nails like god | georgebur

my skin crawls

They're positioned on the couch, facing one another. Wilbur has an old, used tattoo gun in his right hand. He disinfected everything five times, just in case. George heard him say something about not wanting the shorter to get amputated, but George wasn't listening.

Wilbur sets the gun down, preparing ink. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," George says. He's thinking hard, but all of his thoughts were muddled by Wilbur. "I want a small picture of your jacket. The one you gave me."

"Why?" Wilbur chuckled, "We've known each other for two days."

"I feel like I've known you my entire life. Like, we were meant to meet or something." George sucks on his bottom lip. His lips are chapped, mostly because of how he picks and rips them. But, after tearing them up, George sucks and wets them. It makes them kind of swollen, they're always a bit too pink compared to his pale, sickly skin.

"You think that because we're kind of similar. So, it's like, we get each other. I've known you my whole life because you're me." Wilbur speaks fast, thinking quicker than his mouth will allow.

Wilbur can't stop himself from adding, "Except you're much shorter than I am."

"I'm average," George exclaims quickly, like he'd been accused of a crime, "You're the freak who's tall."

They laugh together. Wilbur gets closer to George. "Where do you want the jacket?"

George looks down at himself. He thinks about his shoulder, or maybe even his hand. Perhaps his leg? "I'm not a tattoo expert. You decide."

"It's your body, not mine." Wilbur squints at him.

"I'm bad with decisions. You decide for me. I'll tell you if I like your idea." George opens his arms, presenting himself to Wil.

Wilbur stares at George's frame for a moment. He points a bony, long finger above George's heart. "Here?"

"Yes, there."

"You'll have to take off your- well, my shirt." Wilbur stammers. His face is quite red, it sticks out because the rest of him hasn't seen the sun in a while.

George looks down. He doesn't really like eye contact, but he's noticed Wilbur does. Wil is always staring at him, George can't help but tear his gaze away. "Okay, I can do that."

In a swift motion, George disgards the shirt. He adjusts his cross-legged position.

"Do you have any tattoos?" Wil asks.

"No," George fidgets with his hands. "I might faint."

"What?" Wilbur's voice is laced with confused concern.

George smiled like it was a joke, but he was serious. "I pass out sometimes. I might faint is all I'm saying."

"Why do you faint?"

"I don't know. Doctors don't know. I'm a mystery." George shrugged it off. Wilbur was looking at him like he was crazy.

"That's not good," Wilbur states, "Don't pass out on me."

"I'll try my hardest." George giggles. It's a laugh he hasn't let out before now, and Wilbur notes that. Wilbur liked it.

Wil took out a blue pen. He shuffled up to George, still having to lean down slightly, even though they were both sitting. He drew the jacket on George's skin.

It tickled, George felt shutters going up and down his spine, followed the pens movement. He inspected Wilbur's focused face. His eyebrows were furrowed, lips closed and tight. George couldn't see it all. Wilbur's hair flopped over his face, hiding all of his beauty.