hold my hand [w.s]

pink daffodils [007]

Now, what the voice said was certainly not something he could seem to pay attention to. It was as if he was hearing each word in a foreign language, spoken in a foreign accent. Every consonant felt too harsh on his ears and each syllable was grossly defined. The nouns seemed to melt into each other and the entire sentence came as a jumbled mess; the speaker not seeming to see the point in halting his words.

Schlatt, once more, felt that growing urge to shove this intruder out of his mind numbingly quiet room, a need for silence and no distracting speech taking over his thoughts.

Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up, be quiet, get out get out get out-

The man the voice belonged to never left, only entering his self-proclaimed safe space and becoming too close, too near, too suddenly.

He wanted to fucking move, but he was still glued under covers, he was still stabled to his spot and nailed through the lungs. He wanted to move. But he couldn't.

It was almost like the hand which found its way onto his back was a hammer working on removing each nail. Each nail which, as the hours drained onwards, lodged themselves in every section of his body they could get to. They punctured his lungs and let the air leak out, leaving each breath heavier then they should've been, each exhale shakier then he meant.

It was... Softer than he expected.

As slow as it went about its job on pulling out the nails, as gentle as it felt brushing carefully along his back; it seemed to work. Quietly, his breath came back in fairer inhales, each exhale being stronger and more natural.

As Schlatt lay there, stomach down, as he lay there glued and stuck, his mind returned to his head.

It's Wilbur, he told himself, It's just Wilbur. It's okay. It's fine; it's him.

The brit had too much effect on him.

All he was doing was rubbing his back through the covers; all he was doing was staring down at him with such a soft and knowing gaze.

Although he couldn't see him, Schlatt could almost imagine the look he was getting. He could almost imagine and picture the tall brunet's ice-cream coated eyes staring through perfectly long lashes, he could almost feel the summer warmth beating out from his delicately shaped lips.

God, those lips were enough to distract him from the things he was most passionate about. They were enough to keep him staring down even after being teased about what he was doing. Every day he wondered how they would feel, and every day he wished for one of them to take the first move.

The too-detailed thoughts of Wilbur brought him more out of his sweater based daze.

"Wilbur."

What a voice.

Unused for hours, scratched in the back and dragging in the front. If the voice had a body it would be such a clumsy one, tripping over its too-big shoes and scraped on the knees from overuse and too many falls.

There were words in return but he didn't really hear them.

Blinking seemed like such a feat. Every time his eyes shut it took all his energy and focus to reopen them, the lids feeling like heavy weights made of skin. But he was blinking.

It didn't bother him too much that his blinking was now manual; he could control that part of his body and maybe it was good enough. It meant his senses were returning, the numbing pins and needles starting their static back up.

There was movement.

Not from him; from the once intruder and now welcome guest. He'd moved off the bed and down to the floor, blocking his fixated vision on the sweater and allowing those addicting brown eyes to take up his thoughts.