hold my hand [w.s]

pink daffodils [007]

Schlatt felt like fucking shit.

It wasn't an "Oh I'm so sick, oh boo hoo" kind of 'shit', it was more... Complicated. And frustrating.

His eyes could barely open all of the way, not caring to even try and capture the view of the entire room. He'd been focused on this specific black sweater on the floor for what was probably hours - he wasn't sure. The world had melted in his very eyes, all sense of time going with it. One moment it was bright outside, the next it was dark.

This feeling was probably one of the worst. His hands felt too big and clumsy, moving them was like moving bricks – but not quite boulders. The back of his head had this distinct itching feeling but he couldn't will the strength to even move his head slightly, let alone scratch it.

Every noise got on his nerves, have it be the tiniest creak or the quiet steps of someone walking outside, it frustrated him to the high heavens. He just wanted to scream and yell and tell the world to shut the fuck up, but he didn't even part his dried lips.

Each thought that went through his brain didn't make sense, no matter how long he kept it there and chewed on it. Every description to this emotion he managed to come up with stayed his primary thought until the words just melted into an incomprehensible mess.

Nothing felt right anymore. All his motivation to live his life was gone – not to the point where it warranted a therapist, just to the point where he no longer cared to stop letting the day drone on into weeks and months.

His position was uncomfortable but he couldn't get himself to move.

He was vaguely hungry and thirsty but he couldn't get himself to move.

He felt so fucking alone but he couldn't get himself to move.

Stuck. Glued in place. Trapped. Caught in a web of nothing amidst a jungle full of empty leaves and scentless, colourless flowers. Feeling that minor stickiness from sap on his skin but without it really being there, feeling that weight on his flesh that could only be passed off as the weight of his own blood and skin.

God, it was gross. God, it was gross and bad and he felt disgusting and all he wished for was for Wilbur to come out of his stupid room and just help him.

Ahh, Wilbur. Please, hurry up, please. I can't stand this feeling. I can't stand this unnamed emotion, I can't stand being the one that found it.

Wilbur had crossed his thoughts a lot as he lay under the heavy blankets.

Whether the thought of him be brief or whether the thought of him became the only thing in his wet, sluggish brain. Even when he couldn't possibly fathom anything other than that stupid black sweatshirt on that stupid polished floor, even when his tongue filled every crevice of his mouth and he could feel each hair on his head, even as he felt dead under covers; Wilbur was present in his mind.

It wasn't too stupid that the boy kept showing up in everything he thought. It wasn't too stupid that he wished against his own dreams and just wanted to be comforted and held by that dumb brit. It wasn't too stupid. That's what he had said to Schlatt, and that's what he had kept repeating to himself; over and over and over.

It wasn't too stupid.

The door was opening.

He was concreted and solidly stuck in his exact position, and his eyes never managed to tear away from that shirt, but he could hear the door.

Even with his ears focussed on the droning fan overhead and the excessive breeze outside, he heard the door. And, soon after, the voice that followed.