#interactions: will

[ofstowontarn]

( @waywardsovls ) date: feb 28th time: 12:03 am location: will & milo’s home interaction: will & milo

Everything seems to shatter for what Will thinks has to be the final time this week. There’s no way anything inside of him could break or splinter any more than it has now.

He’d expected the lights to be off when he walked through the door, hoped to sneak into a quiet home. To make his way across the floor and maybe, just maybe, find his way to his bed without disturbing Milo. 

Now that he’s standing in the doorframe, he’s made aware of how utterly impossible such a thing would be. Even if he could make it all the way to bed, there isn’t a reality in which they don’t have to have this conversation. Somehow, Will had deluded himself into thinking he could fast forward through the interrogation, as if he’d only been out for the afternoon. But he’s just too numb, too raw now to think of anything other than tucking himself into their sheets and sleeping away the week’s worth of hopelessness, guilt, despair, agony. He just needs to sleep.

“I...” But there isn’t anywhere to go from there. 

Will Moody, so practiced in conversation, never without a witty retort, well-rehearsed and suave and clever finds himself without a card to play.

He could drop to his knees now. Just start grovelling and begging Milo, find his way back onto some ground to stand on. But this week has already shown him how useless his pleading is in the end. No matter what deity he chose to pray to, they ended up laughing in his face, finding pleasure when it twisted and writhed with the pain that’s convulsing along his insides.

[ofstowontarn]

( @waywardsovls )

date: sometime in june time: 9:30 pm location: will and ingrid’s flat interaction: will & ingrid

Since when the hell does William Nirav Parekh walk home thinking about the feeling of one specific date’s—who he found on a fucking app, at that—lips on his lips? Because, right now, as his feet drag him up the steps to the door of the flat, that’s all he can think about: that sweet little press of their mouths before turning separate ways to their respective places.

Date three in the books, and they still haven’t screwed. This is an anomaly; it should be a scientific impossibility for two people to be this attracted to each other and not have ripped each other’s clothes off already.

Not to mention the fact they’d gone miniature golfing. That meant they were stone cold sober for the entire night, laughing at Milo’s clumsy attempts at swinging a golf club as he repeatedly reiterated “I told you I was no good at this.” And Will had crept up behind him, arms wrapping around Milo’s, hands settling over his, guiding him, speaking softly into his ear at nearly every hole... And they walked away without exchanging more than a little peck of the lips.

He would groan as he swings the front door open, but he’s not entirely sure he has an audience to hear it. That is until he looks up and finds Ingrid sitting at the kitchen table, and a wave of relief washes over him. It’s only 9:30pm, after all. He hadn’t expected her to be asleep.

Will slumps into a chair, perfectly composed, until he wipes and hand down his face and whines. “Ingrid, he is wasting me. Wasting me! Tell me how the fuck you go on a date, have a guy you’re into all over you all night, and not even ask to go home with him? How is that even possible?”