Warm hoodies on cold nights (and all the stars in your eyes)

Chapter 9

"Why not?" Schlatt asks with an innocent smile, slapping Wilbur's shoulder. "Besides, he's the guy I told you would love this shop."

"You... Eh?" Wilbur asks, confused.

"I remember," Marge smiles. "Oh – him?"

"Wh... Me?"

"Yeah, yeah," Schlatt nods eagerly. "Here, I'll show him around the shop – Wil, Wil, I was gonna f- I was gonna take you here before sh- before stuff happened. C'mon, you'll love upstairs."

Wilbur stares at him, very confused. "I will?" he asks uncertainly.

"I Schlatt," Schlatt replies, with a completely serious face, and a hand on his chest, before he bursts into raucous laughter. "How many ffff- freaking times am I gonna catch you with that?"

"Too many," Wilbur groans, and follows him upstairs.

"Marge doesn't like swearing," Schlatt whispers.

"I noticed your attempts to hold back," Wilbur whispers back. "They were shi- fuck, wait – no – they – they sucked... Damn it," he curses. "Alright, y'know what, you did good."

"It's hard!" Schlatt nods. "Now c'mere, look at the guitars."

"Yo," Wilbur whispers appreciatively, his eyes drawn to a beautiful dark guitar. "Okay, these are awesome."

"I thought you'd like 'em," Schlatt smirks, watching Wilbur with his arms crossed.

"You seem happy today," Wilbur says, slightly distracted by the beautiful instruments. That gorgeous guitar. He can almost hear the sound it makes already, soft and melodic.

"Hell yeah," Schlatt nods. "Great day. I get to show you these, you might be getting work here – how've you been, Wil?" he asks, softer this time, and Wilbur glances at him to see he's serious.

"Yeah, alright," he shrugs. "I admit it was – it was weird. To. To not. But good, I think. Thanks. I don't think I said that. Thank you."

"I – uh," Schlatt stutters, looking away. "Look, man, it's all you, yeah?"

"Yeah, right," Wilbur laughs, and surprises Schlatt with a quick hug before he pulls away, quickly looking back at the guitars. "As if I'd do shit on my own."

"That's true," Schlatt says after some consideration, and Wilbur laughs before reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the guitar and heading back downstairs, where Marge offers them each a lemon sherbet and waves them off.

They live in stolen moments for the next few weeks. Brief flashes of honey warm smiles and laughter, moments that Wilbur would trade his life to have one more of.

And much to his delight, Wilbur gets the music shop job (though Marge reminds him countless times it's not because of Schlatt, but if Schlatt would like to come visit, he's very welcome), and that just leads to good things, because Schlatt's shift ends forty minutes earlier than Wilbur's, and those last forty minutes are often spent together in the back room of the music shop, sorting old cassettes and occasionally eagerly pointing a customer to the newest selections.

Wilbur has been getting better. There's downs, of course. Nights when he curls up under his cover, scratching deep indents in his skin that last for a good few days afterwards – but it's alright. It's better.

Or at least, most of the time it's better. This morning, waking up after a near-sleepless night and several recurring nightmares, he can't even get out of bed without a huge fucking pit in his chest threatening to drown him in nothingness. It hasn't been this bad for a long time.

He stays in bed, because he can't even force himself to move. He's pretty sure he'll just burst out crying and have a meltdown if he tries, so he just lies paralysed.