hold my hand [w.s]

oh, moon [005]

"Oh, moon. How do you do it? How do you sit so high in the sky, so distant and silent? How do you keep your craters and rocks together? It must be terribly lonely, out there in the voided breath of the world.

"Do you fall in love, moon? Do you fall so hopelessly and desperately in love? Do you catch yourself dozing off in bed, dreaming quietly of the warmth that love brings?"

There was a small breeze that fluttered through his lengthy curtains, pushing strange shadows through the white fabric, oh so emphasised by the light of the stars.

"I find myself wondering, moon. Too much, actually." The weakest chuckle pushed past his drying lips, and he found himself absentmindedly wondering when he'd last pressed them against the warmth of a lovers mouth. "Isn't that bizarre. Hm? Sometimes I can barely think and other times I'm so caught up in thinking I can barely breathe. Oh.. How much I wish to go back. How much I crave it all back. Moon, do you ever want? Do you ever need? I do."

The brisk coldness that crept into his uncovered fingers made him pause for a moment. When did he last have that warmth? That brush of heat, the burning on his ears and the hot breath of another soul colliding with his own. Was it a little too strange to wish it back? To wish on his butterfly, on his beautiful, blue butterfly. To wish for her to take back all these events and moments that collapsed his mind and crashed his world with the walls of death.

"Oh, moon. Where did my sweet butterfly go? Where has she landed for her rest, when will she return to the sky? Is she afraid of the dark, maybe? I fear I haven't known her long enough for an answer. Oh, moon, please, bring light to her. Bring light back to her and show her the way home. I do miss her dearly, truly."

Hopeless. Wasn't it? Wasn't it all just mumbling, shuffling hopelessness that took too long to have a toll on each soul? Oh, he wanted the hope back. He wanted his butterfly to bring back his hope and his trust and his love.

It had set in by now. The dread of nothing, the void of space and the emptiness of the air. Though, maybe, it wasn't quite empty, it was just filled with the heavy, mopey feeling of sadness and the shimmer of acceptance.

Schlatt decided, right then and there, he disliked the mist immensely. It was too controlling, too drastic and endless. It filled his lungs with a terrible pain, it filled his head with a horrid, creeping sense of dismay.

"I say it too much, don't I, moon? Those words. Those sticky, wet words." Maybe the word 'chuckle' or 'laugh' was too lighthearted to explain the noise now. Maybe those words brought the connotation of happiness, and maybe that was simply untrue now. Yet, he laughed. "I do. I really think I do. Though.. I do find it to be true, y'know?"

The moon sat high in the comfortable perch it seemed to have found in the blackened blankets of the sky, and the stars leant back into their pillows now. They watched this boy sit against the windowsill, they watched him, day after wretched day, drain himself of happiness, drain himself of love. They sighed to themselves as he refrained from eating those wondrous eggs and toast, they moped to themselves as he slept for far too long each day.

And, yes, they cried with him on the silent nights. On the nights without words, on the dreaded scenes without the moon. They cried his tears, they felt his pain, they wished upon themselves for this man to be returned to his love and to the beauty of life around him. Yet, nothing could be done. Nothing could be said.

"I miss him."

Dreaded be the tears once more. Hated be the ways in which they rolled out of his eyes and burnt the sad sort of heat along his cheeks. Oh, disgusted be himself when he forced a chuckle as he wiped the wetness away with weak, useless, sloppy hands.

"Oh, moon, I find it so stupid. I miss him, yet it seems no one else does. As if - as if, somehow, they could forget all he is. All he was, I should say. I miss that boy so dearly."

Oh, Schlatt, my wonderbug, how I want to hold you. How I long to pull you into my arms and hold you close, how I yearn to wipe your cheeks and mumble your worries away.

He couldn't hear the moon's desperate cries. All he did was feel that overwhelming weakness overcome his body and drag him through the floor. All he did was ignore the endless tears and pointless words. All he did was wish for his lover to return back to him.

"Moon.. Surely it isn't fair. Surely this is just some silly prank he's pulled on me once more, surely he isn't.." As much as the days melted together, and as much time as passed, it still ached to say the words. To accept it all, "Oh, moon, surely he isn't truly gone. Please, moon of mine, tell me he hasn't really passed away, tell me he's just waiting for the moment to arise - waiting to tell me it was a sick joke."

Schlatt, my darling boy, my shining raindrop, I do have to apologise. I do have to say sorry, for your lover, your world and your glimmer - is gone. Oh, how I long to bring it back to you. Alas, I simply cannot, I simply cannot help you anymore.

And, though the moon was still silent, though Schlatt was still alone in his chilling room and though his Wilbur could never return to his arms, he heard it. In his mind, tucked in the back, under the mist and through the darkness, he heard it.

His moon. His moon - his Wilbur. He spoke, he mumbled and he murmured, right at the back of his skull, so muffled and quiet. Final words, if you will. A final goodbye, a final loving smile. Oh, he could almost picture that smile, that sweet, addicting smile. How it spread across his face, how the curl at the end felt beneath a wandering finger. How it felt against his own, oh how he remembered, the kisses that seemed too much grin and cheek, too much giggling to be considered a kiss.

And how he remembered it all, and how he cursed himself for forgetting. How could he manage to forget such a thing as that? Such a thing as the warmth in the mornings that he rolled over to wake in, such a thing as the incoherent mutters of last nights promises finally being reconciled and filled with truth.

He smiled then. He had to, he couldn't hold it it. And oh, how foreign yet beautiful it felt on his face, though he felt obliged to note that sadness that filled it. As small as the smile was, it certainly was real and it certainly was full of despair.

And, as much as he thanked the moon - his moon - for bringing that smile back to him, sometimes he found himself wishing that it was more then a smile. For, the smile almost seemed to end the promise. It almost seemed to cut off his wishing and leave him simply walking away.

No longer did he wait for the butterfly to lead him through the mist.

And, as soon as that decision was done, as soon as he took those gentle steps into the darkness, the bluing, fading flap of the butterfly began again, and the moon settled back down into the horizon for a rest of its own.

Schlatt's dearest love, Wilbur, may be gone in this life, but he knew now that all it took to see him once more was waiting for the moon to shine again, and there he would be. There he would be, late at night, crying out his worries and fears. There he would be; talking to the moon.

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Based off of the song "Talking to the Moon" by Bruno Mars.

final word count: 2 101

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unedited