𝐦𝐜𝐲𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 !

blissful | wilbur x schlatt

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 <3 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘥

𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 (𝘯 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥-𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨) stupidwriterguy! 𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘤 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘤 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘩𝘢. 𝘱𝘭𝘻 𝘨𝘰 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘴!

-

the world halts in orbit, stops time to give them each other. it is silent except for soft breathing and a radio in the far corner of the room drawing them out of their rests.

this, he decides, is heaven. this is soft lips pressed to the tip of his nose and a dance of eyelashes, crystal morning sun painting their skin all of the colors of bliss through the open window.

"mm, don't wanna wake up."

"me neither."

a ghost of a leg wraps around a ghost of his, head still filled with dusted dreams and hazy drifts of imagination.

he is in love? a question, incomprehensible in nature. hm.

he's kissed half-awake and half-asleep again, almost innocent hands lying on his waist, blossoming vermillion marks left by the tips of his fingers.

schlatt thanks a god he doesn't believe in for the moment he's within, all soft and light and what he decides every good thing reminds him of. his fingers find home in hazel curls as they whisper nothing in hearts and ears and souls.

hell, why can't it always be like this?

wilbur strays back into pale slumber, and schlatt lets him, and the early morning sunrise shifts into midmorning rain as they lie there. it's otherworldly, the sensation of being alive with wil. being able to hold him and touch him and feel his heart fluttering beneath spindly bones. to map out his chapped cherry lips with his own is an honour schlatt doesn't deserve.

the first time wil kissed him was seraphic. cold, splintering days in the autumn of new york where he spent hours watching warm air escape from between his friend's lips and crystallize in the hiemal atmosphere. he wanted to bottle it... no, he wanted to mellow wilbur's mouth with his own and tangle his limbs with the other's until you couldn't tell where wil ended and he began. such an idea nearly tore him apart with want, such a heavy thought to carry that he spent most of wil's holiday silent in an attempt to stave off his craving mind.

but wil noticed, of course he noticed. empathic fuck. so one night, after countless attempts to get schlatt to 'just talk to me', he took matters into his own hands.

what that meant was pulling schlatt aside, trailing calloused fingers along the nape of his neck and playing his soul with reckless and wanton abandon. and schlatt tried to kiss him then, tried his very best to give wilbur what he thought he wanted until the man stops him gently, looks him in the eyes and murmurs 'you aren't okay, schlatt'. and wilbur says it, so you know it's true.

so they don't make out dramatically, bodies twined like grapevines in the sun. they don't indulge in perfect storybook romance where the world is suddenly righted by love. instead, wilbur takes his hand gently, sits him down on plush sofa and they spit words from their heads until their mouths are dry. they talk about everything and nothing and it's the most freeing thing schlatt has done in forever. so when wilbur hands him a blanket and smoothes his hair with his thumb and kisses his forehead, butterfly soft, it somehow feels like the most romantic thing in the world.

he falls asleep thinking about wilbur that night.

and every night after that.

and it feels right, with the radio spluttering overplayed tunes and his arms round his lover. it's so easy to forget that he can call him that now, along with a plethora of other labels to cement that they really do belong to one another. wilbur entertains the old-fashioned: darling, sweetheart, doll; whereas schlatt is a sucker for mocking wil with words like dumbass, dipshit and goddamitwilburifyoudontkissmerightnowiwillmakeyouregretthatyouwereeverbornyousonofabitch-

their love languages differ vastly, yet each seems to interpret the other perfectly. wilbur thinks that's love, schlatt is unsure. but caution killed the cat and schlatt isn't ready to die just yet, so he does his best to believe wil, despite his doubt.

quite the restless sleeper, wilbur tosses and turns softly in his sleep, whispering nonsense into the still air. the rays permitted entry from the slats of the window bathe him in gold and it's times like this that almost convince schlatt that true love isn't as impossible as he thought.