[w.s] oneshots (schlattbur)

two forty-three am (1/2)

POV: it's past midnight. a stupid ass fanfic writer is scrolling through angst prompts on google photos. she gets inspired by a dialogue prompt and writes a shitty oneshot.

senses cuffing him awake. eyes burn from opening, air in his nostrils feels far too sharp. his every nerve tingles, he hears a muffled knocking and a buzzing ambience, and tastes the smoothness of his own teeth and the dry roof of his own mouth. the knocking in the back of his head is getting louder now, and he's convinced it's the aftermath of the dusty recollection of a dream still playing in the back of his mind ever-so-vaguely.

wilbur. wilbur, open up. i need to talk to you.

huh?

wilbur. are you there? wilbur, please.

knocking. knocking? is someone at his door?

"wilbur. are you even home? god, wil, please just talk to me."

the crackling of static electricity as he moves the comforter off his body, a strange tickling in his feet as his socks rub against the carpet. hyperaware of everything, nothing sticking in his memory. what's even going on? he's on autopilot, privy to every flutter of his eyelids, every time he swallows his own saliva. the creak of a bedroom door, the loud, clumsy footsteps he makes as he walks to his front door.

knocking. "wil, i'm so sorry, please."

lifting a hand to rub his eye, flicking gound from his tear duct.

"fuck- who is it-"

"schlatt."

the metal feels like ice on his hand as he fumbles with the lock on the door, taking a few steps back to open the door, pushing the hair in his face away from his field of vision.

schlatt's a fucking wreck, wearing pajama pants and a dress shirt half tucked in and buttoned all wrong. his hair sticks in every direction. eyes are puffy, and the cheap light that illuminates his door points out the paths of tears shed fairly recently. he's anxious, tapping his foot and glancing down the hall to other doors. wil watches him run a hand through his hair before looking him in the eyes with some emotion he can't quite pin down but is comparable to regret.

"i need to talk."

"it's two in the fucking morning."

"i know, it's just- shit, i'm so sorry, i woke you up, didn't i? i can come back later."

"i'm already awake, why not."

he steps to the side to give schlatt room to walk in and he does, wringing his hands and glancing all around.

will mumbles, but schlatt knows what he means,  treading to the living room and sitting in a chair on the far end of the room, feeling uncomfortable.

"coffee?"

"sure."

wilbur spends longer in the kitchen than he needs to. it's strange, knowing exactly how much creamer to put in your ex's mug and how strong to make his brew. knowing which mug is his and knowing what chair he'll be sitting in when you carry it out, when he shouldn't know, because he's not his boyfriend anymore, and it feels like something that shouldn't be as natural as it is. he eventually leaves, facing the man in his living room that he thought he'd never see in his living room again.

hands him his coffee, mumbles a 'you're welcome' in response to a mumbled 'thanks'. sits on the other side of the room, wanting to hide from the dead silence.

it's an emotional rollercoaster just to look at him. part of him is still angry, wants to yell at him and ask him why. part of him is still in love, wants him to scoot over in the chair and hold him. a piece of him that feels for the mess he is right now and a piece of him feels guilty, knows it's all his fault and that he wouldn't be this torn up if wil hadn't been who he was when he was.

he looks at his face and sees lips he wants to kiss and lips that said a couple too many words that hurt, a jaw that he'd peppered with kisses and would again and a jaw that he was so used to seeing clenched after one of them screwed up again and again. eyes that made him melt so many times, but hadn't he made those same eyes shed the tears that were threatening to spill over?

he's going down a train of thought that he doesn't like, so he breaks the reigning silence they had let cover them awkwardly for so long. "you came here to talk."

"uh- fuck. yeah, i did."

"then talk."

schlatt sets his coffee down on the side table, his hand shaking a bit. whether from the caffiene, the stress, or a combination of the two, neither were sure.

"i need to set this straight. i need closure. i- i need to be able to sleep at night knowing we did whatever we could to make whatever we were work."

"...we did, didn't we?"

"did we? i can't- i don't, fuck, sorry. words. uh-"

"take your time, schlatt."

he picks up the drink again, taking a sip, sputtering slightly on it. he's stressed out, doesn't know how to say what he came there so desperate to finally say out loud.

"i think..." he sighs, deciding to just spit it out bluntly. "i just need to stop imagining that all the strangers i kiss are you."

another silence, an uncomfortable one, full of words unsaid and too many impulses at once. wilbur doesn't think he can stomach any more of the coffee, shifting in his seat, trying to find a position that will get rid of the growing anxiety in his gut.

"what are you saying?"

he's wringing his hands again, glancing around. doesn't know how he might take this, how to say all the shit he wants to in the right way. everything's so delicate between them right now, he can't ruin it.

"i don't fucking know. try again? is it even worth a shot? try to start where we left off, try and make up."

"that's a bad idea."

"-oh."

schlatt looks away.

"oh, shit- i said that wrong. i meant, that starting back where we left off was..." a pause. it's far too late at night to make big decisions like this, but fuck it. "not a good idea. we were a shit-show when we left off. i don't think it was just one of us, but whatever we did wasn't working."

"so, what do we do?"

twiddling his thumbs, tapping his foot. ill at ease.

"start fresh?" he has schlatt's attention now, the american turning to look at him. "learn all of it again. a lunch date with surface level questions like your favorite ice cream flavor or if i have any siblings. a clean slate, so to speak."

"...i can do that."

the silence is still apprehensive, but less so. schlatt stands, and wilbur follows his lead, walking him out.

"i'm sorry for waking you up."

"you're fine."

"psh. no i'm not."

he earns a half-assed smile, and it's not the same as before but it's a start.

"we'll figure out a date later?"

"yeah. we will. i'll text you."

"i'll unblock you."

opening the door for him. he steps out.

"bye, wilbur."

"go home. get some sleep."

"i will. you too."

giving each other tired smiles, closing and locking the door. wilbur stands there by the door long after he's gone, before going back to bed, collapsing.

it's not okay, but it will be, he thinks. it will be soon.

(y'all fangirls want a part two? because i can write it.

final word count: 1285)