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bam-bi-world · 2 years ago

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i love this so so much ❤️❤️❤️ angst is where I'm at rn

What’s It Like On The Other Side Of Us (Is It Dark?)

TW// major character death, mention of death, talk of illness (unspecified), angst, cursing, line stolen from “everywhere, all at once” (because i lack creativeness)

title stolen from here

wilbur took up knitting.

that in itself isn’t weird, read it was a stress reliever, would keep his hands busy, couldn’t exactly tangle them into your hair anymore-

and even though minimal, the sound of the needles clicking together brought some noise for him-he absolutely hated silence, did anything to avoid it, to fill the space in-

and days are filled now, and it’s in two desperate parts, a solid before and after diagnosis.

before, when days were spent dancing around the cramped apartment, late afternoon hikes and chilly bonfires curled into each other.

and after, when you’re too weak to walk into the house, wilbur carrying you up the stairs to the bedroom to tuck you in gently after a long day.

today was another long day, the steady machine beeping next to you that woke you up when you moved the wrong way, always sent wilbur on edge even though he insisted it didn’t, moving quickly to silence alarms like the nurses taught him-

the doctors said you were getting worse.

nothing to do about it now, comfort measures in place, his feet hang over your bed and the steady noise of the needles clicking together as he makes a row of careful stitches lulls you to sleep every night.

insists he’s going to make you the biggest blanket he can, as yellow and bright as the sun, as warm and delightful as you-that you’ll never experience a new england cold winter in your life-and the words are heavy, the “-in your life” but you both act like you don’t hear the double meaning in it.

every night, machines off, his face buried into your collarbone, squeezing you as tightly as he can, trying to get you to stop shaking-your always fucking shaking-he acts like he doesn’t hear you sniffling, and you act like you don’t see his red eyes every morning.

it’s not functional, you both know this, but every day is just a matter of survival at this point.

on the bad days, (which get more frequent, more tears and shaky hands, the you he know disappears) wilbur brings his guitar out from the closet, filled with clothes from the house, blankets galore (you’re always so fucking cold) and puts the strap around himself, paces around the room and hums, doesn’t care about the doctors or nurses or anyone, that comes in, or when you turn your back he keeps playing, and you wonder if it’s more for him or you.

another bad day, but those are easier to come across lately, you’re in bed, hanging onto the rail of the bed for deer life, like it’s a life line, like it’s deciding if you stay or go, you’re trying to ignore wilbur’s hands on the railing, his knuckles white from gripping them so hard, like he’s saying: stay stay stay like it’s your deciding factor in your future-

“in another life,” your voice is hoarse, and your eyes are half shut, your lips are dried and pealing, cracked to hell-you have to look as terrible as you feel, “i would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.” you leave out the part that hangs in the air, isn’t said but understood, the: instead of organizing medications and scheduling doctors appointments and he insists, with some teary eyed smile you can’t place as he kisses the top of your hand, careful of the IV hanging off of it, that there’s no one else he would rather do it for.

days pass, both too fast and too slow, somehow, and you act like you don’t smell the nicotine on his coat, his fingers laced yellow from the same vice, and everything moves forward, no matter how hard you dig your heels into the earth, beg for life to just fucking stop for a second-nights spent looking for before wilbur like it was a game of hide and seek, searching under your bed for the carefree wilbur who made songs up while you did the dishes, who bought home the saddest looking flowers from the market because he insisted they needed the most love, said you could give that to them-into the one who spends nights up, pacing around your hospital bed, his hands scratched from anxiety, his voice hoarse from yelling at whatever god exists that it isn’t fucking fair-

the beginning of the diagnosis, when everything was gold laced and hopeful, almost like a smirk on the edge of doctors lips, a: it’s rare, but it could happen. they could survive-when wilbur would bring his laptop into the small bed, his feet over yours, laptop on his lap and all these plans to watch these movies that he’s been wanting to get to anyways, will now have some time-wanted to take a small streaming break anyways-

(you tell him if he doesn’t start streaming again, or finish that record he talks about, you would haunt his ass, even if you both don’t talk about the heavy weight of what could come, what is coming)

you feel high almost, from the treatment, and you know you’re slurring, but you feel light, the weight of the diagnosis and medication and all the planning floats around you; you’re aware of it, but it doesn’t eat at you for two seconds, and wilbur is sitting cross legged from you, a small cup of some food in his hands (he took up cooking to try and recreate all those recipes you made that he loved-that you loved, once-sprawled on the back of hospital menus and take out receipts from himself, a last ditch effort for some normalcy) he leans in, slowly feeds you, insists you need to eat something, even if the mere idea of food makes you want to vomit-he looks so tired, so sad-the least you could do is have a spoonful of food he made. (he doesn’t tell you he spent all night making it, re making it, trying to perfect it, screams until the neighbors pound on the wall when it’s wrong, insists he’ll never get it right, never have it as good as you did-)

the next day they wheel you into treatment, but he’s there every day, right before, kneels on the hard aluminum floors (and still wonders why the knees of his jeans are so fucking dirty) rests his chin on the arm rest of the wheel chair: your hand is lazy and sloppy at best, and he acts like he doesn’t have to knock his hand under yours as you both do your handshake before you leave for treatment, sent away with a wet kiss to the crown of your head, spends the time pacing in the empty room, too quiet, too small-would do anything to hear the beep of your machine again-prays to whatever god is listening to let it work to let it heal you, will start praying or attending church anything - spends the days when it tapers off, when it’s less hopeful, to leave you the fuck alone, to back off, that it isn’t your time, to take him instead-to give him that suffering, the shuddering the pain again

In some sick way, you know it’s coming.

Wilbur’s eyes are pink, has just finished a cry, a doctor pulled him into the hallway, and he comes back, his voice shaky but you both act like you don’t hear it-sits in the chair next to your bed, throws the half finished blanket over you, smells like him, like pine and you take a deep breathe, glad to be able to smell it one last time.

“And i was thinking, darling-“ Wilbur says, as you turn to face the door, doesn’t feel right facing him, close your eyes and hope he feels this, knows this somehow: i love you. please don’t cry for me- “that tomorrow, we could have some visitors. Tommy has talked about wanting to see you for ages now-“

The light from the hallway gets brighter, almost blinding, and the noise around you is muffled-

you feel like you should stay, should say something, a low hum is in the back, almost guiding you, like it’s teasing you, telling you to follow it, like your sister did when you two played together all those years ago.

you’re so fucking tired.

“-and i know i don’t say it much anymore, darling. but i love you. I hope you know that, right? i love you so much-“ wilbur doesn’t act like his voice doesn’t get caught in his throat, doesn’t see you move at all, half stands, his hand on your shoulder.

“Darling?”

a shake and then-silence.

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