nails like god | georgebur

the words will fall like teeth

George wakes up stiffly, like a mummy crawling out of their coffin. He looks around panicked, having completely forgotten where he was. Kidnapped, that had to be it.

But no, Wilbur's face materialized in George's mind and he remembered where he was. George has a real problem with memory. Everything is blurry all of the time. He'll say or do something, then one moment after, he won't recall it. It's a real scary world when you don't know who you are or how you get places.

George takes his phone from the bedside table. Just after showing the place, Wilbur gifted him one of his old phone chargers. George held down the power button, allowing his phone to wake up as well.

Notifications spew down the top of the screen, all from George's boyfriend. He was saying something about getting drunk, going somewhere, meeting someone. It doesn't matter. George doesn't care.

He puts his phone back down. Sometimes it's overwhelming, having such a device so close to him. He's already scared of the real world, but now he has the entire Earth in his pocket. It's terrifying, and George needs to put his phone down.

George gets out of bed. He brushes a hand through his hair, which is usually all he does in the morning. He hasn't brushed his teeth properly in a month. Then, he left the room.

Wilbur's in the kitchen, staring at a box of cereal. George walks up next to him, hoping not to scare the taller in case he forgot he was there.

"I don't have milk." Wilbur says sourly.

George turns, "Do you cook? Maybe just make something."

"Yes, but I'm not feeling like it this morning."

"I can't cook, I've never learned." George kisses his teeth, embarrassed at that fact.

Wilbur looks at him and their eyes meet. "I could teach you. So you can cook me breakfast."

A small smile grows on George's face, even though he really doesn't care to learn.

They decide to dig around the smelly, dirty fridge to find waffles. It's sad eating them without syrup, as Wilbur hasn't gone shopping for a while, but they make do. Wilbur apologizes, and George says he's eaten worse.

Wilbur brings George to the couch, where they sit. It's sort of like the bench from yesterday. George doesn't know why, but he feels comfortable around Wilbur. It's odd because George never feels comfortable around anyone. He likes being alone, and anything other than that, everything makes him want to die. But with Wilbur, he could talk for hours. He never talks for hours.

"What school did you go to?" Wil randomly asks, perking his head up.

"Oh, I moved around a lot. I went to a few different places." George answers, "I went to a middle school in one place, then like, half of high school somewhere else."

"Why's that?" Wilbur has no reason to care, but George likes talking, and he thinks Wilbur knows that.

"I thought I was better than my middle school, so I wanted to go to a more normal, prestigious one. But then I switched and realized I was no better than the fucked up school I tried to leave. I fit in the dingy, pest-invested school instead." George murmured it, like it was a secret no one was supposed to know.

Wilbur hummed, which is something George began to notice he did a lot, to fill the empty spaces of conversation. "I dropped out of high school."

"Why?"

"It was a bit too much for me. And not enough at the same time." Wilbur says as he picked at his cuticles.

"I wished I could drop out. My family would never allow it."

"Do you like your parents?" Wilbur's voice got lower, like it was a sensitive topic. George understands. No one is as messed up as he or Wilbur without stupid, fucked up parents.

"No, not really. Do you?"

Wil almost laughs at the question, "No, I don't."

George relaxes on the couch. He thinks of his father and mother.

George hates the idea of karma, but at the same time, it makes a bit of sense to him. He is the karma for his parents misdeeds. They weren't good people, and George was the result. Still, he doesn't want to believe in karma. If karma is real, that means George must be the worst person alive to deserve all the shit he gets.

"Have you spoken to your boyfriend?" Wilbur sits up suddenly, "He'd be upset if he knew you're at a random man's house, wouldn't he?"

"He would," George shrugs, "But I don't care. I've decided he's not my boyfriend anymore."

"You must not have been that attached." Wilbur laughs breathily. "I got broken up with a few months ago. She said she needed to go her own way, and I was holding her down. Like the weight on a chain that's connected to a prisoner's ankle."

"I don't think you're a weight on a chain, Wilbur," George tells him. "She sounds stuck up."

Wilbur shakes his head, "No, she was just happy."

"And you weren't?"

"Exactly." Wilbur nods. "How long were you with your boyfriend?"

"A few months. We've only seen each other in real life two times."

"Were they fun times?" Wil asks, looking up as if he were reminiscing, too.

"Not really. I think I was with him because I had nothing better to do. I'm a really dependent person, I can't be on my own, no matter how much I want to be." George brings his legs up to sit cross-legged on the sofa.

"Don't worry, I'm very motherly." Wilbur smiles ear-to-ear, "I can cook." He reiterates.

"You can cook." George repeats him. They sit quietly again. George doesn't like silence, but with Wilbur, it felt sort of natural. He breaks it still, "I like talking to you."

"I like talking to you, too." Wilbur says, standing up, "I'll look for my tattoo stuff. Do you still want that?"

George nods eagerly. He feels like a lost dog Wilbur found on the road and decided to bring home. Home. George thinks on the word for a while. He looks around the apartment. No, that's not it. He watches Wilbur dig around boxes in the closet in the hallway briefly. Home, yes, there it is.