𝐦𝐜𝐲𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 !

fool's gold | wilbur x schlatt

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘮𝘱 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰? 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥, 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥
𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘣𝘶𝘳 - 𝘩𝘪𝘴 (𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘵'𝘴) 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳
𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴
𝘪 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴
𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘵, 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴 - 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘣𝘶𝘳'𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥?
𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘰, 𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘯𝘢𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘺, 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 - (𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧) 𝘥𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘯𝘰
𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘵 - 𝘰𝘩 𝘪 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥

𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦! 𝘺𝘢𝘺! 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘵. 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘪 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰! :)

                                  -

the phone lit up the darkened room as it rang, startling the comatose boy sitting on the windowsill of his apartment. london dramatically distorts before his eyes and he is unsure whether it's the rain relentlessly drowning the city or the amber liquid he poured down his throat an eternity ago that causes this. he's unsure if he even cares anymore.

the phone rings again and he glances over, expectant. no one had called him in weeks, he had barely interacted with those he cared for, just enough to convince them that yes, he really was fine and no, he wasn't drowning his sorrows every other night with overpriced drink. maybe he should have pursued theatre. he's certainly perfected the art of deception.

he was always present online, but he wasn't really there. his mind was clouded and his eyes were shifty and his voice caught a couple of times when he was speaking but it wasn't enough to signal that anything was wrong so to speak. so his fans continued to shower him in unwarranted adoration and he continued to hate himself for letting them.

it was the third ring that broke whatever pity party his mind had trapped him in. he unfolded his long limbs, spindly veins so very shallow under the skin, and padded over to his bed where the phone lay parroting some obnoxious ringtone. unthinking, he picked it up and accepted the call, preparing the host of lies about how fulfilling his life was and all the brilliant things he had done to satiate the hunger of worried friends.

"wil?"

shit.

the familiar mellow tang of an exotic american accent rang in his ears and wilbur so desperately wanted to hang up, to never have to hear his voice again but some deep-rooted thought was screaming no, and who was he to argue?

"you there buddy?"

swallowing the iron taste of grief in his mouth, he steadied himself on the bedframe and spoke.

"i'm here, schlatt. what do you want?" his voice remained remarkably sturdy and could almost pass as normal. it certainly would have fooled anyone else he knew. but schlatt wasn't anyone, and would never be again. not to wilbur.