fuck yeah schlattbur...... secksie
had this concept in my head for a while and just now got around to writing it
also apologies if the lyrics to the songs i used are off a lil, i wrote em mainly from memory lmfao
title is from fiji water - owl city
cw for mentions of biphobia/being kicked out bc of sexuality + mentions of toxic friends
prompt; "im a homeless broke musician who plays in the subway station and you walk by and give me more money than anyone else does,, i wink at you bc i want to acknowledge you somehow, but one day youre late and come with food instead of cash bc youve left your wallet somewhere."
final word count; 3.8k
━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━
wilbur sighs, opening his guitar case and removing the instrument, leaving the case open. this is the fourth time he's had to do this - 'this' being sitting in an old subway station, playing his guitar and singing. he doesn't necessarily dislike it, he needs the money and playing has always been a favourite hobby of his, he'd just prefer his job and apartment back and not have to wash his hair in a mcdonalds sink every night with their shitty foaming soap.
he strums his guitar, tunes it a little, and starts playing, figuring he'll go with where is my mind by pixies this time. it's a good song, yes, a little depressing, but then again, wilbur's existence is depressing at the moment, so why the fuck not?
"with your feet on the air and your head on the ground, try this trick and spin it, yeah," he sings softly, eyes focused on his guitar. he doesn't react when he hears the familiar sound of coins dropping into his guitar case, though he is silently thankful for the donation and raises his voice a little. the person walks off and he continues. "where is my mind? way out in the water, see it swimmin',"
more people pass by, some staying to listen to him sing for a moment, others preferring to drop money into his guitar case and leave. "i was swimming in the caribbean, animals were hiding behind the rock.. except the little fish, but he told me, he swears, tryin' to talk to me, koi koy,"
a minute or so and a few donations later he's almost through with the song, and as he strums his guitar and sings he becomes acutely aware of the feeling of eyes watching him. he finishes the last of the song and looks up, locking eyes with a man in an extremely crisp business suit, shrinking back self-consciously. he looks a little tired, and although his gaze isn't necessarily judgy, wilbur still feels a little awkward.
"sorry if it's not much, but here you go." the businessman hands wilbur a stack of bills, and the brit takes it with a swallow. the first thing he notices about the american's voice is the accent - slightly new york-ish, he believes, a little rough around the edges but it fits him, surprisingly. he's being completely serious when he hands wilbur the money, and wilbur looks up at him again, subtly pinching himself to make sure he isn't dreaming. the american cocks an eyebrow and snickers, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "did you just fucking pinch yourself?"
ah, so he wasn't that subtle. "are you sure? what do you mean, not much? this is- this is more than i've gotten in four days combined!" the musician exclaims, and the businessman frowns a bit. "seriously, thank you so much." wilbur stands, going in for a hug, pausing, then holding out his hand for a handshake. the american shakes his hands, grip firm yet loose, hand bigger than wilbur's. "my name is wilbur," he introduces himself, "wilbur soot."
"schlatt," the american replies, and wilbur nods. "i'll try and come by again tomorrow if you're goin' to be here." schlatt tells him, and he shrugs.
"probably. i need the money, and i like to play for people, so." he slides the stack of bills in his pocket, along with the rest of the money he's gotten from people, and gently places his guitar and pick back in the case. schlatt hums in response and looks up as the next train starts to pull in. he grabs his suitcase and wilbur smiles, winking at him as he walks to the train. over the loud noise, he can hear schlatt call to him before getting on the train.
"see ya on the flipside, wilbur!" wilbur grins, then looks down at his hands, yawning. it's probably not even that late, but wilbur's been running around all day and he's tired.
it's going to be another night of restlessly sleeping in the crowded subway station for him, he supposes.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
when wilbur awakes, the first thing he notices is how quiet the station is. it must be early in the morning, then, if the trains have stopped running. he stands and stretches, picks up his guitar case, and sighs when his stomach grumbles. "might as well go for some maccies," he murmurs to himself, slinging the case across his back and making his way for the stairs.
the street lights flicker in the dark, autumn cold giving him goosebumps through his dirty yellow sweater and leaves crunching underneath his sneakers. mcdonalds isn't that far from the subway station, and it's not too long until he reaches it, opening the door and letting it close behind him.
"mornin', wilbur!" the employee, connor, says cheerfully. ever since wilbur started frequenting the fast food establishment after losing his apartment, he and connor have become good friends. "did you sleep yet? need some food? coffee? a different drink that's not coffee?"
"good morning, connor," wilbur chuckles, "yes, i've slept, and i'd like some fries and a small iced coffee. i can pay for it this time," he tells connor, leaning against the wall next to the register. connor frowns, but nods, ringing up wilbur's order and taking the brit's money.
"how much did you get this time?" connor asks him, and he pauses. he takes the stack of bills that schlatt gave him out of his pocket and counts, adding on the other donations and pausing.
"this guy named schlatt listened to me play and gave me fifty dollars, and i got twenty dollars in separate donations." he tells his friend, who's eyes widen in shock.
"schlatt? as in famous businessman schlatt? as in the owner and founder of schlatt 'n co.?" wilbur blinks. "i used to work there! he made the exclusive schlattcoin!"
"what's a schlattcoin?" wilbur asks, grabbing his cup and fries once they're placed on the counter, gesturing for connor to follow him to a table.
connor sits and spins around in one of the chairs. "it's a cryptocurrency! its value only goes up over time, i used to sign the certificate of ownership for people who invested!" he spins faster, eventually coming to a stop. "schlatt's actually a really neat dude once you get to know him!"
"mmhm," wilbur murmurs through a mouthful of fries, "why on earth would he give me money, though?" connor shrugs.
"you are struggling and you're amazing at what you do! maybe he heard about what happened and decided to help out?" wilbur winces and connor rushes out an apology, but wilbur shakes his head. "sorry, sorry! i didn't mean to make you feel bad, it wasn't your fault that happened, your old band mates were just assholes."
"it's alright, connor, i promise." wilbur yawns and sips at his coffee, checking the time on his watch. it's just about reaching six am, and the sun is already peeking through the clouds, starting to rise, he notices as he stares absentmindedly out of the window.
connor notices this, reaches out and pats wilbur's shoulder. "you do know that if you need to, you're always welcome to crash at my place for a while?" wilbur jolts and nods after a moment of hesitation.
"i don't wanna intrude, though. after a few more nights of playing and getting money i'll be able to afford my own apartment, hopefully close to yours if you'd like," wilbur mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. he stands and stretches, throws his empty fry carton away, and picks up his coffee cup, drinking the rest before he throws it away as well. "i'll see you later, yeah?" connor nods and smiles.
"see ya later, wil'!" connor calls after him as he leaves the mcdonalds, licking his lips and brushing his unruly hair from his face. as he walks back to the subway station, hands shoved into his pockets, he bumps into a familiar face.
"schlatt?" the american looks up and grins, nodding.
"wilbur soot! nice to see you again!" wilbur winks at schlatt and nudges his shoulder.
"you don't have to say my full name, y'know," wilbur says, and schlatt laughs, nodding. "it is nice to see you, too, though."
"it sure is! i wish we could talk more, but i've got work." wilbur nods and moves to the side, letting schlatt pass him. "i'll see you later though, right? in the subway?"
"yeah, of course! i practically live there now," wilbur chuckles, and schlatt joins in, laughing softly.
"lookin' forward to it, wilbur soot."
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
wilbur sets up again, like he's done for the previous four days, letting his guitar rest in his lap whilst he goes through a list of songs to play. he hears kids screaming, adults groaning into the phone, teenagers popping bubblegum, the click-clack of heels and slamming footsteps of sneakers. it's all so loud and he feels a little overwhelmed, thoughts swimming around in a never-ending void.
the clearing of someone's throat snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see schlatt, dressed down, a bit more casual than the full on suit he was wearing the previous night, but still looking lightyears better than wilbur. his white button-up shirt has a few buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his suit jacket slung across his shoulders.
he looks good.
wilbur mentally slaps himself and starts tuning his guitar, looking over to schlatt with a grin as the other goes to sit down next to him. schlatt grins back, uneven and yet still somehow so attractive that wilbur has to look away so he isn't caught staring like a weirdo at a guy he's only known for twenty-four hours in the middle of a crowded subway station.
"so what're you planning on playing today, wilbur?" schlatt asks him, and he shrugs, still scanning the list before stopping on a song that seems interesting. romance is boring by los campesinos, a song wilbur's always liked but has never had the time to play it. it's not like his old band mates would ever let him play it anyway.
he strums his guitar and schlatt falls quiet, brown eyes watching wilbur's fingers as he rhythmically strokes the strings on the instrument. "darling, i'm with saint bernard, and we are scouring the alps and the andes," he begins, loud enough for schlatt to hear him over the bustle of everyone surrounding them. "and if they die, it is on my head. they follow paw prints through the snow to my throne, to my bed,"
he's playing faster now, keeping up with the tempo of the song, eyes closed and voice loud. "you're pouting in your sleep, i'm waking, yawning - we're proving to each other that romance is boring!" as he continues, he faintly hears the sound of coins being tossed and bills rustling, hearing people walk by and stay close so they can hear the brit sing.
wilbur finishes the chorus and starts with the second verse, letting all his insecurities melt away as if they were being slowly burned off his body, even though it may only be temporary, as more people stand around him, and schlatt's hand on his shoulder is grounding. the singular point in which both their bodies connect fills him with pure warmth and the desire to finish this better than he started.
"start as i mean to continue - complacent and self involved, you try not to be nervous, wish you were trying at all," he continues, "i will wait, i will bake, i will bake phallic cakes, take your diffidence, make it my clubhouse, but my strength within lies, ventricle cauterised. it's the way of living that i espouse,"
as he sings the chorus, he notices other people singing along, dropping money into his open guitar case. seems like a lot of people like los campesinos, he thinks with a smile, turns to schlatt and nudges him with his shoulder. "you're pouting in your sleep, i'm waking, still yawning - we're proving to each other that romance is boring! sure, there are things i could do, if i were have prepared to, prove to each other that romance is boring!"
with one hard strum, the lyrics flow easily from his mouth, like rushing water in a babbling brook, and it's almost as if everything will be alright as long as he keeps singing. and who knows? maybe it will.
the song ends, wilbur strums his guitar once more, then sits back, breathing heavily. the small crowd around him cheers, and schlatt is smiling and clapping, cheering louder than the others. wilbur beams, brushes his hair from his face, leans against schlatt and settles his guitar in his lap.
"thank you!" he says once he's gotten his breath back, and he hears various responses. eventually, the crowd disperses, and it's just him and schlatt. the subway station is almost empty now, the last train beginning to pull in. schlatt leans in close, breath warming wilbur's cold skin.
"you did good tonight, wilbur soot," the american tells him, pressing crumpled bills into wilbur's palms, watching the taller preen from the praise, "i'll try and be here for your next show." schlatt stands, ruffling the brit's hair before walking off, keeping his suit jacket slung over his shoulder.
wilbur looks at the crumpled hundred-dollar bills and back up at schlatt's retreating figure, wondering just how in the hell he's gotten this lucky.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
weeks pass, turn into months. wilbur's gotten an apartment now, in the same complex as connor, who's just as ecstatic as he is. he's still playing in the subway station, and schlatt is still coming to listen to him play, often pressing a few crumpled bills into his hands and whispering praises into his ears.
on this cold thursday night, however, schlatt is nowhere to be seen. wilbur plucks the strings on his guitar, wincing when a calloused finger gets nicked on the string and looks up worriedly. there are some people wilbur's come to be acquainted with standing in front of him — a nice young man, travis, a skater named cooper who show up from time to time, ted nivison, who always shows up to compliment wilbur's singing and give him pocket change, and noah, who accompanies ted in the station.
travis takes a look at wilbur's bleeding finger and makes a noise, digging around in the pocket of his hoodie and handing wilbur a bandaid. the brit takes it thankfully and unwraps it, wrapping the bandaid tightly around his finger, then strums his guitar again, watching as everyone falls silent. he scans the crowd once more for schlatt, and, upon not seeing his face, frowns and starts the song.
he goes through the opening notes and clears his throat, voice shaking as he begins to sing. "she pushed her feet across the boardwalk, she keeps the sunset right with movement in her eyes, she knows she gets away with murder," he breathes in, trying to steady the tremor in his voice, "swallows up your heart of gold, and i don't know just where we've got to go, whoah-oh,"
he hears the familiar slam of schlatt's timbs against the concrete floor and looks up, locking eyes with the american and smiling, continuing to hum along until it's time for the next verse. "this song is givin' for the postman, another one that sleeps under aurora skies, the summer sleeps in time for autumn, sticking down your leaves on grass, and i don't know just where we've got to go," he winks up at schlatt once the other is kneeling beside him, noticing two styrofoam boxes in his hand and giving him a curious look, but not saying anything.
wilbur ends off the song with one final, loud strum, beaming with pride as his new acquaintances/friends and other people he doesn't know clap and cheer. the song he played, beachwalk by whitewoods, is significantly shorter than the songs he usually plays, but he's tired and hungry and wants to enjoy schlatt's company before the american has to leave.
after a few minutes, everyone else leaves, and schlatt and wilbur are sitting alone.
"i missed-"
"sorry i was-"
they both laugh, wilbur letting schlatt talk first, muffling giggles beneath his sweater sleeve.
"sorry i was late, i got caught up in work and forgot my wallet in the office. i only had enough pocket money to pick up dinner, so i hope you're hungry, 'cause you're going to be eating with me." wilbur blinks and nods, gratefully taking one of the styrofoam boxes and opening it, the smell of still-warm chinese food filling his nostrils and making him practically drool. "what were you going to say?"
the brit freezes. "eh, nothing important," he says, after a moment's hesitation. schlatt looks at him weirdly, like he's going to say something, but doesn't, turning his attention to the remaining white box in his own lap.
they eat in relative silence, until schlatt asks the question wilbur's been dreading. granted, it's been almost three months since they met, so it's long overdue, but it still makes a ball of nervousness settle heavily in his stomach.
"why don't you play for an actual audience anymore? like, professionally?" the brit shovels noodles into his mouth, chewing in silences before swallowing and answering.
"i used to be a part of a band back in the uk. they kicked me out when they found out i was bisexual. they treated me horribly, they were so toxic to me and everyone else, including their audience, so it wasn't a big surprise, i'm not that upset about it anymore. after a while, i moved here, but the apartment i rented had been given to someone else — i had gotten here too late — so i was homeless for the time. that's why i played in the subway for you guys; not just for the money, but because it gave me a chance to do what i love without having overbearing and toxic band mates hovering over me, telling me what to do. i don't know if i'm ever going to go back to playing for an "actual audience", i like this just fine, but i have been thinking of starting a youtube channel and uploading covers for a little extra money."
there's a moment of tense silence — wilbur can feel anger emanating off of schlatt — and he shuffles nervously, taking a bite of an eggroll. he wonders if schlatt will leave or say anything when-
"that's bullshit." he looks over to schlatt, who's fists are clenched and shaking, pressing into his thighs and wrinkling his suit pants. "they shouldn't have fucking thrown you out just because of your sexuality, that's bullshit. you deserve better than that, wilbur, and for them to have been that rude to you, over something you cannot possibly control? that's bullshit. they're bullshit. i'm glad you're here, doing what makes you happy, and i promise you i'll continue to support you, no matter what. you wanna start a youtube channel? go for it, man! you live your life the way you want to, it doesn't matter if other people think you're doing it wrong."
wilbur blinks, then pushes his box to the side and lunges forward to hug schlatt, arms draping around his shoulders and face nestled comfortably into his neck. "thank you so much, schlatt."
"call me jonathan," is what he gets in return, as well as the american's arms wrapping around his waist, fingers gently tracing letters into wilbur's back. they stay like that for some time, holding onto each other before wilbur pulls back, pressing his lips to schlatt's cheek. schlatt's face flushes and he averts his gaze, turning back to his food. wilbur shifts in place and they go silent again.
changing the topic, wilbur decides to bring up what connor had told him. "so, my friend connor says he used to work for you at, uhm.. schlatt 'n co., i think it was?" wilbur says, and schlatt laughs silently, shoulders quivering with his attempts to keep himself from laughing aloud.
"connor! my boy, mr. eatspants! you wanna know why they call him mr. eatspants, wilbur?" schlatt asks him, and he moves closer, nodding curiously. he's known that some people call connor mr. eatspants, and when he'd asked connor why, he feigned ignorance and changed the topic. "we had a big company party once before, to celebrate connor's and another coworker of his, ty's, promotions, and someone had spiked the drinks. connor had so many cups of the shit, like, around seven to eight-ish, and he was absolutely wasted, wil'."
"i don't think i've ever seen connor drunk before.." wilbur muses quietly, holding back giggles of his own. he thinks he knows where the story is going, but he'll leave it up to schlatt.
"i hadn't seen connor drunk before that, either! he kept going around, asking for food, and- and when people pointed him to the food stations, he sat down and crawled underneath the table. we couldn't see him because of the tablecloth and we just kinda left him alone for a little while. after, like, fifteen minutes, my secretary, joko, comes up to me and asks if he should check up on connor, and i told him to go ahead if he wants to. so, joko goes up to the table and lifts the tablecloth, and he's sitting there, leaning down, eating his fucking expensive suit pants-"
wilbur cuts schlatt off with a laugh, and schlatt joins in after a moment. "he actually started chewing on his fucking pants?" the brit says through chuckles and the american nods.
"he did! there's a big chunk of fabric taken from the leg, i think he said still has the pants hung up in his closet," schlatt tells him, and wilbur snorts again, chest heaving with laughter. he leans against schlatt, head resting on the shorter's shoulder, and schlatt leans back, kissing wilbur's forehead. "y'know, wilbur soot, i like being around you."
wilbur blinks. he doesn't remember when he'd started thinking of schlatt in a way that wasn't platonic, but to hear schlatt say something like that to him? it's slightly overwhelming, and he can feel himself tearing up. "i quite like being around you as well, jonathan," he murmurs into schlatt's neck, and schlatt wraps an arm around wilbur's waist, pulling him closer. throughout the months they've known each other, schlatt has always been here for wilbur, no matter the situation, time, place, or day. schlatt's always been there. "thank you so much for always being here. i don't know how i got so lucky with you."
schlatt chuckles, tilts wilbur's chin up and gently presses his lips to the brit's, kissing him softly. when he pulls away, there's a smile on his face.
"don't you know, wilbur? there's no such thing as luck."