crowdedstreets-and-emptysheets

[crowdedstreets-and-emptysheets]

Alone

- In which I borrow Will for bottom energy shenanigans and the title makes it sound angstier than it is

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They're at it again.

Not trouble, no. 

Five minutes earlier, the door had rang, and Dark beat him to the door. Now, back leant against a windowsill, Wilford wonders if he should teleport more often.

Dark is beautiful, blushing laughter, giggling helplessly at something Chase said, fawning over a large bouquet of rose-tinted... roses, nestled among small clusters of pink buds. They're store-bought, he can tell, and he wants to be resentful of that fact, wants to point out the possible insincerity but Chase is just as tense, just as unsure, and Dark loves them regardless.

He can't pretend he's pleased.

It's a lovely gift, they're lovely flowers, in a lovely colour. 

He should be happy for them. He should. 

Dark leans up, all smiles as her hand strokes his cheek, Chase following easily, and Wil has to look away.

She needs to grab her jacket, he overhears. Not on purpose. It doesn't take away from the sinking feeling in his chest- gut? Somewhere in there- and it doesn't help calm the twinge of annoyance that has his fingers curl into his sleeves.  They'd go out, again, and he'd be left alone, for hours, again.

He's tired of it. The quiet, winding hallways, lounging idly over every bit of furniture in the house he's dusted down five times now, target practice on the bottles in the back, the echo of metal on metal in an empty room and the dreaded silence that never told him off for firing the pistol indoors, or gave small huffs of exasperated laughter at his jokes, or hummed soft mismatched notes when reading specific passages or called him 'dear' or 'love' or 'darling'-

This silence is dull, empty.

He's tired of being alone.

He looks back up, and ocean blue meets his eyes.

Chase's expression is questioning, asking permission silently and his brows furrow, but he nods. 

Close your eyes.

His fingertips brush his cheek, and Wilford just barely made out the feeling of something threading through his hair before the soft laugh. 

The flower spills petals over his ear, a striking pink against dark hair.

Chase's eyes are bright, and fond.

It suits you.

It does. Dark's come out, smiling, the jacket under her arm as she tucks the flower further up, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek, humming in amused satisfaction as she watches him, steadily, flush as bright as the rose in his hair.

Have a good night yourself, won't you, dear?

A final smile, and she moves to lead Chase to the door, who looks back as he closes the door behind them.

He shoots him a wink.

See you later, Wil.

The thrum of the motorbike fades into the distance. It's quiet, and he's alone again, with nothing to accompany the slow breaths he took, the thundering of his heart in his chest.

Alone.

The welcome chill of her lips on his skin, and the heat in his eyes as he turned to him.

He lets himself smile.

Not for long.