hold my hand [w.s]

[001] - rewritten, unfinshed.

Seven months ago while I was still heavily interested in the schlattbur fandom, I began to rewrite my (personally speaking) worst chapter on here - chapter 001 (stupid, drunk, gay). In case you were ever curious about the title of this chapter, it was put in as a placeholder until I eventually rewrote it.

Spoilers. This is the unfinished rewrite that I always procrastinated finishing. The placeholder has never been changed, nor the placeholder for 002 (hercules + requited love). That one will likely never be rewritten.

If you'd ever like to compare this rewrite to the original copy, I recommend it, but do not force it. There's a few parallels, a few brushed off sentences re-explored, and of course (hopefully) a lot of improvement.

For anyone curious, the first chapter was written 5 months before this rewrite.

3rd Person

As much as the alcohol burnt and scratched at his dry throat, there was a familiar and addictive tug he felt that brought him to pour more shots. The world spun and shook as he pushed himself off of the kitchen counter and towards the drinks, Schlatt himself simply laughing away any worries of falling. Who cared, anyway? He was just drinking along with the rest of these party members.

Even the people he'd come to the party with had dipped eventually. Whether it be too late for them or something else, he distinctly remembered them leaving him to rot with randoms.

Wasn't that strange? He'd come to this party to drink everything away with his buddies, and somehow, in the fray of the crowd, he'd drunk them away. If you asked him, that only made him more eager to just chug a little more than he could handle. Because no one cared, did they?

Eh, maybe Schlatt didn't care either then. Maybe love was for losers and maybe nothing was worth the hassle of social interaction. Maybe this party was just another opportunity to drop him out of the group for some peace and quiet.

Nonetheless, as he coughed and stumbled to the fridge for a bottle to himself, he felt that trudging, unbalanced blanket of loneliness become so heavily draped across his shoulders. Without even paying attention, Schlatt choked down his beer and searched the crowd desperately for something, someone, to whisk him away and pay fucking attention to him.

And maybe that was him just being too needy. And maybe that was one of the reasons his friends so quickly dropped him and dipped. And maybe, just maybe, he was looking for a specific person that he knew would take care of his drunk ass. And maybe he found him.

Wilbur wasn't even facing Schlatt, but the American could recognise him from any angle, any day, no matter how drunk off his mind he was. The easy-going, inviting Brit was quietly leaning against the balcony banister outside, completely alone. Looking for some fresh air, maybe? Schlatt didn't know, and maybe in this state he didn't quite care.

There were a few annoyed grumbles as he pushed through the crowd, but he didn't hear them. His mind was set on Wilbur and the alcohol buzzing through his body. Even as he slid open the door and huffed out a content sigh to finish his swig of beer, he kept his eyes on the Brit.

"Wilburr SoOT!" A slurred voice, emphasized in volume towards the end. Almost similar to a real life 'funny mic'. The sudden sound had made Wilbur jump, but all he did was smile quietly as he shut the door behind this stupidly drunk American.

"I hate that you manage to scare me every time." His laugh was sweet, though there was a recognizable tone of worry throughout it. Schlatt had blabbered out some messy flirt including the word 'baby', but it was incoherent enough that Wilbur simply could not figure out what he was saying.