Work Text:
Wilbur’s greatest shortcoming, as conceited as it may sound, is his inability to sleep well — if at all. It’s not the worst thing in the world, though, as the deep eyebags he gets after a few particularly hard nights do lend themselves quite well to the whole indie band image he’s got going on.
Irrespective of his susceptibility to being woken up in the ungodly hours of the morning, it never does get any less irritating. Right now, it seems like there’s someone attempting to rob him, a muted cacophony echoing through his floors.
At the second loud bang that comes from the kitchen, Wilbur finally gains the wits and lucidity to go investigate the cause.
He had been expecting one of his bandmates drunkenly fucking around but is instead greeted by the sight of George in the silliest position yet. He was on his toes, socked feet sliding haphazardly across the floor as he reached for the glasses in the cabinet above him. They’d all nearly been pushed to the back of the cabinet by George’s futile grabs, his fingers just barely brushing the sides of the glass each time.
Huffing under his breath and deciding to take matters into his own hands, Wilbur sneaks up behind George before planting a hand on the counter next to him and grabbing the offending glass for him.
George jumps just about a foot into the air as he startles, no surprise there, and nearly gets a concussion from how nearly he misses the sharp of Wilbur’s chin as he whips his head around. He seems to relax after meeting Wilbur’s eyes and leans his head back so the top of it brushes against Wilbur’s chest as he looks up at him. He’s awfully cute like this, with his sleep-mussed hair and lidded eyes.
An apprehensive moment passes between the two of them.
“Did you want this, or?” Wilbur trails off, gesturing to the glass.
George stays silent as he ducks out of the space Wilbur’s caged him in, taking the glass and filling it up before he clears his throat. “Thank you, Wilbur.”
He shrugs. “What are friends for?”
George hums contemplatively through a mouthful of water. “Friends?”
“Yeah,”
“We have been friends for quite some time now, haven’t we?” George says, looking into Wilbur’s eyes as he finishes off the rest of his water.
“Sure have. Actually, d’you remember, George, that one time I asked if you’d used a camlink on your stream?” George stops to place his glass gingerly onto the counter before looking at Wilbur, demure.
“Yeah,” another pause. “Why?”
“Y’know,” Wilbur stepped closer, reveled in the way George seemed to shrink even smaller with every step he took. “You were mighty pretty for someone whose webcam broadcasted with all of 144 pixels.”
George’s Adam’s apple bobbed alluringly in his stretched throat before he spoke once again. “Even then? Wonder what you think about me now.”
Wilbur leans down, slipping a hand under George’s chin and tilting it the slightest bit upward. The blue light from the appliances catch on the pale planes of his face, gouging a line between his cheeks and jaw. There’s a weighted moment in which George inches the slightest bit closer, and his arm seems to move in slow motion as his hand comes to a rest in the junction of Wilbur’s neck and shoulder.
Languidly, as though he’s being pulled through molasses, Wilbur lets his eyes slip shut and delights in the feeling of being able to do what he’s wanted to after so long. George is responsive, nearly stumbling into Wilbur’s waiting body as he melts into him, pressing flush against him as they kiss. A hand comes to rest on George’s waist, a point of support as to not completely crash into the counters behind them, the other finally threading into the strands of George’s hair and tugging .
There’s a soft noise that comes out of him then, a shuddering gasp that lets Wilbur lick into his mouth, tongues twisting coyly against each other. His tongue flicks lightly against the roof of George’s mouth and the insistence of the noise that comes out of George at the action makes him do it again and fucking hell —
“Wil—” George starts, but Wilbur uses the separation as an opportunity to spin them around so it’s George backed up against the counter and leans impatiently into him until their lips meet again, George’s half thought-out sentence dying as nothing but a hitch in his throat.
They continue to kiss until George whines softly and wraps insistent arms around Wilbur’s neck, lifting a thigh into Wilbur’s waiting hands, breaking the kiss for a moment to catch his breath as he’s raised onto the counter. It’s a good opportunity for them to stare at each other under the lowlights, even if their features are only slightly discernible, and Wilbur swears that even through the dim lighting he can see the splotches of colour on George’s cheeks.
His hands play with the hem of George’s shirt and Wilbur decides that he’d get drenched in water a thousand times over if it meant being able to smother George in his clothing and kiss him at the early hours of the morning again. Slowly, as if not to scare him, Wilbur slides his fingers up George’s hips and onto his torso, warming them on the torrid skin of his waist as he pulls him close enough that their chests touch and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Was that obvious enough for you, George?” Wilbur murmurs, rubbing small circles into George’s hipbones.
“Hm?”
“You asked what I thought of you, all tangible like this.” Wilbur catches his eye and cocks his head to the side amusedly. “I think you can infer how I feel about you now, can’t you?”
It’s a taunt.
“I suppose so. But I wouldn’t mind a reminder every now and again.” George’s slender fingers flick through his hair, scratching at his scalp and pulling at the shorter hairs at his nape.
“Yeah? And how often should I do that for you, princess?” Wilbur asks, delighting in the small shiver George gives at the word.
“As often as I’d like you to. It won’t be too hard to figure out when I want something from you, Wilbur.”
They smile at each other for a moment, locked in place by the warmth of their near embrace. “What d’you want right now then, baby?”
“Another glass of water,” George yawns and hops off the counter, stretching out his limbs. “And someplace to sleep.”
Wilbur grins. “That can be arranged.”