Balloons in the corner of the room. ✔

Failed camouflage.

Wilbur really couldn't complain. Really, he had everything he needed. A place to sleep, some regular meal routine, and a job. Like several 17 year olds, he reminded himself. He softly closed the door of the room before moving his way over to his own bed, trying not to wake up his roommate again. He didn't think he could stomach another complaining session from the latter.

He got ready for bed as fast as possible, awaiting the comfort that the sheets promised him after a long day at work. He was 17 and had a part time job at a basic pub somewhere down in town, where the drunks carried themselves to every evening, preparing him for the inevitable. He marked out the date on the calendar that hung dangerously on a rusty nail, a reminder of the ticking time bomb that awaited his future. 34 days left. 34 days until he was out of here, on the streets until his job saved him enough for a scrawny apartment with enough leaks to account for his days of happiness only to serve his life there: living on a check for the rest of his days. He isn't expecting it to be very long.

He rolled into bed, hitting his elbow on the wall comically as he did so yet sparing the thought of the bruise that would inevitably lay there the next morning. The bed was decent for the money that adoption companies get, he supposed anyway, and was even accompanied by bed covers that he had chosen when he was just 6. It hadn't seemed so important then but he still smiles at the childish bed set when he's in the nostalgic mood.

__
He must have left that day with that thought as his roommate woke him up, grumbling about the sun shining through the curtains that they had left open the previous night. Wilbur had been too tired to notice them last night apparently. Probably was his fault anyway.

There was happy chatter downstairs, something that only happens once in a while. A young boy was getting adopted today, someone that Wilbur never had the opportunity to bond with yet had watched from the few occasions they were in the same room. He was bubbly, charismatic, yet shy – he wasn't surprised that he was adopted so soon. It was so painstakingly obvious which children would be adopted, always children –ever so rarely teenagers, and which traits were desired by loving parents, picking based on what they wanted instead of the personality that each child had. Wilbur juxtaposed these so obviously, further binding himself to the lonely future he had planned. There would be no attachment in his life if everything went as planned. It had to go as planned.

After eating whatever the workers had so wonderfully laid out that morning, he sat in the corner of the room blowing balloons that the boy's new adoptive parents had brought in. They seemed kind, he found himself hoping that they were genuine for the sake of the boy. He was too innocent to know the truth of the system so early like he had. Several people mingled in the room: children with hopeful eyes, parents scanning the room looking for their dream child, and carers speaking to whoever they could – trying to sell the children like toys in a festival. He didn't even bother joining in with discussions. He had learnt that the most effective way of being left alone was to be invisible, hide against the wall like he was camouflaged to blend in. It had been working for him before, he didn't see why it would stop now.

__
Phil had always hated these discussions. Perhaps he was speaking in a different language? No, he did not want to foster a young child (Tommy was more than enough, thank you) and yes, he was interested in adopting a teenager. The social worker was kind enough to indulge him in a conversation about a young girl who was interested in being adopted, clearly ignoring their previous conversation, and Phil honestly felt that he could scream.

He had lost hope in the foster system ages ago and was used to useless social workers, but he still had hope. He was looking for someone to complete his makeshift family of 3 because whilst they were happy, there was something missing in the dynamic and if it meant putting up with useless social workers, then so be it.

He managed to distract the social worker long enough to slip away from the conversation, his hands landing on a glass of squash before drinking it to seem busy. Phil looked around the room, genuinely considering leaving as he had not spotted a single teenager in the room full of bundles of energy before his eyes landed on a figure in the corner of the room. The teenager seemed to be focused on blowing balloons, occasionally throwing it to the middle of the room to entertain some of the smaller children, and was calm despite the chaotic energy that engulfed the room. He didn't know what it was, but he saw something in the teen even from his distance. Maybe that was why he did something he never saw himself doing: actively seeking out the help of a social worker.

__
Wilbur flopped on his bed after he had been allowed to leave, skipping dinner and prioritising his sanity instead of leftover cake. He had to endure 3 more of those parties before he is gone and he honestly could not wait until he was finished with them. They were aimed at the younger children anyway, the other teenagers often mingled around as well but they seemed to accept their fate either way.

His state of relief lasted a record time of one minute before he remembered he had a shift tonight, promising to fill in for Niki so she could visit her friends. Sighing, Wilbur lugged himself of the bed and towards his wardrobe, picking several dark clothes out of the small pile on the floor before heading into the bathroom to change. He did not have the energy to deal with drunks after his day, but he needed the money. God, he really needed the money. Grabbing his shoes as well, he headed outside and began the walk to the centre of town despite the darkness that embedded his eyes.

At least the fresh air would serve some good.