#wcbah lore

[fullofgutsndopamine]

all the earth around me (around you)

or: a drunk confession

tw: drinking

part of wcbah universe. not required reading, but you might enjoy it if you liked this.

charlie doesn’t drink.

this is a known fact, one of the first things you’ve learned about him.

he’ll say it’s too damn expensive to drink, or it all tastes like bread water anyways, while the truth is covered in the corner: he’s seen what alcohol can do, how it can turn you into someone you aren’t, betraying yourself.

So when charlie comes over as your outside, getting clothing down from the clothesline, a storm brewing on the horizon you aren’t sure what to expect.

“charlie?” you can’t hide the smile when you see him, “what’s up?”

and like, you didn’t expect to see him, but it’s always a pleasant surprise, a face you don’t mind seeing finally, someone you can hang up the responsibilities of the world at the door and just be yourself with-

his voice is low, “I have a surprise for us.”

his hands are tucked behind his back and he still has a towel tucked into the front of his pants, was obviously doing chores before he raced over. it made sense; you had heard his fathers old beat up truck slowly, painstakingly, turn out of the gravel driveway, chug and groan down the street-it was finally safe.

“oh?” you tease, “I hope it’s chocolate.”

and you’re laughing, because like-that’s such a rare occurrence and such a small thing, but when you’re burning overdue bills and notices to keep warm last winter the little things get overlooked.

“better, sweetheart.” his eyes are shining, the smirk pulling at his lips, “i’ll go get set up inside?”

it’s a question, not a statement, and you’re nodding, he’s laughing at you as you crane your neck to see what’s behind his back but he doesn’t loosen the grip, doesn’t try and stop you.

instead, he takes a step forward, his hand cups the back of your head as he gently brings it to you, kisses your forehead and he finishes by walking backwards into the house, narrowingly missing running into the wall.

and as your fingers go to your forehead where he kissed, where it still lingers and feels like static, and you remind yourself: this is friends. just friends. this is what they do when they’re forced to survive.

by the time you’re inside, charlie has two small plastic cups on the dining room table.

they’re reused and rewashed from the gas station but it doesn’t make a much a difference when you see the bottle on the table.

“thought you didn’t like that stuff.”

he shrugs, takes the dark bottle in his hands and rolls it around. it’s half gone, his fathers favorite bottle, but charlie will insist he won’t notice it, that it won’t be missed.

“It’s different with you,” he’ll say gently, like he knows the weight of it, says if with a shrug to try and hold the weight down, “safe with you, yknow? Nothing bad will happen when i’m with you.”

he shrugs: “you don’t have to, i just thought-“

and you aren’t going to be the reason he doesn’t drink. even if he’s been around it forever and has stayed away from it. if he wants one good night who are you to deny him it? and besides, maybe he’ll get some sleep finally.

“Pour me one too,” you say, opening a cabinet in the kitchen, “i’ll get us a snack.”

and he’s grinning now, standing and pouring the amber liquid into the bottles slowly, can hear the sound as it hits the bottom and slowly doubles in side.

you’re at his side, pulling into a seat as he hands you a cup.

“To us.”

he says, his eyes dark, biting his lip before you clink sides of a plastic cup with him:

“To us.”

you repeat back, throwing it back

the problem is, you’ll say later, is it tastes so bad you keep thinking one more drink will make it better.

you’re nearing the third cup, face bright red and charlie’s shirt sleeves rolled up, hiccups between the two of you.

“charlie,” you hiccup, “Shh. I-I gotta tell you somethin’.”

and you’re both giggling, he’s reaching over to tangle his fingers into yours, trying to move hair out of your face but failing, doubles of you.

“Go ahead.”

“I love you.” you’re giggling.

and he’s laughing.

this is something you two say all the time, after all. in passing, in letters.

he rolls his eyes, “honey-“

“no, no.” you huff, eyebrows one, “like. actually love you. like, can’t see you with anyone else-“ a pause for a hiccup

and this is wrong.

charlie realized this as soon as it leaves your lip. not how he wants your first meangiful i love you to go, wants you to remember it, not be under the influence of cheap alcohol.

it’s after he’s done dancing with you, no music playing but he hums a song he’s been working on forever, drawing you close to his chest as you two dance around the creaking floor boards, the house moans and groans in protest against you two as he spins you around again and again

“charlie-“

“Shh.”

charlie feels sober suddenly, like someone dropped cold water over his head.

“Cmon,” he puts the lid on the alcohol bottle, not much left anyways, stands and takes your hand: “let’s call it a night.”

you huff, pause for a second before your voice comes back lighter, suddenly the scared kid he remembers growing up with:

“you’re staying, right? keep the monsters at bay?”

and you’re too old for this. for him to stay the night, to believe in monsters of that he’d keep you save from them, but he takes your hand and tangled his fingers into yours, leads you up the stairs-let’s you out your weight on him as he guides you to your room, closes the door gently and helps you out of the old dress that’s two sizes too big that you’re constantly sewing up, let’s you rest against him as he goes through your closet, tries to ignore that all your pajama tops are his old shirts, still smell like him and are ripped and worn with age and their own stories-

when you’re dressed he slides you into bed, undoes his own jeans and crawls in next to you, you’re immediately curling into him, both ignoring how his feet hang off the edge of the bed, far too tall but doomed to live a life of twin sized mattress forever.

“alright, honey.” the pad of his thumb draws constellations across your arm, “close your eyes. i’ll take first watch. you’re safe.”

and it isn’t until you’re snoring, when he’s sure you’re fast asleep and won’t remember this that he pressed his lips against your forehead and speaks:

“i love you too.”

[starsyoubreaklikesugardust]

Wouldn’t It Be Nice (If We Were Married)

or: asking your “friend” to be your plus-one to another friend’s wedding

wcbah verse (but not necessary reading)

TW: cursing, drinking, mention of past abuse, mention of past injury, mention of shitty parents (yours and wilbur’s), idiots in love

“I need a favor.”

Wilbur’s head pops up from behind the hedge he was working on cutting down, sweat dripping down his face and his overalls half unbuttoned, a strap flung over his shoulder.

“Hello to you too, darling.”

The smile meets his eyes immediately, they crinkle at the sides and the smile leads after.

“Wilbur,” You all but huff, “This is an emergency.”

He eyes you carefully.

Maybe the wrong word to use, as you two have had many emergencies between the two of you all these years of growing up-

“Okay,” You relent, “Not an emergency but close.”

He uses his shoulder to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, “Does the emergency include your lemonade? Cause I don’t think I can negotiate in my current state.”

He makes a show of wiping more sweat off, careful around his eye that still lingers with black and blue around it, in the late healing stage.

“Fine, it includes lemonade. C’mon.”

You roll your eyes, putting a show on of acting like you’re irritated even though you’re just happy to see him and want the buzzing in your belly of all nerves to go away.

He lets you take him by the hand, tangle your hand into his as you walk across the bushes into your yard, up the old wooden block that’s a make shift step against the concrete, threatening to break on you anyday now.

Wilbur hums as you pull him to the door.

He knows this place like the back of his hand, could find you here in the complete dark, but allows you to open the old screen door, gently push him in.

The house is dirty and you’re suddenly very aware of it; the dishes in the sink, the floor you haven’t swept, the countertops that haven’t been cleaned off-

Wilbur acts like he doesn’t see it, grateful to be out of his house and in his own safe haven, sits at the dining room table as you grab two plastic cups from the cabinets, set them down as you dig through the fridge for the lemonade you made.

“So,” Wilbur speaks, “The favor, sweetheart?”

His voice drips with honey and though you can’t see his face, you know the smile slowly spreads on his face, the one that only shows up when it’s you two alone.

“Before I say it,” you sigh, ducking your head under cabinets as you carefully pour lemonade into an old cup, stained with age and wear, “Remember you love me.”

He snorts. “That goes without saying, honey.”

“and,” you say as you come to his side, pull a chair out next to him and slide him the cup, “and i made you your favorite lemonade.”

“That helps,” he laughs, taking you by the hand when you appear at his side and gently pushing you into the chair. “Talk to me, darling. What’s going on?”

the pad of his thumb rubs over your face gently, even if his hands are calloused and worn.

“Sam’s getting married.”

It comes out quickly and Wilbur leans back in his seat, taking a second to soak it in.

Sam was Wilbur’s childhood best friend (and then yours) although the three of you had naturally grown apart after he moved for college.

“And we-“ he stops, shakes his head and it comes out as a question, “don’t like that?”

You sigh, “No i mean like-“

You watch Wilbur carefully. wait for him to roll his eyes, to say you’re acting dumb or irrational or whatever bullshit your brain can think of-

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he says gently, his eyes wide, “You don’t have to go. You know that, right?”

and he looks so confused for a second as you get up, drag your feet to the refrigerator and grab the thick cardboard paper off the fridge, heavy with weight

His hand in yours, and some strength finds you.

“It’s fine, Wil. I just.”

you let it hang there.

haven’t seen him in years? you thought or still stuck in the same town when he’s moved across we the world-

wilbur takes the paper and flips it over in his hands.

“Darling,” he says, “will you be my plus one to the wedding?”

Stress falls off your shoulders and lands at wilbur’s feet. you wonder if he knows the weight of what you said.

“That’s what i was going to ask you, you ass.” you laugh, your face bright red.

He laughs, “And I beat you to it. So-“

And you’re happy, because this invisible thing was hanging on your shoulders since it came in the mail two weeks ago, the little note attached to give wilbur an invitation, make sure he’s invited and that Sam to see you both.

Guilt bubbles up just as quickly as the relief happened.

he’s probably busy you reason probably has to do cleaning or whatever chores or side jobs doesn’t have time, or the gas money, especially-

“Wilbur,” you sigh as he nods, gets out of his chair. your head goes to the worst; he’s leaving- “Listen-“

Instead, he pushes the chair in, gets down on one knee as he takes your hand in his, your face bright red.

“Darling,” his hand in yours, the smile wide on his face as he sees the pink on yours, “will you do me the honor of letting me be your plus one to the wedding?”

“Wil-“

“Ah,” he shakes his head, “Answer the question.”

you sigh, as if this isn’t what you wanted, what you planned on asking him for a week straight, unable to sleep because your anxiety was so high over it.

“Yes, Wilbur.” You roll your eyes, “I’ll be your plus one to the wedding. But-“

He doesn’t hear you, isn’t listening as he jumps up, his hands on either side of your face as he kisses the crown of your head. he smells like the outdoors, and sweat, but his cologne lingers, a smell you’re very familiar with and know by heart-

“We’ll have fun,” his hand stays on the side of your face, making you look in his eyes, “I promise.”

Months past.

You almost forget about it until a few days before, when Wilbur brings over leftovers from a half burned dinner in tupperware that the two of you eat on the front porch in chairs that creek with age and threaten to give in any second.

“So,” Wilbur is cutting into food, “I was thinking i’d pick you up at 4. That gives us time to run into town and get everything together, too.”

You stop cutting.

“Town? Our shopping trip isn’t until Sunday.”

Wilbur laughs, “Good one, darling. You want to leave a little earlier? We can get coffee at Ma and Pa’s. I’ve been working overtime, I can definitely swing two coffees.”

Ma and Pa’s was the hole in the wall restaurant in town, with weird hours that fluctuated depending on what the owner felt like, usually could get a cheap cup of burnt coffee out of him, especially if you come early enough in the morning and look pathetic enough.

“Wilbur,” you shake your head, “We don’t have plans tomorrow.”

You rack your brain for anything, but most of the time when Wilbur comes over it’s after his shifts, when he comes into your house and makes himself at home, definitely not planned

He pauses mid cut

“Oh fuck, you aren’t kidding” Shakes his head, “Honey, the wedding.”

The knife drops out of your hand, “Fuck! I forgot I-“

you’re shaking your head, going through the never ending list in your head of things you need to complete. Fix one of the old dresses of yours up, finding old make up-

“It’s alright,” he shakes his head, “It’s fine. i’ll help. You’re alright, we’ll be fine.”

Wilbur clears the table off as he instructs you to go upstairs, grab any of the potential outfits down

“Okay,” you shake your head as you go down the stairs quietly, “This is as good-“

A pause.

“Wil?”

you’re aware of how quiet the house is without him, how the house is missing without him, far too large and scary.

Dishes are drying in the sink, and a note on the cabinet says he’ll be right back as you sit down and gently pick at the holes in the dress you have to fix, suddenly very aware that they’re not great.

Wilbur let’s himself in.

No need to knock, and the doors don’t lock anymore, long busted and worn, an old dress shirt over his arm and his hair a million different ways, some ties over his shoulder, and you know without saying anything at least half are his fathers.

he speaks first, “To match yours.” he throws his chin at the dresses over your lap, “Let’s see-“

Wilbur spends the night.

This is nothing new, the two of you working at the dining room table and trying to get everything out together until the sun peaks out over the clouds, and you hear the first boat on the lake, slowly chugging along.

Wilbhr finally leaves, eyes dark without sleep, makes you pinky promise you’ll get a power nap in before the wedding, and a promise to be here at four at the dot, his fingers covered in any old band aids toj could find around the house from poking himself with needles from trying to fix yours and his outfit all night.

sleep doesn’t find you.

and judging by the near constant noise coming from wilbur’s house; music blasting on a shitty speaker that cracks, and his guitar piercing through the sky, you know sleep doesn’t find him either.

As promised, ten minutes before Wilbur is due to arrive you take one final look in the mirror as you smooth your dress down. It’s baby blue, worn with age but wilbur insists you both got the holes fixed, and he had a tie that matched it perfectly, your hair is done up, not in the usual bun ontop of your head lopsided as it usually is.

“as usual,” you sigh to no one as you fix your hair behind your ear, “this is as good as it’s going to get.”

You’re already waiting outside by the time you hear wilbur’s shoes on his gravel driveway, and while it would make just as much sense to take the few steps next door, you humor him as you hear his door creek open, the engine slowly chug to life, can hear how it groans and fights against him every time he starts it up.

He pulls in with a shit eating grin.

“Run, run, run.” He taps the side of his car as he pulls in, let’s the engine run as he gets out and is by your side.

“you look,” he stops shakes his head as if he can’t believe it, “you look beautiful.”

you roll your eyes, “And you’re a great liar.”

He opens his mouth to say something but you don’t let him finish as he follows you around to the passenger seat, opens the door for you as you slide in next to him.

He’s back in his spot in a second, your hands folded on your lap, suddenly very anxious of the night ahead

“I got you,” Wilbur says as he leans over and squeezes your hand as if he can read your mind, “I always got you.”

You nod, because you knew this before and you’re waiting for him to move the truck but he doesn’t.

“Wil?”

you ask gently but he lifts the arm rest up, reveals old paper work and old empty cigarette packages, old food wrappers under it, reveals a small bouquet of flowers, obviously from his own yard, the one you insisted he keeps going even though he says he doesn’t have a green thumb, hot glued gun to the back of a safety pin.

“Wilbur.”

wordlessly, he leans over, moves your hair off your shoulder and gently, so so carefully, pins it to your dress, one of the flowers tucked into the pocket of his own suit.

“Let’s get going before the car breaks down, yeah?” Wilbur laughs.

It hangs in the air, you want to say more, to thank him, for the flowers and for taking you, but instead you let it hang as he takes your hand and laces his fingers into yours, puts the car into drive and goes.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

put me back in (i would do it again)

or; re-visiting old ghosts

more wcbah here (not mandatory to read other parts. doesn’t necessarily follow the timeline either so)

TW: cursing, mention of past abuse, PTSD, bad coping skills, mention of alcohol/alcoholism (not charlie or r)

For a long time, the street was forbidden.

like some kind of imaginary barrier forbid you from crossing that section of the street, some physical force putting a hand against your chest and forcing you to stop, to reevaluate, to think this through

usually it comes in the form of charlie.

for awhile, a mystery problem would come up; the pain that radiates down his leg that only seems to come up when close to this block would flare up, the sky would turn darker and charlie would insist it was time to come home, promising a warm mug of tea.

charlie could tell the hesitation.

his hand tangled in yours, he’s whistling as his head is up, looking high into the trees, the reds and greens and purples that only a midwest fall can promise you.

they get to the stop sign. you wait for charlie to open his mouth, to come up with an excuse, to fake an injury.

instead, he squeezes your hand: “i think the Marshall’s put their boat up last week, finally. I was working on their pier-“

your breathing is as timed as the beating in your chest. charlie is obviously making small talk, trying to make this less frightening-as if you hadn’t tossed and turned and lost sleep over this house and the monsters that roamed the too small four walls.

charlie’s grip on your hand tightens as the old house comes into view. you aren’t sure if it’s for your benefit or his. his voice never wavers, and he’s talking nonsense, just talking to be able to talk, but it’s comforting.

“fuck.”

the for sale sign creeks as it flips in the wind.

the house is just as you left it; the peeling paint, the mailbox on the ground. it’s like you and charlie never existed, never made it out, never did anything, ghosts dancing on the lawn between the houses.

you only realize charlie let go of your hand when you feel the empty space.

“charlie.”

your voice is harsher than it needs to be, and your whispering, which is unnecessary as everyone is gone, ghosts don’t haunt this part of town anymore.

“cmon. just want to see.”

leaves crumble under his boots and he kicks some away as if for confirmation, seeing his and yours initials in the old pavement by the mailbox, as if the nightmares aren’t enough to confirm this is the place.

“charlie!”

your practically yelling but he can’t hear you as he walks towards the door, his fingers linger behind as he traces over the peeling paint of the house, how some chips and gets stuck under his nails, how he’ll carry that with him

“do you think the lock is still broken?”

his hand rests on the door.

“shouldn’t we let the dead rest?”

it’s heavy in the air, because no one’s actually dead-you both just wish, most of the time. this house has seen it all, you’ve both seen it all, and it would only make sense.

his hand rests on the door handle before a gust of wind makes something in the front fall over.

you and charlie race back home, feet flying you to your sanctuary breathless as charlie yells, “go, go, go.”

charlie waits a few days to bring it up.

dark bags are under his eyes. he’s back to not sleeping-most nights you find his place in the bed cold, grabbing an old shirt of his off the floor as you walk downstairs in search of him.

“i was thinking.” he says carefully a few days later. he’s talking to his plate, his head ducked and he’s the nervous boy you grew up with again, always saying the wrong thing, always in the way.

“hm?”

it’s a half committed response, flipping through a newspaper you borrowed from the neighbor. they’re gone for the fall, but can afford to leave the subscription going, the least of their problems, so it continues.

“your old house,” he says, making your head whip up, “we could buy it.”

your hand grips the nightgown you’re wearing.

“charlie.”

“make it a home,” he says, using his knuckle to push his glasses up his face. they’re still broken, lean towards the left, “i already called. we can set up a meeting.”

“make it a home.” you repeat, “charlie, we got scared by the wind-“

“i won’t be scared,” he shakes his head, “not with you there. go with me?”

his voice drops and it almost sounds like begging, on the verge of tears.

“please.”

the days to the visit crawl and run at the same time. you find yourself busy with projects that aren’t necessary: raking the same leaves, watering half dead flowers-charlie takes the time off from the small projects he makes himself busy with around town, doesn’t leave your side.

it feels like a death march.

guilt and dread gnaws at your stomach, rips through you-but charlie is humming, smiling, as he walks hand in hand to a place you both memorized.

“and this here is the kitchen-“

it’s weird, having a stranger show you a house you grew up in. can see the marks on the wall by the stairs where charlie would mark how tall he was in comparison to you, the creaking stairs with the railing that falls if you grip it too hard-the sink that still leaks-

how the realtor would constantly be trying to get you two back on this tour, finding something to try and make this house appetizing

the stairs creak and groan as you follow upstairs, bow you hesitate until charlie steps in front, puts one foot in front of the other and offers his hand:

“i got us.”

the twin sized bed in the bedroom right off the stairs, that charlie never truly fit into, the nights he’d practically roll off the bed. the windows that creeked with the wind, flooded in the fall-

the first night is spent in the too small room. charlie insisted he could throw the twin sized mattress in the trash, buy a new mattress in a few weeks, that the pillows and blankets on the floor would be like a sleepover when you both were kids and the shadows scared you still, chased you to his front door.

you sit on the edge of the mattress as charlie walks around the room, his fingers trialing behind everything.

kelly, the realtor, has long given up. said to meet her downstairs when you’re both done, to give you space, explore the “rich history of the house.” you and charlie both hold in the laughs.

hands are shaken and papers are signed that day.

the move doesn’t take long; you both don’t own much and charlie keeps falling this a fresh start, trying to throw away anything that feels wrong. insists this time will be different, that he’ll make this right.

during the day, the house doesn’t seem too nefarious. you’re able to wash dishes at the sink, charlie hammers at the stair case, a cracking radio in the back-it feels like the house on the hill, for most of the day.

until night falls. shadows creep and bolt as you make your way around the house, hand in hand with charlie, even for the restroom. anxiety rips at your throat. but every time you look at charlie, he’s smiling. it’s all teeth, a genuine smile you haven’t seen in awhile, and his voice is low, borders on a hum as he talks:

“we’ll get it right, this time.”

charlie wakes you up from the floor. the front room doesn’t have much; spent most of the day dreaming up where things could go-a television, eventually, a small couch-charlie had a hand full of your paintings he insisted you brought with, spent the day with an arm full of them-holding them against the walls, tilting his head, trying to get it right-a nail between his teeth until he found the perfect place-marks the spot.

you were hoping to get away with it, sleeping in the front room. it was like before, when exhaustion finally took over and you two passed out wherever you could, only until the other woke you up, marched upstairs.

instead, you crawl into the twin sized mattress, back against the wall. it’s scary for only a moment-suddenly you’re a kid holding your breath waiting for your father to come home again-

until-

until

charlie slides into the mattress. it creeks and dips wit him but your hand is tangled in his against his chest and you can feel the steady beat from his chest to talk you off the ledge.

“tell me a story.”

charlie laughs from behind you. it gets captured in the too small room, makes itself louder. you imagine it chases away the ghosts that hide and peak and linger behind the doors

“i think i’m all out of stories, honey.”

“one more,” you’re all but begging, “for old times sake.”

this time, he isn’t drowning out noises. not the refrigerator slamming shut and the sound of a bottle cap hitting aluminum floor. the yelling, the “i’ll find you. you know i will.” charlie’s lips don’t need to be pressed against your ear to be the only sound you hear now. you’re a kid and you believe in princess’ and far away lands and happy endings again-

“once upon a time,” charlie drawls, “in a place far, far away-“

when you wake up, the sun is shining through the windows and you can hear the waves being chased to the shore, crash, build themselves up again

the spot where charlie laid is cold. you can smell coffee in the air, and the radio cracks downstairs.

he’s smiling, as you walk downstairs. a handful of nails again, but the sink isn’t leaking anymore, can’t hear the drip drip drip that you swore would drive you insane.

“morning, honey.” charlie smiles in the home he made, “made you coffee. figured we could get started outside today-“

and as you curl up next to him, the cup of coffee burning your hand, you’re home.

[fullofgutsndopamine]

i love you in the same way (there’s a chapel in a hospital)

wcbah verse more charlie here

based off the prompt; — “so, uh… how’d your date go?” wcbah verse (but not required reading)

TW : mention of past abuse, mention of injury/scars from abuse, cursing, idiots in love

the door slams and charlie winces.

he can’t help it. scrambles to sit up on the couch, pull the blanket tighter over himself as he grabs handfuls of the blanket until his hands turn white-

“Hey,” He calls gently, feeling dumb for the way anxiety bubbles and eats at his belly, “In the front room.”

It's your house he's in, but it might as well be both of yours, the way you both spend so much time at one another's house. Besides, charlie would rather die than tell his father you're on a date and hear about it, and besides, he smelled how much liquor he had today-pass all along

He hears your shoes hit the wall and you’re slowly passing through rooms, your hand in the air as you let down your hair you spent an hour getting just right.

And you’re just as beautiful as charlie remembers.

That much time hasn’t passed, and he sees you everyday, but fuck-even with your make up a mess from the date, and the clothes are old and worn with age-he still thinks you look beautiful

He knew it was bound to happen.

When summer came and the tourists came with it, the people who could afford boats and jet skis and the incredibly high grocery prices you could never dream of, came people, and charlie knew they would be out of their mind to not think the world of you. He does; why wouldn't they?

He remembers the day clearly:

charlie spends his days in the hot summer sun, the sun beating on his back against old scars that linger and loop and curve into one another, the sun burns against them, makes them angry all over again and if he closes his eyes, really slams them shut, he can think of the nights he got them all over again

charlie tries to not think about it.

Instead, he throws his time and thoughts into work; Ms.Anderson needs her sea wall redone, and Mr.Burns wants stairs on his porch redone, Mr.Reyes wants the seaweed raked-he spends his time in the water, his old pants that he's constantly pulling up rolled to his knees, his shirt long discarded and thrown onto the yard

He's humming to himself, thinking of you, of coming over after he's done with the chores, throwing the shirt over the laundry line and flopping onto the porch in the old chairs that creek and groan with age and spending the rest of the night with you

"charlie!"

He jumps, hearing his name. it's a habit, more than anything, the fight or flight still hasn't left, even when he turns around and it's you, his eyes are wide and he looks panicked, even if his voice doesn't say it

"Hey sunshine,” he leans against the rake, playing it cool, trying to not think about the seaweed that's up to his waist, "Missed you."

You're giggling, and smiling, which isn't weird necessarily, charlie has always called you a ray of sunshine, as he slowly wades over in the water to the seawall, where his hand spots you out of instinct as you sit on the edge, let your toes dangle in the water: "Guess what."

"Hm," He smiles, all his weight against the rake, a smirk on his lips, "You won the lottery."

You huff, dipping your toe into the water just to throw it out so he's lightly splashed: "charlie, be serious."

Finally, he laughs with ease: "Alright, alright. Fine. Let's see-you fixed the light in your house."

You huff, "I forgot how bad at guessing games you are," you tease, "I'll tell you."

You're all but squealing, and while it's nice to see you excited and happy-seeing you all of the above and in one piece is unheard of

His hand rests on your knee, "Go on, sunshine."

You giggle, "You remember James, right?"

charlie has to stop himself from letting you see his eyes narrow, "James from two houses down?"

You nod frantically, "Yeah! Okay so-I brought over their laundry and it was just James there, right?"

"Yeah?" charlie says slowly, holds in the part of him that wants to say: If he hurt you-if he laid one finger on you, moved one piece of hair-i'll kill him, i swear i will- charlie knows he's not much of a threat, ask him father, but this is you, and that's different.

"He asked me out!" You squeal, "He wants to go to the Commander on Friday."

Immediately, your face drops when you see he isn't excited, isn't jumping around with you-

"baby-"

charlie chooses his words carefully. He's a dick? he considers, decides against it, Isn't for people like us? What if it's a joke? let me protect you-

"charlie, you are such a dick." You huff, carefully getting off the wall, "Fuck, I'm so stupid, thinking you'd be excited for me."

"Sorry I didn't immediately jump up and down, sunshine." charlie huffs, his chest is hot and he feels like his father's son immediately, "He seems like an asshole. Maybe you two are made for each other-"

"Fuck you." You say one more time, your finger jamming in the air, "Fuck you."

Days pass.

It's weird, not seeing charlie everyday, going out of your way to avoid him when you're getting mail, or when you have work around the house to do-not having your best friend to talk about your anxieties about it with, about every thought

it's thursday and the anger you had in your chest at charlie has subsided, leaving a charlie sized shape there now instead. You're gathering up your shoes, tired and ready to apologize and about to throw open the door when charlie stands on the other end, his fist raised in the air, ready to knock

"charlie."

"sunshine."

It's said at the same time, and you both know, just like that, it's all forgotten and forgiven.

"Are those from my garden?"

charlie holds a small bouquet of flowers in his hand, a death grip on them. You insisted he make a space in his yard for a garden, make the house more of a home-and he obeyed, kept it up after all this time.

"They're apology marigolds," he laughs at the small bouquet, turns them over in his hand, "For being a dick."

He spends the night the night before, in your twin sized mattress, his feet hanging over the end, his forearm or chest your pillow-and you're thankful for his presence, makes the anxiety that gnaws as you hear a car on the gravel pull up, honk twice.

charlie hides the grimace at him not even coming to the door, being a dick, as he expected but he doesn't let his face show it, his hand under your jaw:

"Be safe," he says gently, his voice is low and gravely, like it's a secret between you two, "I love you."

He leans in, his hand goes to behind your head as he pulls you in, kisses the top of your forehead and watches as you run out.

He's back to now as you come into the house, using one hand to take the earrings out of your ear.

"So," charlie pushes as he sits up straighter, "Tell me about it."

You sigh, flop into his lap like when you were little and he was going through the growing pains; you swore you woke up one day and he was no longer the tiny guy you knew last night, is tall and lanky like he's learning to walk for the first time-

immediately, his hands wrap around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, what he'll insist is the most comfortable spot in the house-not the chair on the porch that hits the sun just right, or the old rocking chair upstairs-right here.

"You know it kills me to say this," you say gently, your head against his chest, the other plays with his hair gently, grabbing the curls and running your hands through them, "But you were right. James is a dick.I ended the date early; said I wasn't feeling well."

charlie bites his tongue, to stop from saying what he's thinking which is: this is the one time i don't want to be right, darling.

Instead he sighs, the pad of his thumb gently rolls over your face, the freckles he has memorized, "I'm sorry it didn't work out, honey."

You shrug, "They'll be other dates, right? With different people."

He nods, resists the urge to say the obvious, to let it be him: "that's right." He lands a messy kiss to your head.

"Get changed," he throws his chin at your kitchen table, where some of his old pajamas, some old pants and a shirt from his high school band days folded carefully, "I got us some ice cream. You're just in time for the show."

You snort as you stand, but obey and grab the clothes, can already smell him on it- "What show?"

He smirks, looks at the mirror that overlooks the small lake as the sun slowly sets, "Stars will be out soon. Wouldn't miss it without you."

You hesitate, theres nothing else to say, before you pad gently to him, pull him close and kiss his forehead as you pad to the bathroom.

He waits until you are gone for his hand to gently rest where your lips touched, his face bright red.

[starsyoubreaklikesugardust]

The City Glows (Silhouette Of A Home)

tw: mention of religion/ religious based guilt, mention of neglect/abuse, mention of injury, poverty, mention of food/ lack of

part of wcbah verse (not necessary reading, but more here if you're interested-mind the tags)

growing up, savior took many different forms. it shape-shifted into different forms, morphed and formed and wore different skins, showed itself differently.

One was in the form of Wednesdays. days spent in rooms no larger than a closet while a tired looking

woman read passages from the bible: how he saved people, how no sheep were left behind (ignoring the feeling in your gut, the pain that you felt as you thought that he kissed one, over counted, never came back). How this was your escape for a few hours from your house, a refuge finding peace.

Another was in the form of the library in town. small, with outside paneling that looked like it could blow away with one bad gust of wind; how the book edges were all yellow with age and worn with time and tiny fingerprints-how you were possible you'd read every book in that tiny room five times over

the other was the old closet in your room. how you could go in there and hide among the clothing, making yourself smaller and smaller until you didn't exist, eyes squeezed shut and hands covering your ears as you wished you were anywhere but here.

Savior took so many different forms that when a true savior came you almost missed it.

This savior took the form of a small kid; a mop of messy brown hair on top of his head, always messy and a million different ways, his clothes always too big, practically falling off his small form, all skin and bones himself-deep bags under his eyes that bordered on black and blues, danced and loomed around his eyes, wrapping itself around his face-

"You made the castle too close to the lake."

Your head whips up. He stands on the seawall, his toes wiggle against the hot concrete and his hands on his hips:

"it's too close," he repeats, "The current is going to take it away."

finally it's too hard to ignore the voice. your hand cups around your face to block the sun from your eyes, the permanent squint you have from the unforgiving summers-

Wilbur is small for his age. Clothes too big that fall off his tiny frame, make him look sickly, glasses that are too big and cracked that he constantly has to use his thumb to push up his face.

"Wanna come by my house?" he says, his voice is gentle and low, hard to hear over the waves crashing into the sea wall before they retreat back-he's making himself smaller, as if he's afraid to speak, to say the wrong thing. "Our beach is back further-the waves won't hurt you."

He sports a black eye. it's hard to take your eyes off anything else but that, the deep purple that blooms and the sickly green in the middle of it-a bouquet of colors you yourself are familiar with.

Your head cranes into your own house. the lights are off; not because of the sun out high and bright in the sky, even thouah you'd lie to vourself and say that's the reason and not the thicker, yellow envelopes that collect dust and age on the counter, forgotten and moved around with crinkled edges.

No ones home. only came out of his own cottage in search of some human life. in proof that someone was around. that maybe some cared. instead- this isn't rare. it would be strange if someone actually was home-

"have to-" your voice is as low as his, eyes on the ground, "lunch."

it's a lie. lunch is the expired box of cheerios in a cabinet high enough you have to scrape a chair against the floor to climb up. they're old from age, practically crumble and milk is a luxury you can't even think of affording-

"I just ate," wilbur lies, "You can have my leftovers." wilbur thinks of the cheese in his fridge, wonders if it's expired already. he'd been saving it for the day his Pa finally leaves, when he can have a second away without the stress of him lingering and waiting for wilbur to fuck up. wilbur had saved up change for awhile; stuck in couch cushions and found in parking lots as he explored then barefoot and mosquito bitten-got his small container, held onto it like a lifeline.

"c'mon," he says again, offers his hand: "you can work on the castle and i'll make the leftovers. i won't bother you."

he can see you weighing options, trying to find more excuses. instead, your dads voice in your head. his breath is hot, his lips pressed against your ear: "we can't trust those folks," he slurs, "they don't want us. they hate us-"

"My names William," he says again, his hand is offered to you and you both ignore the various markings and scratches on it, "But you can call me Wilbur."

"Wilbur."

his name rolls of your tongue like it's something you've always known, it's like he threw you a lifeline. don't have to weigh it around, toss it around in your mouth. comes out immediately, like you've always known it.

"that's right," he smiles, "that means we're friends now. Let me make you lunch."

"I'm not a sympathy case," you finally huff, "I can make my own lunch-"

"My Pa said it's a sin to waste food," he lies easily,

"i'm not wasting these leftovers. It's you or the ducks."

wilbur thinks of the food thrown against the wall, how it slid down so comically slow, deep reds and maybe purple if he squinted, looked hard enough-how it was the only art to rest on his walls, how his own finger painted masterpieces laid in the bottom of half filled garbage bags, never good enough.

finally, your hand collides into his with a loud clap, and he keeps a straight face even though his hand vibrates and aches from it.

"Fine," you say, "But only because bread makes ducks sick. I read that at the library."

"Local neighbor and hero to the ducks," he teases as he gently pulls you through the bushes that separate your houses, "I'm sure they're thrilled. What do you feed them instead?"

You open your mouth to info dump on him. no one's ever home. talking is even a luxury and to be able to talk to someone who entertains your ideas instead of calling you dumb or being met with a fist is something you never even let be a possibility. The words come up short in your mouth when you get to his sea wall- W.G is written in what is now dried cement, tiny handprints and a heart under them-a few feet behind it is a small bank, clean sand with a bundle of sticks and a cracked bucket.

"here."

he releases your hand and you realize how much you suddenly hate the feeling of not having his hand in yours.

"You can play with my stuff while i cook for a second. i'll be right back, i won't bother you."

and you're about to insist he isn't bothering you, could never, but he pushes the cracked bucket towards you and disappears through a half broken sliding screen door.

even from outside you can hear cabinets open and close, creaking from age-a lot being done for just leftover, you think, as you try to add onto the small village he made-

"here."

he appears a second later, ducked shoulders as he sets it on the half broken table.

you stand and wipe the sand from your knees, hoping what you added was okay but before you can ask he sets it on the table, face red.

"It's not much," he tries, "but just-"

a single piece of bread carefully cut and folded into twin pieces-a luxury of a single slice of cheese between the two, a golden brown with the crusts carefully cut off and set next to them. the smallest handful of pretzels next to them-know without saying anything how carefully rationed they are-

"you can sit next to me," wilbur pulls a seat out, shrugs, "if you want, of course."

carefully, you sit in the chair and try to ignore how he sits on the edge of his own with a wince, how he cranes his neck the entire time as if he's looking over his own property the whole time to make sure you're safe-

"This is a lot," you say carefully, "for leftovers." pink dances up his face and he scratches at his scalp, obviously caught in a lie.

"Not much but it's-"

you pick up the half of the grilled cheese and holding up to him, his own hand frozen an uncertain in the air.

"that's yours-" he tries to insist before you roll your eyes, cut hm off, "i'm not eating if you don't."

he hesitates but when you don't give in he sighs, accept it carefully: "thank you."

you two chew in silence for a second before he looks at the small village you made with his, how the new addition looks suspiciously familiar to his own small cottage and the one that looks like yours-

"i like the houses." he says carefully, "they're nice."

Flies buzz at his head and he waves a hand lazily in the air around them:

"not as good as yours," you finally say, "Thanks for letting me add them. I can destroy them before I leave-"

"you can stay, if you want." he shrugs, trying to make it into nothing, "im not doing anything. you're safe here i can go in the yard-"

"only if you stay with me."

he licks his lips, "yeah," shakes his head again, "sure okay. I'll stay with you."

this time, you hold out your own hand and it tangles into yours as he lefts you pull him to the seawall again.

[starsyoubreaklikesugardust]

i love you in the same way (there’s a chapel in a hospital)

based off the prompt; — “so, uh… how’d your date go?” wcbah verse (but not required reading)

TW : mention of past abuse, mention of injury/scars from abuse, cursing, idiots in love

the door slams and wilbur winces.

he can’t help it. scrambles to sit up on the couch, pull the blanket tighter over himself as he grabs handfuls of the blanket until his hands turn white-

“Hey,” He calls gently, feeling dumb for the way anxiety bubbles and eats at his belly, “In the front room.”

It's your house he's in, but it might as well be both of yours, the way you both spend so much time at one another's house. Besides, Wilbur would rather die than tell his father you're on a date and hear about it, and besides, he smelled how much liquor he had today-pass all along

He hears your shoes hit the wall and you’re slowly passing through rooms, your hand in the air as you let down your hair you spent an hour getting just right.

And you’re just as beautiful as Wilbur remembers.

That much time hasn’t passed, and he sees you everyday, but fuck-even with your make up a mess from the date, and the clothes are old and worn with age-he still thinks you look beautiful

He knew it was bound to happen.

When summer came and the tourists came with it, the people who could afford boats and jet skis and the incredibly high grocery prices you could never dream of, came people, and wilbur knew they would be out of their mind to not think the world of you. He does; why wouldn't they?

He remembers the day clearly:

wilbur spends his days in the hot summer sun, the sun beating on his back against old scars that linger and loop and curve into one another, the sun burns against them, makes them angry all over again and if he closes his eyes, really slams them shut, he can think of the nights he got them all over again

wilbur tries to not think about it.

Instead, he throws his time and thoughts into work; Ms.Anderson needs her sea wall redone, and Mr.Burns wants stairs on his porch redone, Mr.Reyes wants the seaweed raked-he spends his time in the water, his old pants that he's constantly pulling up rolled to his knees, his shirt long discarded and thrown onto the yard

He's humming to himself, thinking of you, of coming over after he's done with the chores, throwing the shirt over the laundry line and flopping onto the porch in the old chairs that creek and groan with age and spending the rest of the night with you

"Wilbur!"

He jumps, hearing his name. it's a habit, more than anything, the fight or flight still hasn't left, even when he turns around and it's you, his eyes are wide and he looks panicked, even if his voice doesn't say it

"Hey, sweetheart," he leans against the rake, playing it cool, trying to not think about the seaweed that's up to his waist, "Missed you."

You're giggling, and smiling, which isn't weird necessarily, Wilbur has always called you a ray of sunshine, as he slowly wades over in the water to the seawall, where his hand spots you out of instinct as you sit on the edge, let your toes dangle in the water: "Guess what."

"Hm," He smiles, all his weight against the rake, a smirk on his lips, "You won the lottery."

You huff, dipping your toe into the water just to throw it out so he's lightly splashed: "Wilbur, be serious."

Finally, he laughs with ease: "Alright, alright. Fine. Let's see-you fixed the light in your house."

You huff, "I forgot how bad at guessing games you are," you tease, "I'll tell you."

You're all but squealing, and while it's nice to see you excited and happy-seeing you all of the above and in one piece is unheard of

His hand rests on your knee, "Go on, honey."

You giggle, "You remember James, right?"

Wilbur has to stop himself from letting you see his eyes narrow, "James from two houses down?"

You nod frantically, "Yeah! Okay so-I brought over their laundry and it was just James there, right?"

"Yeah?" Wilbur says slowly, holds in the part of him that wants to say: If he hurt you-if he laid one finger on you, moved one piece of hair-i'll kill him, i swear i will- wilbur knows he's not much of a threat, ask him father, but this is you, and that's different.

"He asked me out!" You squeal, "He wants to go to the Commander on Friday."

Immediately, your face drops when you see he isn't excited, isn't jumping around with you-

"Darling-"

Wilbur chooses his words carefully. He's a dick? he considers, decides against it, Isn't for people like us? What if it's a joke? let me protect you-

"Wilbur, you are such a dick." You huff, carefully getting off the wall, "Fuck, I'm so stupid, thinking you'd be excited for me."

"Sorry I didn't immediately jump up and down, honey." Wilbur huffs, his chest is hot and he feels like his father's son immediately, "He seems like an asshole. Maybe you two are made for each other-"

"Fuck you." You say one more time, your finger jamming in the air, "Fuck you."

Days pass.

It's weird, not seeing Wilbur everyday, going out of your way to avoid him when you're getting mail, or when you have work around the house to do-not having your best friend to talk about your anxieties about it with, about every thought

it's thursday and the anger you had in your chest at wilbur has subsided, leaving a wilbur sized shape there now instead. You're gathering up your shoes, tired and ready to apologize and about to throw open the door when Wilbur stands on the other end, his fist raised in the air, ready to know.

"Wilbur."

"Darling."

It's said at the same time, and you both know, just like that, it's all forgotten and forgiven.

"Are those from my garden?"

Wilbur holds a small bouquet of flowers in his hand, a death grip on them. You insisted he make a space in his yard for a garden, make the house more of a home-and he obeyed, kept it up after all this time.

"They're apology marigolds," he laughs at the small bouet, turns them over in his hand, "For being a dick."

He spends the night the night before, in your twin sized mattress, his feet hanging over the end, his forearm or chest your pillow-and you're thankful for his presence, makes the anxiety that gnaws as you hear a car on the gravel pull up, honk twice.

wilbur hides the grimace at him not even coming to the door, being a dick, as he expected but he doesn't let his face show it, his hand under your jaw:

"Be safe," he says gently, his voice is low and gravely, like it's a secret between you two, "I love you."

He leans in, his hand goes to behind your head as he pulls you in, kisses the top of your forehead and watches as you run out.

He's back to now as you come into the house, using one hand to take the earrings out of your ear.

"So," Wilbur pushes as he sits up straighter, "Tell me about it."

You sigh, flop into his lap like when you were little and he was going through the growing pains; you swore you woke up one day and he was no longer the tiny guy you knew last night, is tall and lanky like he's learning to walk for the first time-

immediately, his hands wrap around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, what he'll insist is the most comfortable spot in the house-not the chair on the porch that hits the sun just right, or the old rocking chair upstairs-right here.

"You know it kills me to say this," you say gently, your head against his chest, the other plays with his hair gently, grabbing the curls and running your hands through them, "But you were right. James is a dick.I ended the date early; said I wasn't feeling well."

Wilbur bites his tongue, to stop from saying what he's thinking which is: this is the one time i don't want to be right, darling.

Instead he sighs, the pad of his thumb gently rolls over your face, the freckles he has memorized, "I'm sorry it didn't work out, honey."

You shrug, "They'll be other dates, right? With different people."

He nods, resists the urge to say the obvious, to let it be him: "that's right." He lands a messy kiss to your head.

"Get changed," he throws his chin at your kitchen table, where some of his old pajamas, some old pants and a shirt from his high school band days folded carefully, "I got us some ice cream. You're just in time for the show."

You snort as you stand, but obey and grab the clothes, can already smell him on it- "What show?"

He smirks, looks at the mirror that overlooks the small lake as the sun slowly sets, "Stars will be out soon. Wouldn't miss it without you."

You hesitate, theres nothing else to say, before you pad gently to him, pull him close and kiss his forehead as you pad to the bathroom.

He waits until you are gone for his hand to gently rest where your lips touched, his face bright red.

[starsyoubreaklikesugardust]

We Could Build A Home (We Could Play Pretend) fic masterlist [updated]

or: the one where wilbur is always on his porch and becomes your safe haven

this fic deals with heavy subject matter such as abuse. please read the trigger warnings.

“What do you say we run away?” you sigh into him, his fingertips on the edge of yours, barely holding onto one another.

He snorts, doesn’t sigh, even though he’s answered this question millions of times, even as he’s patching you up- “Our parents would find us,” he indulges, just like he does as he pours rubbing alcohol over your scrapes and bruises, “and would murder us. Then they’d bring us back to clean it up, and honestly, darlin’, i’m happier with you here than dead.”

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

finale

alternative ending

playlist (by the amazing @the-phantom-author)

tag (with other ficlets and world bullding)

[starsyoubreaklikesugardust]

Invincible (Or So It Seemed)

prompt from here

just a mix of angst: Trying to hide your injury from them, but failing miserably + Staying the night in case they need your help, being asked to sleep on the bed instead of the couch/floor + Noticing some not-so-recent scars on their back while applying some ointment, asking them where they got it from

trigger warnings: mention of abuse (present and past), flashback of abuse, description of abuse and injury, mention of blood (old injury), cursing

they/them pronouns. “reader” is who everything is happening to, so please proceed with caution if it could potentially be triggering.

when the yelling happened, wilbur gently put down the washcloth in the sink and slowly tread up the stairs.

the light to the hallway has long since been broken, and no matter how many times Wilbur tries to fix it, it always ends with him almost electrocuting himself and an almost hospital visit.

you’ve stopped mentioning it to him whenever you come over.

he doesn’t need the light anyways, knows his way around the hallway, and to the closet, where he gently grabs a fresh blanket and sheets for him, treks downstairs and sets it gently on the couch.

usually, you two share a bed, but things have gotten weird lately, something you can’t quite place. you, sniffling and teary eyed insisting you’re fine, couch is more comfortable anyways.

he tries not to think to hard about it, or read to deep into it.

you never come, even when he can hear your fathers work boots on the gravel, kicking it up as he walks to the truck.

for a while he was nervous.

he lingered by the landline, hand hovering over it, promising himself over and over again: if they don’t come by in the next 30 minutes, i’ll call 911-

an hour passes, then another, until he falls asleep on the couch by the door, waiting for you.

the knock wakes him up.

it’s gentle, timid, which scares him enough to shoot up and throw the door open-

you stand on the doormat, but it isn’t the ‘you’ wilbur is use to seeing after hearing the yelling.

you aren’t red faced or sniffling, and your face looks fine, no marks-

“Wil.”

“hi darling.” he smiles, gently for your sake, as if there’s no care in the world.

“Didn’t wake you, did i?” you linger.

it’s awkward, for a second, which is weird, because things are never awkward with wilbur.

“of course not,” he says gently, “i’m always up.”

and you realize in that moment, his eyes are scanning you, as if he’s checking for any markings on you he’d usually find; a black eye, a scratch, a broken lip-

with all the screaming he heard, it’s hard to believe you came out without anything.

“Come on in,” his voice is hushed, deep, like it’s a secret, “c’mon, it’s freezing.”

and he offers his hand to pull you over the threshold but you act as if you can’t see it, take a meek step inside.

It’s the back of your shirt, that gives it away.

your back is turned to him, looking at the familiar room, when his voice drops, dripping in sympathy.

“darling.”

you jump, turning to face him, “What?” you ask, and the look he gives you is sympathetic and pathetic, all this time the two of you spent cleaning one another up-

“come on,” he says gently, “follow me.”

and his hand hovers in the air for you to grab.

you think you got away with it, roll your eyes and join hands with him, let his fingers wrap around yours as he leads you to the kitchen, still holding your hand drags a chair next to the sink, places it against the sink and gestures towards it.

you obey, and he disappears for a second, comes back with an old black shirt bundled up in his hands, a pair of flannel pajama pants, loved with age

"What-"

You begin, but wilbur shakes his head, offers his hand and you trust him, wordlessly connect hands with him and he leads you to the small bathroom connected to the kitchen, opens the door and gently nudges you in, shuts the door behind you.

wilbur rests his back against the door, rubs his forehead, tries to push down the anger and sadness that boils underneath the surface-seeing you like this never gets easier-

it isn't until you peel the old shirt off that you see your cover was blown. the bloody shirt rests in your hand, you rub the edges together, as if looking for concrete proof it's real-

wilbur starts the tea.

he isn't sure what to do besides the obvious, which is to dab your back with some medicine he has buried in the bottom of the sink cabinet, but ultimately, he can't offer much-

the old kettle was a gift from you years and years ago, chipped at the spout and worn with age, was your mothers growing up, her mother's grandma's before that. it was a particularly hard Christmas that year, didn't have much to offer, but one thing you always offered him when he came over, when you patched him up, was a small mug of peppermint tea, two sugars, no milk-just as he liked it.

now, it was his turn.

the door creaks open and you slowly pad out, unsure of yourself, of your surrondenings for half a second-

wilbur knows this song and dance.

he takes the shirt wordlessly, sets it on top the washer, a problem for tonight.

he gestures for the chair and it's not worth fighting as you slowly walk to it, sit down, rest your forehead against the cold of the sink, close your eyes and think about what your life is now-

wilbur hums

the constant is his humming, now a relief to you.

wordlessly, you know what's coming, lift the shirt up from the back so your front is covered but he can still see the wound-

and he hums.

you hear the water run, and rooting around, his voice is gentle: "Warm for a second, darling."

Wilbur's fingers linger over your back as he uses a hand to hold the old shirt up. old scars litter your back, curve and dip and dance around the center, teeter into your side, some white with age, raised and angry-

the pad of wilbur's fingers roll over the scars white with age, tracing them, trying to find the beginnings of them, think about what happened-until it's too much to bare, and thinking of you, scared, alone and hurt is too much-

"Spend the night," he says, his voice is low, and it isn't a question, his voice teeters on begging, "Stay with me."

"Wilbur-" you sigh, your eyes are closed and you lean against the sink for support. The water and alcohol burns, makes you hiss through your teeth, but him taking care of you, someone caring, is nice, even if it's at this expense-

"I'm not taking no for an answer," he says gently, tries to have some light on the edge of his voice for you, "You can have my bed, i'll stay on the couch-"

"Wilbur," you huff, "I am not taking your bed from you-"

the kettle goes off and interrupts you, he puts down the now bloody rag, pads over to the stove and pours it into a chipped cup, worn with age, says: #1 best daddy ever the irony is not lost on you, as he pads back over, kneels on the ground in front of you:

"you aren't taking it from me if i'm offering it to you," he says gently, "Here, sip."

"Wilbur-"

he shakes his head, "Sip." he says instead.

you roll your eyes but obey, the tea is far too hot to sip, burns the tip of your tongue, but feels good at the same time.

wilbur stays by your side, one hand is on your back, still half exposed, drying. his fingertip touches the edge of an old scar:

"Tell me," he says, and his voice catches, he has to clear his throat: "Tell me. How you got it."

He knows the jist of it, doesn't want to know the gritty details, but just wants to hear you speak; went all day without seeing you, missed you.

you snort, hold the mug under your nose, breathe in the peppermint, letting the steam of the cup hit your face, "A fight last christmas," it rolls off your tongue, "Wasn't as dramatic as the scar looks."

you're lying, and he knows it.

the pad of his fingers dance over the memorized lines that zig and zag around your back, and his voice is quiet: "And this?"

slowly, he goes over each one, hears their backstory, gets better at hiding the wince and the "Jesus Christ" that comes off with every horror story, slowly squeezing out some thick, white ointment onto his fingertip, to slowly rub over the edges of the scar, as if trying to erase the memory of it for you

he finishes and pulls the shirt back down for you, "Come on, I'll get you in bed."

He offers his hand, helps you off the chair and makes his way to the stairs, even when you put up a fight: "Wilbur, I'll sleep downstairs-"

"Nonsense," he doesn't allow you to fight as he gently guides you up the stairs, "stay with me, in case you need anything tonight."

and when you hesitate, his voice comes back, borders on pleading: "Please. Just for the night."

You nod, "Okay." you say gently, let him lead to his bedroom, with the broken door and the fucked up lights, only one of the three work, the track the closet rests on his broken and leans against the wall-it's obvious he tried to clean it up, to make it better for you-

"Here," he pulls back the sheets, "I changed the sheets, put new blankets down."

kneels on the hardwood floor as you gently climb into the bed. The sheets still smell like him, can smell his cologne on them, and it brings you comfort, brings you down, reminds you that you're with him, and you're safe.

he's holding your hand as you adjust in the bed, gripping onto his thumb as you beg: "Stay here?"

you hate sounding pathetic. being pathetic will get you nowhere, usually, especially in the house you grew up in, showing a weakness will make you a target, bring you trouble, something you can't afford-

"Okay, darling," he nods, "Okay, one second."

and he gets up before you can throw the blankets back, offer him in.

Instead, he disappears down the hallway, appears a second later with a single pillow, a small blanket that is so thin, there's no way it covers his torso alone-

he throws the pillow down onto the floor, against the nightstand table, lays on his back and throws the blanket over himself.

"I'm right here," he says gently. "Right here if you need me."

you can't see him, it's far too dark, even with the single street light that shines into the room, but you hear him, and you thrust your hand down,

"Wilbur?" your voice borders on shaking, "Hand?"

suddenly, you're six again, and spending the night at his house for the first time, thinking the biggest monsters are the branches that scratch against the window, not the actual people that linger around the house

He obeys, wordlessly, reaches up and laces his fingers around yours, "I'm here." he says gently, "Right here, I'm not going anywhere."

you nod, realizing he can't see it, before you take a gulp of air, about to spill out your guts, the thank you, the how much you miss him when he isn't there, that you love him-really love him-not like the big brother love you always tease that you have for him, that you don't think you'd be here if it wasn't for him-

instead, he speaks first, his voice low and deep, barely heard over the howling wind from the window, he begins it how he always does:

"Once upon a time," He says, "In a land far, far away from here."