[w.s] oneshots (schlattbur)

movies

not too long ago, he had fallen in love.

it was strange, because he didn't know it at the time, but in retrospect he had been hopeless, completely infatuated.

well, he still is, but he hopes that pretending it doesn't exist will make it go away.

he often tried to pinpoint the exact moment the whole mess had started, and landed somewhere new every time.

the time he had stayed on call for hours with him, just listening to him ramble on and on about anything and everything. the day they shared an umbrella, and neither could fully fit, so wilbur made sure schlatt stayed fully dry and got half-soaked in the process. maybe it was the time wil made an offhanded comment about his eyes, or his hair, or his outfit that day, or anything, really.

he had decided that there was no moment in that sort of thing. there's no catching it before it takes you. you wake up one morning, and it's there.

regardless, the very moment schlatt realized, he set to work getting rid of it.

he sought the help of the internet, and the internet told him its best advice, but it didn't work, nothing did. so he got together with this girl, stayed with her for months, and almost convinced himself that he was over him, but when it ended he was right back on track.

he was desperate then, couldn't get him out of his head for months after. desperate times called for desperate measures, so he pushed him away bit by bit, forcefully ignored every little thing that would normally make him swoon. he wish he could say that it worked.

no, all it did was end the friendship. so now, he's stuck with a broken heart and no friend to have a broken heart over, and he can't for the life of him figure out a way to fix the whole mess.

maybe it was meant to be this way. he feels numb, his brain is always drifting off to nowhere, an embodiment of radio static. maybe he just has to move on now, and one day he'll get little butterflies in his stomach looking at someone else.

when he hears a knock on his front door, his mind jumps to him like it always does. it's him, he's here, just like in the movies. he should know better. still, he lets his heart flutter at the thought, lost in his foolish daydream of romance.

except, it's actually wilbur?

he jumps to all conclusions at once. he's angry, he's hopelessly in love, he's drunk, he's broken-hearted. for some reason, all of the scenarios in his head end the same way.

he opens the door for him, desperately searching for the nonchalant facade he had thought he could tuck away for the night.

"wil?"

"hey, can i come in?"

fuck. fuck. fuck. he wants to come in. oh fuck.

"sure, i guess."

he holds the door open, lets him in and closes it behind them.

this doesn't feel like how it used to when they hung out. he's not sure what it does feel like. awkard, maybe, though not quite. romantic? he hopes. but life is not like the movies, he reminds himself. his life is far from a romcom, and it never will be.

wilbur sits down in a chair and schlatt does the same. it's terribly silent. somewhere in the apartment an appliance makes a noise, and they both jump. schlatt isn't sure his leg has ever bounces this fast before, and he watched as the british boy fidgeted with his hands.

"so?"

"so what?"

he's tempted to give a sarcastic laugh. he restrains from it. the situarion is fragile enough.