told him that they would look out for him no matter what. They informed him that they would still attend his talent showcase next Saturday, whether their parents' did or not. While he appreciated the way they rallied around him, unfortunately, he did not live with them.

His mother left shortly after his sisters, heading to the grocery store, leaving his father and grandmother in the kitchen.

Wyatt seldom eavesdropped. Private conversations should stay exactly that way: private. However, he couldn't leave them alone when he knew he was the subject. After all that transpired, he needed further information. He needed another foolish glimmer of hope.

"…I don't want him throwing his life away. He's too bright to waste it like this," he heard his father say.

"You said it yo'self, Louis: These kids are gonna do what they wanna do these days."

"Don't try and twist what I said, mama. I said that about who he dates, not where he ends up."

She pointed a warning finger at him. "Boy, don't talk to me any kind of way. Remember who raised you. And remember that you need to be understanding. Listen, I don't get the kind of music he be making, but baby boy shows promise at everything he does. That boy's been on honor roll since pre-K. Wouldn't you rather he be hard-working instead of hardly working at all? Huh? If he half-assed everything, you'd be throwing a bigger fit right now."

"Me and Wanda didn't work our tails off for him to go into music. I wouldn't have bought him that doggone laptop if I had known he was gonna make songs on it."

"Now, Lou. You know you wrong for that."

After a moment of quiet deliberation, he conceded, "Fine, maybe that was harsh. But, as long as he's under my roof, I need him to commit to something more practical."

"So Lo's business degree is practical? Ain't there a lot of kids in the business industry?"

"Willow's working full-time at a place that requires her degree, so, yes, it is practical."

"What about the 'professional student'?" she asked, referring to Wynter.

"Why are you nitpicking all my kids, ma?"

"I'm not. I'm tryna make a point about baby boy. You've raised some brilliant kids, Lou, but they're all not gonna be multimillionaires. Shouldn't you take pride in knowing you got four kids who do right by you and Wanda? Baby boy ain't doing this music thing to piss you off. He's doin' it 'cause it makes him happy." Before he could reply, she said, "Me and your daddy—bless his soul—worked hard to give you and your brothers a better life, so you could turn around and do the same for your babies. And, right now, you're gonna make baby Wyatt's life harder."

He crossed his arms. "I gave him the luxury of choice. He can choose better school options, or he can choose different. All I know is I'm not paying for different." His voice softened. "You know I love you, but this is my house, mama."

"Do you love him, too?"

"Of course I love him. That boy means the world to me." After a moment of quiet deliberation, he conceded, "Listen, I don't hate his music, and I'm not saying he can't have a side hustle, but I don't want this... this hobby to derail his life. That's final."

The acid in Wyatt's stomach consumed his heart.