Archive of Our Own

Wilbur is five years old, his hands stashed into the grainy sand that lays in a box situated in a far-off corner from the main playground, and thinks this is all life really has to offer. There are small boats and tiny shovels laying in the sand and Wilbur kind of knows what life will turn out for him. He will probably grow up to be a king of some sort or the prime minister because he doesn’t know of any other professions, he will have a few close friends — or subjects — around him at all times and he thinks that’s kind of the life he’s destined to lead. One that’s alone, him against the world. His parents wouldn’t be there because they have their own kingdom to run — or whatever they do while he’s in Kindergarten — and it will be him against the thousand or so people that exist on planet earth right now.

It’s all sort of crushed the minute two rain boots crash his entire train of thought and kick sand into poor Wilbur’s face. Wilbur’s kind of stunned, what child has such poor manners? They aren’t even playing a game where it would be socially acceptable to do such things. But here the other kid is, shorter than him with brown hair and red rain boots. He’s wearing a long purple coat and black pants. The color matching is super off but not everyone is as ambitious and forward-thinking as Wilbur, so he lets it slide.

“Sorry!” The kid giggles, the giggling is obviously to show how incredibly sorry he was, that’s why he’s smiling like that. Wilbur blinks, “It’s fine, I guess, but just so you know I’m going to grow up to be a King and I’ll rule the world so I’ll probably remember this when I sit on my throne and remember the good old days of a child throwing sand in my face and temporarily blinding me.” It’s a lot of words for a five-year-old but Wilbur needs to expand his vocabulary as soon as possible, considering he’s going to be the ruler of all rulers by the time he’s eighteen — a legal adult.

The kid doesn’t look phased, in fact, his smile grows wider as he flops down next to Wilbur. His tiny hands grab onto a small boat in the sand and starts fidgeting with it when he speaks up, “A king? That’s so cool, I would love to be king but I don’t think I have the guts to talk to that many people.” He confesses. Wilbur nods, “Yeah, it’ll be tough work. Besides, there’s only one king and it will be me so you probably won’t get the chance, anyways.”

The kid giggles again, “Well, that works then. Maybe I can be your like co-king. Or something.” Wilbur shakes his head, “There’s no such thing.” The kid shrugs, “I dunno, maybe there should be? We could be the first!” His face lights up as he pitches the opportunity. “No, I don’t think that’s how royals work.” The kid huffs at this, like he’s reached a dead end.

“Oh wait! I can be your best man! My mom mentioned it once and I bet she was talking about royals.” He pitches, he looks so proud, his nose turned up and a grin on his face. Wilbur thinks for a few seconds, “Go on…” The kid smiles impossibly wider at this. “Yeah! I can help you with all the hard work and when you get tired I can help you relax and we can play on the swings and stuff. Every Royal needs a best man!”

And suddenly the playground becomes silent to Wilbur. He can hear his heart beating and the thoughts swimming around in his head. The kid looks at him hopefully, not speaking and wearing a smile, like he’s unsure. Wilbur blinks once. Twice. And opens his mouth to speak. “Well, what’s your name, Best Man?”

The kid smiles impossibly wide, his mouth should hurt from how far it’s stretching. It’s like going from Earth to Pluto.

George.

That was his name. Wilbur wasn’t sure if he was ever going to see George again, you typically don’t when you meet kids at the playground, but George was insistent on being by his side for the rest of his life. Maybe not royally, because Wilbur learned that actually wasn’t a feasible career path when he turned six. But it’s fine because now he’s ten and he’s probably going to be the prime minister then, he has big plans for the world and if he can’t get the whole world then maybe the United Kingdom was good enough.

Even with the addition of George in his life, Wilbur has never branched out further than George. He’s never needed to. George was always there for him. They live five minutes away from each other, they go to the same school, same class, same interests, who else was going to treat him as well as George? Who else would understand his ambitions and his goals like George? Because George always understood. He would sit in front of Wilbur in Wilbur’s bedroom, looking up at him with wide eyes while Wilbur would describe (in detail) what exactly he was going to do when he became the youngest prime minister at nineteen.

It kind of helps when your best friend is an enigmatic (He learned this from English class.) person who everyone is just kind of attracted to. Unlike Wilbur, George has many friends (“I will never like them like I love you, Will.”) that adore him and would walk through Hell for him. Anytime George needed anything during school hours, classmates would fight each other to give George his coveted pencil. It never bothered Wilbur, why would it? He can use George’s popularity to his advantage when George is his vice minister or whatever, he’s never looked into England politics, he doesn’t need to, he will turn nineteen and just be elected because no one ever says no to George.

It’s true, they’re ten years old and sitting in the playground, eating their lunch and no one can say no to George.

They’re ten years old and some random children who Wilbur has never noticed in his life come over and steal Wilbur’s sandwich that lays on the table, untouched.

They’re ten years old when Wilbur yells and throws a fit only for the older kids (probably twelve, everyone knows twelve-year-olds have some random superiority complex. Another word he learned from English class.) to laugh and go to take a bite out of Wilbur’s incredibly delicious ham and cheese sandwich that his mother made from him.

They’re ten years old when George stands up, scolds the older boys and because no one can say no to George, they hand it back, sandwich unscathed with no teeth marks and no spit. It’s a bit of a miracle but Wilbur doesn’t question it as he bites into his sandwich moments later, staring into the eyes of the twelve-year-olds who look like their puppy just died.

They’re ten years old when George turns to Wilbur and says, “I’m always here for you, Will. I will protect you for the rest of our lives. Like any Best Man should.”

They’re ten years old and Wilbur believes George.

They’re sixteen years old.

Wilbur has kind of given up on his dream of being prime minister. Not because he couldn’t do it, he could, but because he realizes politics is tiring and taxing in ways that cannot be explained. He realizes it’s putting up with twelve-year-olds who steal from ten-year-olds for the rest of his life. And he simply won’t do it.

So, they’re sixteen years old when Wilbur is sitting in his bedroom, playing with some random ball that George got him for a birthday a little while back. (“Because you can never sit still, Will.”) He throws it into the air, catches it, and repeats for as long as he feels like, the idea of homework sitting in the back of his brain but it’s not urgent enough for Wilbur to care about the stacks of paper that sit on his desk.

It’s all interrupted anyways when George rushes into Wilbur’s room, frantic and like he just ran a marathon. Which is highly unlikely because George would sooner rather drink lake water than ever do any physical activity of that kind.

“Will! I have to tell you something!” He shouts out, the urgency in his voice reads clear as day. He’s anxious, panicky and he needs Wilbur. It’s not uncommon, they’ve been best friends for eleven years, they always help each other out. Wilbur sits up from his position on his bed and he signals George to sit down. George shakes his head, instead, he drops his book bag on the floor, shuts the door, and starts talking.

“Okay, so, like. Okay. Okay. Yeah. Okay. I’m going to tell you something and you have to promise me you won’t hate me.” George starts off. Wilbur wants to laugh at the ridiculous request, he doesn’t believe there is a universe out there that he could ever hate George. Even if he sometimes steals his pudding cups, blows him off for some other friends he’s made through the years, even if he got Wilbur the wrong movie tickets once, even if he skipped school because he was sick and didn’t tell Wilbur. He could never hate George.

But George is upset so he doesn’t laugh, he simply nods along, showing he understands. “I promise.” He states. George visibly relaxes at the words, because Wilbur isn’t the type to go back on a promise. It’s sacred to him.

“I’m gay.” Is all he says.

Wilbur blinks once. Twice.

It’s like he’s back at the sandbox in the playground and George just told him he was going to be his Best Man while Wilbur ruled over the world as King. It’s not a very similar situation but both times George presents this world-shattering information that will change the world on its axis and cause a ripple effect in the time vortex.

But in reality, it won’t. Because this is common sense. This is the real world, not the fantasy world that Wilbur drifts in and out from time to time. George is in front of him, he’s real and he’s telling Wilbur something.

Wilbur has never been raised in any specific ways when it came to political beliefs or anything gay. He learned it once at school and he kind of left it at that. He’s never been inclined to have romantic partners, he’s always had, George. And he realized a long time ago that he would never find someone better than George.

“Oh.” Is all Wilbur says.

He’s not very good with words, he can learn every word that English class can pitch him, but it doesn’t mean he knows how to use them when he speaks.

George looks scared and it hurts Wilbur that George is as anxious as he is. As George stands in front of him, his feet shifting and his hands pulling at his sweater, Wilbur’s heart beats a little faster.

“Thanks for telling me, George.” Wilbur offers. He’s never had people come out to him before.

George nods, letting out a heavy breath. “Is that okay?” He asks.

A ridiculous question again, George could grow three heads and Wilbur still wouldn’t care. He’s George. He’s the best he will ever get.

“Of course, George.” He says and George smiles gently at him.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They’re sixteen and George comes out to Wilbur in Wilbur’s tiny bedroom that he should have grown out of a long ago.

They’re sixteen when Wilbur promises George that he could never hate him. George believes him.

They’re nineteen.

Being in college is a bit taxing, Wilbur has learned. It’s a lot more work than he’s done before, and he’s done his GCSEs. He and George are still together, they go to the same campus and while Wilbur studies Editing, George studies Computer-Science. They’re both a little nerdy but it doesn’t really stop George’s little popularity thing he has going. He really attracts people like no other, it’s kind of cute. Wilbur doesn’t really care, why would he? It’s not like anyone knows George as well as he does, no matter how hard they try.

Wilbur still hasn’t really reached out to many people outside of George. He has friends he’s friendly with but no one he considers a friend. Well. Except Niki.

How they met is irrelevant, but the way they keep meeting is the real kicker. For an entire week, Wilbur could not get rid of Niki. She’s a sweet girl but he wasn’t sure how badly he needed a friend that isn’t George. It wasn’t until Niki agreed with Wilbur on some obscure topic that not even George had the patience to sit with Wilbur on that he officially considered them friends.

Niki is sweet, she’s kind and has this soft voice that kind of reminds Wilbur of George. She’s short, like him, and is patient, also like him. But unlike George, she isn’t overly popular. She has her circle of friends, but she doesn’t attract every single living being like George does. So it’s kind of nice to sit with her at the campus Library and not be bombarded by sad excuses to get George’s attention.

That’s where they are currently. Wilbur sits in the dingy and kind of sad library, reading whatever it is that was assigned to them from class today. Niki sits opposite of him, silent and reading as well. It’s nice to just sit in the presence of others, silence washing them over. Wilbur is trying to slowly learn that being alone is not that good, and you can have friends and company. You don’t have to spill your entire life to them, but you can enjoy the moments in days when you sit next to each other or enjoy a meal together.

Wilbur’s always viewed friendships as sort of transactional. Obviously not with George. But others. He is friendly with classmates so they don’t try to sabotage group projects when the time comes. He is nice to his teachers so they don’t fail him for having an attitude. He’s nice to everyone he meets so that if the time were to come, they wouldn’t build some wall of fortress and all betray him at once. Lunch ladies and all.

But with Niki, she sort of opened his eyes. Niki doesn’t offer anything useful to his degree since they’re studying two separate majors, nor does she share Wilbur’s random ambitions for the future. But she’s sweet and she listens, she offers input that isn’t all useless and she’s quite nice to everyone she meets. Just like Wilbur.

So it kind of fits.

“Hey, wanna get some food after this?” She asks, her voice soft and quiet, because it is a library after all. They haven’t spoken to each other in over an hour so Wilbur’s a bit shaken when he looks up and makes eye contact with her. He thinks about it for a moment, he doesn’t think he has anything later today. Or rather, he knows, because he really doesn’t do much outside of hanging out with George and studying.

“Yeah, sure.” He answers and he knows he doesn’t have to ask where they’re going because Niki is kind of picky and has a total of like five restaurants she has deemed safe. Wilbur enjoys all five of them enough so he doesn’t really care which one Niki picks that day.

They take another hour of studying, reading words that are suddenly starting to mush into each other, and writing down phrases that he doesn’t even think exist when Niki finally calls it a day. He agrees because his head has developed a soft pounding in the back and he thinks if he reads one more word he might combust into a ring of fire.

They end up at some diner where the food is mediocre but it has the two meals that Niki enjoys the most so they tend to frequent it more than Wilbur would do on his own. They sit in a booth, sipping quietly on their waters when the bell rings, an indicator that someone’s opened the door. Wilbur’s head raises only ever so slightly to see a familiar figure walk through the doors, holding hands with an unfamiliar figure.

It’s George and some random boy he’s never seen before. And they’re holding hands. Wilbur’s stomach squeezes. Niki seems to notice and turns her head to see George sitting down at a booth far from them with this unfamiliar boy. The boy is so irrelevant to Wilbur that he barely notices anything about him, too fixated on George and the smile that adorns his face, wide and shining. It makes Wilbur blink a few times.

“Is George on a date?” Niki sounds a bit surprised, but not like she’s surprised that he’s on a date, but that he’s eating at this diner. It’s not that this diner holds such significance, it’s just a little shabby for a date, Wilbur thinks. He blinks a few times when he tears his vision away from George to see Niki, concern written on her face. “I guess.” He mumbles. Niki frowns, “Do you know who he’s with?” Wilbur simply shakes his head.

Wilbur notices how his stomach squeezes a few times as he hears George’s laugh float in and out of the air while Niki speaks. He doesn’t really know why, but he supposes it’s because George never told him, and George kind of tells him everything. It makes Wilbur feel a bit sad but he tries to get over it because it’s not really the end of the world if you really look at it. He’s sure that George would tell him later.

He makes mindless small talk with Niki, the two of them discussing topics that would normally interest Wilbur but aren’t really satisfying him today. He thinks back to George. What is he talking about? With the nameless boy. Does he know that George likes Minecraft, does he know that George spends half of his free time coding useless plugins that he uses two or three times and then forgets about them? Does he know George is colourblind but is incredibly fond of the color blue because that’s the brightest colour to him? Does he know George hates tomatoes? Does he know that George is half Asian, his dad from China? Does he know that George’s favorite thing to do as a kid was build sandcastles? Does he know that George is the sweetest boy ever, always staying loyal to his friends and always letting people down gently in a way that makes people kind of forget they’re being rejected?

Does he know George the way Wilbur does?

Wilbur doubts it. George is pretty private, despite his popularity.

George is everywhere but nowhere at once. It’s really spectacular in a way that would make Wilbur fawn if he didn’t already know everything about George.

George laughs again and it snaps Wilbur back to reality.

Does this guy even know the type of jokes George likes to make?

“Wilbur?” Niki’s voice is soft and cuts through Wilbur’s thoughts that are starting to take over his entire brain.

“Hm?”

“You okay? You look like you went to space.” She laughs gently, it’s not accusing, it’s nothing harmful, it’s soft, like her, like George.

“Yeah I’m fine, sorry, you know how I get.”

She nods gently. She does know. He doesn’t know how she picks up on him so well but she does and it makes Wilbur feel heard in a different way.

He knows George understands him but it’s different. George has known Wilbur since he was in a sandbox and planning to rule over the world. Niki has known Wilbur since he was nineteen and dropping books in the library because he’s sometimes incredibly clumsy. It’s different, but it’s not bad.

Niki has a certain perception of Wilbur that George never will have. It’s opened Wilbur’s eyes to different ways people see the world.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Wilbur asks. It’s a stupid cliche line and had Niki been literally anyone else, they would have thought it was incredibly suggestive, like Wilbur wanted something deeper.

But it’s Niki so she just shrugs.

They pay and leave before Wilbur can hear George laugh with the nameless boy again.

“Who was that?” Wilbur asks.

They’re sitting in their shared flat, because of course they’re roommates, what else would they be?

George isn’t on the same page, he’s sitting on the couch, his eyes glued to his phone. His hair is soft and wet, fresh from the shower. His cheeks are flushed faintly pink from the hot water. He’s wearing a beige sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. “Hm?”

“At the diner, yesterday. I was there with Niki and I saw you there with a guy.” Wilbur admits, making his way to the couch, sitting down next to George.

George moves slightly to make some room for Wilbur. This seems to catch George’s attention, his eyes looking up from his phone, locking it instantly. “Oh? You were there?” Wilbur nods. “Yeah, we didn’t want to bother you so we didn’t say anything but I saw you guys.” George nods, “Oh, I didn’t see you guys.” And he seems genuine, like he really had no clue. Wilbur shrugs.

“We’re quiet?” He offers as an explanation. George shrugs, “Yeah, I guess.”

“So?”

“What?”

“Who was he?” Wilbur’s face has been kind of stoic but he smiles gently at George, trying to show that he’s not mad and he doesn’t want to make this awkward, he’s just interested in his best friend’s life, like he always has been.

“Oh, right. Just some guy from class.” George shrugs, voice disinterested in the entire conversation, like he’s floating in and out. Like he doesn’t want to be there. “Did you have fun?” Wilbur asks, his voice is gentler, he’s really trying.

George shrugs, “Yeah, I think so.”

And that’s kind of the end of that. George doesn’t seem to offer any more information and Wilbur doesn’t really care to pry more.

They stay on the couch, Wilbur turns on the T.V. to have some mindless noise in the background as they mostly stay on their phone. George is so entranced it’s kind of funny for Wilbur to watch. George is so interested in his tiny little phone, his fingers tapping away at things that Wilbur doesn’t bother to ask about, because he doesn’t think it’s any of his business.

Eventually, George gets a little tired, shifting his weight from one side of the couch to rest against Wilbur’s. He doesn’t really understand why George is deciding to lay his head on Wilbur’s shoulder but he doesn’t protest because it’s not like it’s the first time this has happened. The boys have been sleeping in the same bed for as long as they could remember, cuddling and being affectionate was nothing shy for them.

In fact it’s not uncommon for them to still sleep in the same bed, George has always preferred sleeping on Wilbur than on a pillow. And he’s said that. When they were thirteen. When they were sixteen George confessed he was scared they wouldn’t be able to hug or cuddle anymore, after he came out. Wilbur said he was ridiculous and just brought him closer, letting George fall asleep on his chest that night.

Wilbur knows he loves George an insane amount, an amount that isn’t talked about often for normal people, but it doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t have to be normal, he just has George and he knows he loves and adores George. He adores when George coded an entire Minecraft plugin for Wilbur’s seventeen birthday that Wilbur still plays to this day. He adores when George’s nose turns up, when he crinkles his nose when he’s turned off by something but not enough to make a comment. He admires George’s extroverted-ness, even if George insists he’s an introvert. He loves everything about George. Every day he thinks about how if he were to be stuck with someone for the rest of his life, he’s glad it’s George.

It’s not to say they don’t fight, because they’ve been friends since they were five, they’ve fought more times than could be counted. But it never lasts, they take a few hours or sometimes a few days to cool down and then find each other, apologizing profusely. Every time Wilbur thinks of hurtful words the two have exchanged, his heart flutters in a way that makes him feel sick.

He loves George, he knows this.

He listens to George’s soft snores and light breathing as he sleeps soundly on Wilbur’s shoulder, basking in George’s warmth as he snuggles closer, making Wilbur smile.

They’re nineteen and Wilbur hugs George.

They’re twenty.

They’re twenty and George is currently telling Wilbur all about his new boyfriend, how the boy is funny, attractive and how he’s everything George needs in a partner. Even though they’ve only been on two dates, it makes Wilbur’s heart feel a bit heavier. He doesn’t know why.

George has been incredibly active in the romantic scene, he jumps from boy to boy like they’re nothing. Not in some weird way where he only views men as objects, just that he knows what he wants and what he doesn’t and he doesn’t see the point in wasting time. It doesn’t really bother Wilbur, though he’s not as active as George, he had a girlfriend for a few months so he can understand what George is going through.

Though his girlfriend left him a few weeks ago, he had felt nothing when she announced she wanted a break, simply agreeing. Her words stung and he still thinks about them from time to time, but he never cried over her. He thinks he should, because sometimes George would come home from dates, in full tears because a boy he genuinely liked had said it wouldn’t work out. Because one time George came home, fully sobbing, because his boyfriend of three months had dumped him. (“I thought he was like, the one.”)

But George said it’s perfectly fine for him to not cry, that it’s probably just a sign that it’s a good thing they didn’t last any longer. Wilbur simply shrugged and had just agreed with George, because George is incredibly more advanced in this field than Wilbur ever will.

“I think he’s kind of perfect, Will,” George says, the sentence awakening something in Wilbur. He blinks a few times.

“Oh?”

George nods, biting his lip hesitantly, “I don’t know, I feel this connection, it’s kind of alluring.”

Wilbur shrugs. He’s never felt that before, so he doesn’t know. “Sure, I get it.”

George’s smile widens impossibly, like when they were kids. “I’ll take you to meet him, after a few more dates, when I feel secure in it. I need your approval, of course, if I want to keep going with him.”

Wilbur shrugs, it’s not uncommon. George is just exaggerating. He doesn’t need Wilbur’s approval. Truthfully, Wilbur approves of very few men that George dates, but they never last anyways so he’s never cared to bother George about it. He trusts George, he always has, so he also trusts George’s judgment.

“Yeah, sure.” He agrees easily. This is the right thing to say because George jumps up, smiling widely, and reaches over to Wilbur sitting on his bed, wrapping his arms around Wilbur’s neck, squeezing him impossibly tight.

Wilbur’s heartstrings tighten.

“I love you, Will.” He whispers into his ear, his voice is soft. It’s laced with something that Wilbur can’t fully detect. Nerves? Hesitancy? Is George scared? Is he unsure? Wilbur isn’t entirely sure, but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it any longer. He reaches around George and holds him tight, hugging him back. He allows himself to melt into George’s touch, feeling himself relax, closing his eyes. He feels safest with George. He knows George loves him, will protect him, and will always be there for him. He wallows in the moment.

“Love you.” He whispers. It’s soft, matching George’s tone. Like if he speaks even a pitch higher, it will snap everything and the moment is ruined. George squeezes him tighter at the words. It makes Wilbur smile.

They’re eight.

Wilbur and George sit in the playground sandbox again, even though they’re probably too old to be doing such a thing. It doesn’t bother them. They sail boats and pretend they’re pirates, they pretend to battle ships and they throw sand on each other because they’re eight and best friends.

Wilbur has grown out of his royalty phase but never letting go of his idea of having control. He likes control. Not in some weird way, because he’s eight. But he likes predictability, he likes knowing when things will happen, how they can happen to his advantage, he likes knowing how the day will go to a T, he likes making sure the world is predictable and easy to navigate. He doesn’t like complicated things. It’s a good thing that George doesn’t either. Though he is not as much of a control freak as Wilbur, he doesn’t like surprises.

“George, sweetie, we have to go.” George’s mother approaches them, her purse hangs off her shoulder, signaling that they really were ready to go, and she wasn’t just saying things to get George out of the sandbox that she has shown distaste for.

“Nooooooo!” He frowns, throwing his blue boat into the sand, crossing his arms. George’s mom lets out a sigh. “Come on, George, we have to go, it’s dinner time.” George shakes his little head, his face is determined. “No! I don’t want to leave Wilbur all alone.” The frown on his face deepening at the mention of Wilbur.

Wilbur perks up at the mention of his name, he hadn’t really been paying attention.

“His mom is over there, he has to go home, too, George. It’s fine, you’ll see him another time.” She tries again. George shakes his head, “How come we can’t just live together? Like how you and dad live together, why can’t Wilbur and I live like that?” Wilbur lets out a soft chuckle at George’s antics.

“It’s different, George.” She says, exhaustion clear in her voice. “How!?” George demands an answer.

No one can really say no to George.

She sighs again, “Because honey, your dad and I are married. You and Wilbur are just friends.” George huffs. “Why can’t I just marry Wilbur?” His mom shakes her head, “You’re too young.”

George frowns. “Well, when we get older?” She shrugs, “Maybe.” Is all she says.

Apparently, this is enough for George because he stands up hesitantly, saying goodbye to Wilbur and leaving home with his mom.

George never really lets go of the whole marriage thing for the entire time they’re eight. Even when someone makes fun of them on the playground and says “boys can’t marry, stupid.”

It never phases George, not even for a second. Even later in life when they sort of forget the entire promise to get married.

They’re eight and George tells Wilbur that they will be together for the rest of their lives. Married with a wedding and everything.

They’re eight and Wilbur believes him.

They’re twenty-one.

George was kind of right about his boyfriend. Because they’re twenty-one and George is still dating him. He claims he’s in love in a way that makes Wilbur scoff inside his head. George says this often, but it very rarely turns out to be true. But Wilbur be damned because it’s been nine months and George still claims he’s in love. Wilbur thinks he should be nicer to George’s boyfriend in his head but as much as George has tried over the years, he can’t read Wilbur’s thoughts.

Through the nine months, Wilbur’s has had plenty of hookups and dates and even a few short relationships. Nothing serious and nothing crazy. They always leave him and say he seems like he’s distracted, like he can’t pay attention to them in the way they like.

Wilbur doesn’t cry over a single one of them.

But George comforts him anyways, saying that he knows Wilbur is a guarded guy, even if they’ve been friends since they were five, and in the sandbox, Wilbur isn’t the type to just cry. He very rarely cries and he doesn’t even do it around George. George’s only seen him cry once, and they’ve never mentioned it afterward.

George is similar, in a way. He wears his heart on his sleeve but has an awfully tough time working through his emotions. He lets himself get whisked away in fantasies and lets his hopes get brutally destroyed, but he doesn’t let it show. At least, to other people. With Wilbur, he’s shown more emotions than Wilbur even knew existed. But he doesn’t mind, he will help George through anything. That much has always been obvious.

It’s kind of awkward that Wilbur doesn’t really like George’s boyfriend.

He doesn’t really know why. The guy is average, decent, and treats George just fine. Except for the two times that George came home to Wilbur, in tears because he said some vile thing during a fight. Wilbur never knows if he should be happy that the guy is not as perfect as George insists, or if he should punch the guy in the face for being so cruel to George. He opts for the third one, of hugging George in his bed, letting him cry into his sweatshirt, dampening the material. It’s usually the one that works out for him the best.

“I saw George with his boyfriend the other day,” Niki says in the library one day. Wilbur hums absentmindedly, not really paying attention to what Niki was saying.

“He looks happy.”

Wilbur nods, “Yeah he’s doing great.” He replies. He’s reading over his textbook, the words are starting to mold together and he’s not sure what’s being spelled out for him in front of him.

“Do you like him?” She asks.

This catches Wilbur’s attention. “Who?”

“George’s boyfriend.”

Wilbur shrugs, “I guess? He’s nice, I’ve met him like twice.”

Niki’s eyebrow raises slightly, “Really?”

Wilbur nods, “What did you expect me to say, Niki?” He doesn’t want it to come out accusingly, or angry, but maybe it does. He’s not exactly sure because Niki doesn’t flinch at the words.

“I dunno, you’re usually awfully protective over George.”

Wilbur’s eyebrow raises at this, “What does that mean?”

She laughs softly, “Nothing! Just, you’ve been friends for so long, you know him better than anyone else. I thought you’d have more to say about the guy he’s been seeing for nine months.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t really like to think about him. Yes, George has come home crying about him more than once, but George goes back and seems perfectly fine. I would know if something was really up but I dunno, they’re fine I guess.”

Niki accepts this as her answer, though she looks like she has more on her mind. Wilbur accepts this and goes back to reading. He’s been friends with Niki for two years, she’s introduced him to some other people which is kind of great because George does spend an awful amount of time out with his new boyfriend. But despite their two years, Wilbur doesn’t feel obligated to push on things like this. He doesn’t care to know about every single thought Niki has ever conjured up, so he never presses. Maybe he should, he’s not very sure what is entailed in being friends considering his best friend is George and they have absolutely no boundaries.

But for now, he settles, reading over the words, slowly letting them have meaning again. The conversation helped, it seemed. As useless as it was, because all it did was remind Wilbur of George and his boyfriend, how they’re probably off on another date right now, George’s hand all over him, holding his hand, his arms, his upper bicep, how they probably touch each other a lot. It makes Wilbur a little queasy so he tries to move his brain somewhere else.

Like what he’s going to have for dinner, that seems more viable. He’s probably going to have spaghetti — penne — with meat sauce. It’s really the only dish he knows how to make like the back of his hand, and he thinks it sounds particularly good tonight.

He decides to shoot George a quick text.

Wilbur

Making pasta for dinner, want some?

George

No thanks, I’m going out tonight :D! Don’t wait up :p !

Wilbur shuts his phone off at the response, not letting himself ponder on it or the feeling bubbling in his stomach.

They’re thirteen.

They’re thirteen and George teaches Wilbur a lot of things, he teaches Wilbur about nature and the different insects, he often takes Wilbur outside right after it’s rained and shows him the water droplets falling off leaves, teaching him photosynthesis and all that exciting stuff.

Wilbur has never cared too much for the great outdoors, choosing to stay inside and play with his guitar or mess around on his computer.

They’re thirteen years old when George teaches Wilbur that he can’t control everything.

George teaches Wilbur about the lives of plants and insects, but focusing on plants. He teaches Wilbur that plants have emotions, similar to them. Though they can never see them, they’re there and they can feel. They can feel pain when we rip them apart. They aren’t too unlike humans, they are born, they hurt, they are happy, they eat and then eventually they die.

It makes Wilbur’s heart clench in ugly ways when he sees flowers wilt away. It hurts knowing that a flower probably hurts as its colors pale into a color that was never there originally.

“Why can’t they live forever?” Wilbur asks one day. The boys are in a small forest in the park, covered by dirt and plants. They sit on the forest ground, letting the dirt get onto their jeans that they will most certainly get yelled at when they run back to their Mums.

George shrugs, “I dunno. It’s kind of how it works.”

Wilbur doesn’t accept this and shakes his head. “It’s not fair.” He whines.

George laughs at him, “Life isn’t fair, Will, we have to accept it!”

Wilbur doesn’t understand why George isn’t sadder at the fact that plants are born and they die. George loves plants, why doesn’t he care that they feel pain when they shrivel up into unknown shapes?

“I wish I could keep them from ever dying,” Wilbur confesses.

George frowns, his hands have been too preoccupied with playing with flowers that he never really looked at Wilbur’s expression. His expression is sad, full of something that makes George frown deeper.

“I know, I feel the same way.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

“You aren’t really showing it,” Wilbur says.

“Well, you can’t read my mind, Will.”

Wilbur shrugs, he supposes that’s true.

“Besides, it’s not like I can control it,” George says.

“Why not? I wish I could control plants' lives.” Wilbur says, his hands playing with the dirt on the ground.

“We can’t control a lot of things, Will.” Is all George says. It makes Wilbur feel uneasy.

“Why not?”

“I dunno, Will. But we can’t. There’s a lot of things I wish I could change or control, but I can’t. My mum always told me that we can’t control others or what happens, but we can control our reactions and how we grow from it.” It sounds so wise coming from George, Wilbur’s a bit in awe.

“What does that even mean?”

George laughs, breaking into a soft smile. “Not really sure.”

Wilbur nods. He doesn’t understand the entire capacity of George’s words but he thinks he knows what George is trying to say.

Wilbur is thirteen and he learns what George meant.

His Grandpa passes and Wilbur feels emotions that he never knew existed. He is angry, sad, upset, emotional, and is constantly mad at the world.

“I wish I could bring him back,” Wilbur confesses to George one night in the moonlight of his bedroom. He lays on his bed, sheets are messy and he’s holding onto his comforter like his life depends on it. George lays on the floor in a mattress that practically lives in Wilbur’s room.

George is apparently not as asleep as Wilbur thought because he speaks up, “I know, Will.”

It’s all that’s said that night, but Wilbur knows what George means. He thinks back to them in the forest, how he wishes he could control plants. How he would never let anything or anyone suffer if he had the power.

But he doesn’t have the power.

He can’t control a rose’s life or his Grandpa’s. And that’s how the world is. But he can control how he reacts to it, how he keeps on moving.

They’re thirteen and Wilbur believes George.

They’re twenty.

They’re twenty and Wilbur is being subjected to George and his boyfriend acting all giggly and cuddly on their couch watching some movie on Disney+ and Wilbur kind of wants to throw up. He doesn’t know why but his stomach is churning in weird ways and he thinks he would sooner rather stab his stomach and just remove it if he has to be subjected to this any longer. He doesn’t know why it burns when he sees George giggling when his boyfriend touches his stomach, and he doesn’t understand why his entire body feels warm all over when they squeeze each other's hands and look into each other’s eyes with that dazed look of love.

It would be sort of endearing if Wilbur wasn’t two minutes away from throwing up.

But he swallows it and tries to keep his eyes on the movie, tries to pretend he isn’t seeing what he’s seeing. Trying to focus on the 101 Dalmatians running away from two men with huge nets because they want to steal the dogs and make some coats or whatever. But he was cursed with peripheral vision and he can still see the two boys fidgeting with each other, unable to keep their hands off each other, unable to wipe the wide grins off their face, unable to stop exchanging whispers and soft words.

“I’m gonna go,” Wilbur announces, standing up from the couch.

George looks up at Wilbur for the first time tonight, surprise and shock written on his face. “Oh?” He says. The confusion evident in his soft voice.

“Yeah, I have some homework to get done, sorry.” But he doesn’t sound very sorry.

He doesn’t look back and doesn’t notice George’s face, whatever the expression may be, he doesn’t allow himself the privilege to look back and see George’s doe eyes that always pull him back in.

“I kind of hate him,” Wilbur announces one day. He’s at a park with Niki and her friend Jack. The two of them are obviously something more but she has never said anything and he has never bothered to press. At least they have the decency to not be all over each other. They all sit on a picnic blanket and the two of them are comfortably sat apart but still close enough to the point where they probably feel intimate.

“Who?” Niki asks, mouth full of the sandwich they bought from a cafe.

“Don’t chew with your mouth open, Niki.” Jack laughs, but he’s obviously joking because he always is. She rolls her eyes at him.

“George’s boyfriend.” Wilbur states.

Niki’s lips purse and she nods slowly, setting down her sandwich. “Yeah, I figured.”

This makes Wilbur curious, “You figured?”

She shrugs, “Like yeah, I guessed because you’re pretty protective over George and if you aren’t bursting with praise for the guy he’s dating, you probably don’t like him.” It's a fact, a statement, but it makes Wilbur’s stomach reel in disgust.

“I guess…”

“Dude, you’re so obsessed with George.” Jack laughs, his mouth full.

“Don’t talk while you’re eating.” Niki mocks. Jack rolls his eyes.

“I’m not, we just have been friends since we were five. I know a lot about him.” Wilbur is defensive and he doesn’t know why, lots of people have accused both George and Wilbur of being crazy and obsessive over each other, when the truth is they’re just best friends and have been since they were five. They’re, like, destined to be together for the rest of time.

“I mean, sure, but you’re like … on another level.” Jack states. Niki looks unsure, like she doesn’t really want to go there.

“I’m not.” The defensive tone in his voice still clear as day.

“Come on Jack, lighten up, how many people do you know are still best friends with kids from when they were five?” Niki defends, she wacks Jack’s upper bicep and Wilbur makes a silent prayer for Niki.

“Hm. Ok, fair.” Jack admits and then the entire topic is dropped.

Wilbur has always been incredibly stubborn, so has George, so the idea that the argument just kind of drops completely is a foreign concept to Wilbur. Like, they’re just done talking about it?

Niki must sense his hesitancy because she speaks but only after Jack has gone to go buy some more drinks, when it’s just the two of them on the blanket, “Hey, Wilbur, I know you’re hesitant about George’s boyfriend, but it’ll be okay. You can’t control his life or who he dates, just be happy that he’s happy.” And though the words are cruel and cut him like a knife, her voice is soft and kind, like she is simply telling Wilbur about flowers. Wilbur’s heart squeezes in cruel ways.

He remembers when he was thirteen and learned he can’t control anything, how the world will turn and how life keeps going even when you don’t want it to. He thinks this is how he feels now. George is his world and he will keep moving, keep going and Wilbur is stuck to just kind of view the world in cruel lenses, alone, because none of his girlfriends can stick around for more than a month.

Wilbur is subjected to George and his boyfriend countless more times since his picnic with Jack and Niki. Five times, to be exact. Every single time it makes Wilbur’s stomach squeeze and move in ways he didn’t know to be humanly possible. He chalks it up to knowing that George’s boyfriend probably doesn’t treat him in the way he knows George deserves to be treated. Because that’s what makes the most sense. What else could it be?

But it doesn’t really matter because Wilbur puts on a smile and talks to George’s boyfriend in this strained voice that George knows isn’t his, but has never mentioned it. Wilbur makes small talk with George’s boyfriend, learns what he’s studying, his aspirations, his hobbies, how he asked George out, the entire works. It makes Wilbur a little sick. And if George notices, he never mentions it.

“I think he’s going to ask me to move in with him,” George says one Thursday evening, the two of them standing in the kitchen while Wilbur cooks some meal on the stovetop. Who he is goes unsaid but Wilbur knows. “Are you going to say yes?” Wilbur asks, turning off the flame because he can’t focus on both things at the same time, because his head is starting to run and his thoughts are swirling in his brain and he feels fuzzy.

George shrugs, “What do you think?” He leans against the island in the apartment, an apple in his hand while he plays around with it.

Don’t go. Wilbur wants to say. He wants to turn around and beg George to not leave. He wants to tell George that he needs George with him at all times to function, he wants to tell George that he loves him. That George doesn’t need his boyfriend, they’re twenty and have spent fourteen years being together forever, and he doesn’t understand why George wants to change it all now. Wilbur takes deep breaths and turns around.

The words don’t leave me are on the tip of his tongue. His mind is so fuzzy. “I dunno.” He mumbles out after a few moments. This makes George raise his eyebrow. “You don’t know? You know everything, Will.” His voice is light-hearted and he lets out a soft chuckle, so Wilbur knows he isn’t serious. And Wilbur does know, but the logic part of his brain was kicked out and he thinks he’s dying.

“I don’t know, George, do whatever you want.” He sounds exhausted. Like he just ran an entire marathon, like he just won the Olympics, like he is dying.

George picks up on this, “What’s up with you?”

Wilbur shrugs.

This isn’t enough for George, he presses harder. “No, seriously, it’s like you hate him.” The teasing from his voice is gone completely and he sounds mad.

God, this isn’t what Wilbur wants.

“I don’t.” He mumbles out unconvincingly. George scoffs at this. “Yeah, right. Why are you lying to me?”

Wilbur shrugs, “Can you drop it?”

George shakes his head. “No, you’re lying to me and I want to know why. Why don’t you like him?”

Wilbur’s heart is beating so fast he thinks he’s going to have a heart attack. That this is how he leaves the world. His palms are sweaty and his long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants are uncomfortably tight and warm, they’re overheating his body and he thinks he’s going to burst into a million little flames and die out.

“George, I’m not lying. I don’t really care what you do, it’s not my business.”

“Fuck off, you’ve always made my business your business.”

The words cut through like a sharp blade and Wilbur blinks at this. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve been attached at the hip for as long as I’ve had memories, you’ve always put your nose into my business, into my hobbies, into my friends, into my family, you’ve never had boundaries!” Why is George so mad? Why does he look like he’s fuming? He looks like he’s going to explode. Or maybe this is the explosion.

“Are you mad at me?” Wilbur asks out hesitantly, he’s scared of the answer.

“I dunno, Wilbur.” George sounds tired.

“I don’t know why you can’t just let me have this one thing, did you think we were going to be together for the rest of our lives?” George scoffs, it’s kind of shattering to hear the words from George because even though they’re twenty, yeah, Wilbur did think that. He doesn’t know why, but he did.

“I-“

But Wilbur doesn’t get to finish his sentence because in a hazy moment, George goes from leaning against the Island to dashing out the door, murmuring words that don’t compute in Wilbur’s brain and leaving Wilbur.

Wilbur feels the tears well up in his eyes and he doesn’t know why.

Did George really not want to spend his entire life with Wilbur?

Wilbur remembers when they were kids, when George was insistent he was going to spend his entire life with Wilbur. They were going to get married, live together forever, and never leave each other. This isn’t even the first time George has left in the middle of an argument, so Wilbur doesn’t know why it’s hitting so hard. Why does Wilbur feel like he’s being punched and kicked in his gut? Why does he feel like he’s dying?

Is he?

Wilbur remembers them in the playground, in the sandbox while George explains to him all about marriage and how that will be him and Wilbur, even if he’s never seen two boys married before, he assures Wilbur that this is another rule they can break, another record they can break, how it can all add up for when he wants to be prime minister. Wilbur accepts the words because he’s eight and George has always been too incredibly convincing for his own good.

Wilbur’s heart twinges when he thinks of marriage with George. Even though he’s twenty, he did believe he would live with George for the rest of his life. He believed George would be with him for the rest of his life. It’s a weird mix of him knowing he can function without George but not wanting to. He doesn’t want to believe his future might not have George in it.

And suddenly his control freak kicks in and he feels sick. He’s dying, like actually dying.

He’s always had so much certainty in this friendship. When he knew he couldn’t control anything, how life will go on and go on and he can’t do anything about it, he’s always known he’s had, George. He can’t control the world but he can control how he reacts and what he does with it. And he’s always had George to help him react. But George isn’t here and he thinks he’s going to throw up.

He doesn’t even know why he dislikes George’s boyfriend. His boyfriend has never really given a solid reason, even though Wilbur stays up at night coming up with reasons.

And suddenly Wilbur is eight, in the sandbox with George, talking about marriage and it all kind of clicks.

He’s ten and George promises Wilbur that he will save him for the rest of his life.

He’s five and George weasels his way into Wilbur’s Royal plans.

He’s sixteen and George tells Wilbur he’s gay.

He’s nineteen and he sees George on a date in a diner and his stomach squeezes.

He’s twenty and he’s in love with George.

Or rather, he’s always been in love with George, he just never realized.

It’s a sickening realization, really. His stomach continues to twist and turn in ways that seem inhumane.

There are no fireworks or sparks, there are no big signs or musical numbers. It’s just Wilbur in his sweatpants sitting in the kitchen, the pan sizzling behind him despite the heat being off, realizing he’s in love with his best friend. He lets out a long exhale at the information.

He lets it simmer in his brain. He lets it stew and lets the knowledge just sit in his brain, unwilling to do anything with it.

He’s twenty and he’s in love with his best friend.

George comes back the next day, Wilbur is lying on the couch in an uncomfortable position due to his height but he immediately wakes up the moment he hears the locks click and the door wheezes open. It’s like Wilbur barely slept all night when he jolts up, seeing George in his disheveled state. George looks shocked that Wilbur is in such a mess, which Wilbur doesn’t know why because Wilbur is always a mess when George leaves.

“Hi,” George whispers out. Wilbur smiles softly at him, getting up from the couch. George shuts the door behind him and makes a few steps forward, though they’re not as close as Wilbur would like, he’s just happy to be in the same room as George. “Hey,” Wilbur replies, in a soft tone, similar to George’s.

“I- um. He asked.” George says, his voice is still soft but it seems colder, more hesitant and Wilbur’s stomach sinks.

“Oh.” Wilbur breathes out.

“I said yes.” George supplies. It makes Wilbur sick.

“Oh,” Wilbur says again.

“I’m gonna grab some stuff and then I’ll leave, we’ll be back within the week to grab the rest of my things,” George says. Wilbur blinks a few times.

“Okay.” He says. Though that’s not what he wants to say, he wants to cry, scream, tell George everything he feels. He wants to tell George that when they were eight they wanted to get married and live together forever, and now they’re twenty and Wilbur still wants that. He wants to tell George he adores him, his smile, his soft brunette hair that he’s never dyed because he fears hair colouring. He wants to tell George that he appreciates George more than his boyfriend ever could. That he loves him, he loves when he tells Wilbur about dim sum, when George goes to the Asian grocery store and picks them up Hi-Chew. That he adores when George’s eyes get soft when he tells Wilbur about some new code he just made. That he is in love with the way George says his name, that every time his mouth opens, Wilbur is always entranced.

But he doesn’t. He stands in the living room while he hears rustling in the other room. He can see it, he can see George shoving his favorite sweatshirts and t-shirts into a small duffel bag, his favorite jeans and his favorite graphic shirts. He can see George debating what he wants to wear for the next week. He can see George envisioning his life with his boyfriend, like they were made for each other and like it was meant to be. Wilbur thinks he’s going to die.

After a while, Wilbur wouldn’t know how long, George reenters the living looking a mix of upset and excited.

Now is his chance, Wilbur thinks.

“George,” He says softly. George looks up at Wilbur, eyes wide and beautiful. “Don’t leave me.” Is what Wilbur says. It’s probably not the right thing to say but he doesn’t really care. He can’t find himself caring because the other alternative is to never have said anything and he thinks that’s worse.

It’s definitely the wrong thing to say because George’s face morphs into anger. “You’re joking.” He says.

Wilbur shrugs.

“You’re crazy, Wilbur.” And George never calls him Wilbur, it’s always Will. It makes him feel sick.

“I’m sorry.” He says. George scoffs.

“Yes, I’m sure you are.”

Wilbur can feel his eyes burning. He can feel his chest tightening and the oxygen in the air must suck because he can’t breathe in a damn thing.

“I- I. I always admired you, Will. I’ve looked up to you since we were five. You were always this untouchable figure to me. You had no flaws. Yes, you made mistakes but they seemed like the world was fucking up and you were still going to keep going. You’ve always had so many ambitions it left me in awe. Despite your introvertness, you always got along with people and kept people out of your way. You would tell me of plans of you ruling the world, then the UK, then just yourself. I’ve always believed in you, Will. I’ve always supported you, been there for you, why can’t you be there for me this one time? I love him, Will. It’s unfair that you refuse to wake up from this dream you created when we were kids and that you take it out on him. Now that I see you in front of me, I know that those dreams were childish. You were never untouchable, you were insecure. You have this crazy need and desire to control everything, you don’t just let things be. You won’t let me be.”

Wilbur’s eyes are burning. He thinks they’re being set on fire.

“I love you, Will, I really do. But I can’t be around you, right now. So, I’m going to leave and we’ll have some space, and you can come back when you let go of this weird fantasy that the world revolves around you.”

George leaves.

Wilbur cries.

And it’s not like the crying from last night, where tears threaten his eyes and cheeks, where he can wipe them away and they stop coming after a while, giving up on the fight. No. This is different. He can feel sobs being ripped out of his chest, the tears won’t stop no matter how many times he digs his palms into his eyes. It doesn’t matter if Wilbur tries to suffocate it all in a pillow because they don’t stop. Wilbur can’t feel his body, with the way his sobs are racking through his body. He’s shaking and he can’t move from the couch.

George’s words are stuck in a constant loop in his head, the way he was so angry, his little hands curled up in fists by his sides. Wilbur has never seen George so mad. And he instantly feels regret, feels the knives in his chest and stomach, and he wishes they were real. That they would take him away. But they aren’t real and Wilbur isn’t a suicidal maniac so he doesn’t get them to make them real.

Wilbur has never thought of his life without George, but he’s kind of forced to right now. And it makes him hurt.

They’re twenty-one.

They’re twenty-one and haven’t spoken in five months. Wilbur seeking the company of Jack and Niki and their friends instead. When Niki heard the news, she held Wilbur until he stopped crying. She had never seen him cry before then, but she rubbed his back and said sweet nothings, reassuring Wilbur. Niki was on the couch with Wilbur when George and his boyfriend stopped by to get the rest of Wilbur’s things. George made an off-hand comment about Niki and Wilbur being a thing but Wilbur hadn’t said a word the entire time, he just blinked and let George gather the rest of his things.

The longest fight they ever had was when they were fifteen. Wilbur can’t remember what they were fighting about, but he knows they yelled bullshit at each other until they ran away, back to their houses, and cried into their pillows. Wilbur remembers the sickening feeling in his stomach but he also remembers the anger. He used to think they were the same thing, but looking back he knows better. He knows the feeling was from being separated from George, that anger is not that strong. But his feelings for George always were.

It was a really terrible two weeks, they didn’t talk to each other and Wilbur didn’t really have other friends so he was kind of left alone for two weeks, his thoughts were starting to choke him out. A suffocating feeling in his throat.

He doesn’t remember who apologized first, but he remembered he hugged George for what felt like hours, basking in the feeling of his friend back. Even with the two weeks, he never let his brain wander to places of a life without George, because he knew that despite the fight, they’d come back. They always do.

But now it’s been five months and Wilbur is miserable. He goes to classes with a messy look and barely pays attention, hardly passing his class but he gets enough good marks for his teachers to not bother him. He doesn’t think life without George is worth it. He never believed in a life without George, without waking up to him smiling in the kitchen while he eats eggs and smoothies. He never believed in a life without movie nights with George, going out with him to museums and parks. Never believed he would have to. But it’s been five months and he’s hardly even seen George. All he has are the photos in his phones that come up on his photo widget on his Home Screen. It makes him a little sick every time he sees George’s wide smile on his screen, but he can never tear his eyes away.

Over the five months he’s given plenty of time to think.

George is right, he’s always had some innate urge to control things. He doesn’t know where it stems from, maybe a therapist would know but he doesn’t think any paid professional could come close to dissecting the thoughts in his brain.

But George is wrong, he’s never had some weird feelings about controlling George. At least, that he can remember. He’s only ever wanted the best for George. He feels foolish to ever think he was the best for George. Maybe that’s where the problem lies. He knows he isn’t the best for George, clearly if George feels as suffocated by him as he claims. It makes Wilbur’s stomach churn.

Wilbur is thirteen and he realizes he can’t control the world. He can’t even control the plants and their lives, he can’t control humans and their lives, he can barely control himself.

Wilbur is thirteen and he has George by his side, their hands clasping onto each other as George squeezes it as tight as can be, the two of them staring into the casket of his Grandpa.

Wilbur is twenty-one and he doesn’t have George by his side squeezing life into him.

He’s never needed the world, only George.

He’s never needed to control the world, he’s always had George. He’s never needed to control a sunflower’s life expectancy, he’s only ever needed George by his side as the two of them watch the light drain from the flower. He’s never needed to control his feelings or how he’s reacted, he’s always had George holding onto him as he went through a plethora of emotions. He’s never needed to be a King, he’s only ever needed his Best Man. He’s never needed to be prime minister, he never needed to rule the world, he never needed the twelve year olds to bow down to him. He’s only ever needed George.

And when he realizes it, when it finally seeps in. When he realizes that the world turns without George by his side, as much as he hates it. When he realizes that he needs George for his brain to function, he needs George like the Sunflower needs light, when he really realizes it.

George isn’t there.

They’re twenty-two.

Wilbur sits in the same flat as before, sitting on the couch on his phone, mindlessly scrolling through his different timelines when he hears knocking on the door. Wilbur thinks it’s weird because he isn’t expecting anyone and Niki always texts before stopping by. It’s probably a Boy Scout or something. His brain supplies.

But nonetheless he walks over to the door, opens it to reveal a disheveled George. His hair is damp, his clothes are wet and he looks like he’s been crying. His eyes are puffy and red and it makes Wilbur’s heart twinge.

“Can I come in?” He asks, and who is Wilbur to do anything but agree? So he opens the door and lets the boy inside.

After a while, when George is dry and in (Wilbur’s) clothes, they sit on the couch and all George can ask is, “Can I move back in?” He doesn’t offer any explanation to why it’s 11PM on a Sunday night and he’s wet and crying on Wilbur’s apartment mat. And Wilbur doesn’t ask. He simply nods, “Of course.”

They’re twenty-two and George is back in Wilbur’s arms.

They don’t talk about it, and they don’t go back to normal. They have some semblance of normal but it’s not the normal that Wilbur craves. He wants to be in George’s arms again, he wants to hold him and hug him and tell him he loves him.

But he doesn’t, because he’s scared to hurt George, to force him and think he’s trying to control George. Because he isn’t.

“I’m sorry.” Wilbur says one night, it’s dark and they sit on the couch, silence blaring in Wilbur’s ears.

“I know.” George says.

And that’s the most they’ve done. It makes Wilbur sad and sick, he can barely leave his bed to get to class.

It was supposed to be easier, with George here. But instead he thinks he’s suffocating with his feelings and thoughts and he doesn’t want to keep going. He sees George smile at him sometimes in the hallway, making Wilbur’s heartstrings flutter in the way Wilbur plays the guitar.

They’re eating dinner one night, take-away from this Chinese place that George is madly in love with. He remembers George teaching him how to use chopsticks when they were seven, even though George very much didn’t know how to learn either. He is tempted to bring up the memory but swallows it with his Lo Mein instead.

But the silence is killing him in ways he didn’t realize was possible for a way to die.

“I’m serious, by the way. I am sorry for what happened.” Wilbur says.

George looks up from his Szechuan Chicken, his eyes widening in a way that makes Wilbur’s heart swoon. “Yeah, I know.” He says, purses his lips and goes back to his dinner.

“Do you?” Wilbur can’t stop the words coming out of his mouth.

“I mean, I’m sure you think you do but, George, it was hell without you. It was so long I thought I was dying. And it gave me a lot of time to think, to think about what you said. And you were right, I do have this really weird thing to control people, it’s really fucking weird. I don’t know where it started and I don’t really know how to control it. But I never wanted to control you, George. And I’m sorry that I made you feel that way. The truth is, I’ve always had you, and I just freaked out when you wanted to leave. Because you were the only one who made it okay for me. And I’m so so so fucking sorry I hurt you. That I made you feel like you couldn’t come to me, that I made you feel such crazy things. I love you, George. I always have. When we were five and in the sandbox, and when we are twenty-two and eating Chinese take-away. I love you, a lot.”

He doesn’t even remember what he’s said by the time he’s done talking and George looks sort of amazed. He has this glazed over look on his face.

“Oh.” Is all he says.

Wilbur’s heart squeezes.

“I- I. I’m sorry, too, Will. I was unfair to you, I just kind of yelled at you for no reason that night. I mean I guess you were right, in hindsight, so maybe if I listened to you, it would’ve been alright. But I was wrong, Will. You never controlled me. I’m sorry for saying you did.”

They exchange soft smiles of understanding and go back to their dinner.

It’s still not perfect, they’re not the same, but they hug more and cuddle more and sometimes sleep in the same bed, so Wilbur doesn’t complain.

They’re twenty-three when George tries again.

George gets a new boyfriend, introducing him to Wilbur and this time Wilbur knows exactly why his heart burns. But he swallows it and introduces himself with a firm handshake and a nice smile. The boy doesn’t seem put off by it and neither does George, smiling too widely to notice any off putting energy from Wilbur. And Wilbur tries his best not to omit it, because he doesn’t need another five month fall out with George.

The guy is fine, they’re always fine. Because George has taste and standards and knows his worth so he doesn’t waste time with dumb boys. It makes Wilbur’s heart twinge but he’s been living with heart twinges since he was nineteen so he swallows it and smiles, makes friendly conversation and lets George whisk himself away with fantasy with this new boyfriend who’s handsome with a nice smile.

“I’m in love with George.” Wilbur states one day. It’s a Saturday afternoon and he’s at the park with Niki. They lay on their backs on the picnic blanket, looking up into the sky and watching the cloud form shapes that Wilbur can never recognize.

“I know.” Niki says softly.

Wilbur’s head turns to Niki and she must hear the rustling because she turns her head, too, making eye contact with him.

“You know?”

She nods, “Of course, I’ve known since we were nineteen and inside that diner.”

“Oh.” He says softly. She smiles sadly at him. “How long have you known?”

“When he left.” He admits, his chest feels heavy and he doesn’t know why.

“You should tell him.” She says. His eyebrows furrow.

“No.”

“Yes!”

“We literally just started talking again after like five months, I’m not going to tell him.”

“You have to.”

He thinks she’s a bit absurd. “He’s going to hate me.”

She frowns, lifting her hand to caress Wilbur’s cheek. “He wouldn’t hate you, he would understand.” She reassures but Wilbur doesn’t feel very reassured. He thinks he’s going insane. His head is pounding.

But they drop it, going back to easy conversation about work and how they despise being adults. It’s easy for Wilbur to forget about his feelings. He lets himself get whisked away by Niki and her soft, alluring voice.

George lies on the couch, his legs draped across Wilbur’s. Wilbur sits up, his left hand resting on his knee, rubbing circles on his legs in a way that’s supposed to be comforting.

They’re talking and laughing in a way that helps fade away the five months of silence. It tricks Wilbur into thinking it never happened, that they’re completely back to normal and they can be exactly how they used to be.

George looks beautiful in the light of the living room, his lips are flushed pink and his pale skin looks heavenly. He’s drowning in a larger sized hoodie, his fingers barely poking out from the sleeves. It makes Wilbur’s heart squeeze. It makes Wilbur smile softly at the boy. He looks so gorgeous. George has always been gorgeous, but Wilbur recognizes he feels different this time. Because George isn’t just gorgeous, he’s beautiful in a way that makes Wilbur’s breath get caught in his throat, because all he wants to do is lean over and slot his lips over George’s. All he wants to do is lean down and rest his head in the crook of George’s neck. He wants to litter kisses all over George’s skin, to leave soft marks in his wake.

“I love you.” The words tumble out of Wilbur’s lips before he can stop himself. George freezes, looks into Wilbur’s eyes and blinks. He smiles softly, his eyes look so pretty when he smiles. They’re shining in Wilbur’s face. “I love you, too, Will.” He says. But it’s not enough. It’s not what Wilbur wants to hear. It makes his heart bang against his chest. It hurts and he wants to die.

“No, I’m in love with you.” He says before he can stop himself. He isn’t thinking, he hasn’t thought this out. He doesn’t know what’s coming next, he just knows he said what he did and he can only accept the consequences that come with it. George’s face morphs into some unreadable expression. It makes Wilbur’s heart hurt.

“I-” George’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he closes it once and for all. He blinks a few times and Wilbur thinks this is the day. He figured one day something would kill their friendship. Even if he never believed it, there’s always that lingering pain in the back of his head. The silence grows like weeds in your garden that you cannot get rid of. It grows like a dandelion. Where you think it’s beautiful and you hope it will be gorgeous and give you hope and happiness. And it comes and comes and you get your hopes up, your breath stuck in your throat. And it comes.

“I’m sorry, Wilbur.”

And it’s just a weed.

It’s Wilbur, not Will.

“It’s okay.” Wilbur murmurs.

“I’m really sorry, Wilbur. I do love you, a lot, I always have, but… not… not like that.” His voice is soft and sweet, like honey. It sounds sweet, the words flow out of his mouth and they sound like they are beautiful and soft. But the words themselves are sticky and hard to shake. Wilbur’s head is spinning at a speed that seems inhumane. Like a tornado that whips around, leaving destruction in its wake.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” Wilbur can’t bring himself to look George in the eyes, he stares at his fingers that lay in his lap, picking at skin because he doesn't know what to do and his head is pounding and he thinks he’s dying.

“No, it’s okay! I’m glad you were honest with me. I mean, isn’t that what we are best at? Being honest with each other?” He can hear the smile in George’s voice because he has George’s different tone memorized, how he sounds when he’s happy, mad, sad, and everything in between. He’s memorized everything when it comes to George. Wilbur just nods.

“I- I don’t want this to change anything,” He knows how selfish he sounds. “I mean, if you need space because this is, like, weird, yeah, but… I can’t lose you.” His voice is breaking a little. He’s probably going to cry.

George nods, he can see the movement out of the corner of his eyes. He looks up and makes straight eye contact with George. He can see the sympathy that swims in George’s eyes and it feels like knives to the heart. He can feel it twinge with pain. The tiny needles that get into his system. It hurts.

“Yeah, it’s fine, Wilbur. Um… I do have a boyfriend, still, so.” He says.

Wilbur nods, “Yeah.” He chokes out. George stares at him and if he looks at Wilbur with those eyes for a second longer he thinks he will break down in front of George. “I’m going to go sleep over at Niki’s, I think.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

He doesn’t even really know how he gets to Niki’s house, his head fuzzy and his vision that’s blocked by tears. But he manages, knocking on her door. The sound of feet shuffling and items being moved are apparent as the door opens to see a sleep riddled Niki with her glasses but still squinting at Wilbur as he stands at her door in his sweatpants, messy hair and bloodshot eyes.

She lets him, like she understands what’s going on in Wilbur’s head, like she knew and she saw it all coming.

“I’m sorry, Wilbur.” She says. He doesn’t think she knows what she’s sorry for.

“I told him.” He says as she shuts the door behind him.

She wraps her arms around his midsection. He lets her. He accepts the physical touch, reveling in it, even. He hugs her back, standing there with her squeezing him as he lets the feeling ground him. He thinks back to George, how he hugs. How he squeezes Wilbur at random times, just to remind Wilbur that he’s there. That the pressure is completely different, how different his arms are. The tears prick at his eyes again, like he didn’t spend the last half hour crying. He let’s the tears collect in his eyes and lets them roll down his face, not bothering to wipe them. They burn down his cheeks and leave stains in their wake but he doesn’t care. Niki doesn’t, either. She lets him make soft sounds of breaths hitching and doesn’t budge.

He’s never appreciated Niki as much as he has in this moment.

He’s always loved her, always appreciated her being by his side no matter what, even when he’s acting a bit foolish. She doesn’t know him in and out, but she doesn’t need to. She sees Wilbur at face value and accepts him. She doesn’t need to know what he was like at five or seven or thirteen. She knows what he’s like at nineteen, twenty and twenty-three and it’s enough. She holds him and lets him cry, rubs at his back a little and stays silent while he lets out soft sounds of sorrow.

He doesn’t know how, but he makes it onto her bed somehow.

He goes to bed, dreams of soft sheets and a boy with brunette hair and alluring eyes plague his mind. He lets himself believe it, play into it, he lets himself get swept away when he sees the smile and the eyes that shine. He lets himself fall for it, he holds his hand and he lets himself believe it's real. That this is the true reality, not the sad excuse of a life he has now. He hears a laughter that makes his heart flutter and his palms sweaty. He tricks himself a little, even if just for a few moments.

Days come and go and Wilbur thinks he can trick himself into believing that night never happened. The next day Wilbur went back to the apartment and George smiled at him with that beautiful smile and said he missed Wilbur. He hugged Wilbur and said he hopes he feels better. Wilbur thinks it's okay, because he doesn’t need to kiss George, or date him, take him out, love him or marry him. If the rest of their friendship stays with friendly soft smiles and warm hugs, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need George in a specific way, he just needs George.

George let’s Wilbur pretend it never happened, he let’s Wilbur hug him and cuddle like Wilbur never confessed. Sometimes George is hesitant, like he’s scared Wilbur will blow up again. Like Wilbur will crack and break. He pretends he doesn’t notice. He pretends like the moments don’t build in his head, making it hurt in ways he didn’t know was possible. He lets George think he doesn’t notice.

When George brings up his boyfriend, he’s hesitant and a little scared. Wilbur doesn’t blame him, he tries not to think about George’s boyfriend either. When he comes to the apartment to pick George up, George is quick and never lets the two of them linger for long. He’s quick and never lets Wilbur talk to his boyfriend.

Maybe it should hurt, maybe it shouldn’t, Wilbur isn’t sure. It’s not exactly like there’s a guide on how to be in love with your best friend, no matter how many movies he can watch, how many fictional books he can read, it never resonates with him. He thinks his life is on autopilot at this point, he lets it guide him around his life, in class, at home, with George. Days pass by in dazes and he tries not to think too hard, tries to block everything out. He tries not to linger on George, tries to keep a distance that makes the both of them comfortable and safe.

He wants it to be fake, that it was a terrible nightmare and he will wake up and it will be gone but it’s not, it’s life and he tries not to feel too upset. He can’t do anything, he can’t magically get George to like him, to break up with his boyfriend. So he swallows it and smiles at George, tells him he’s genuinely happy for him, tells him that he doesn’t mind, he’s not made of glass.

He lets George believe it. That he’s not made of glass. He tells George he’s tough, he’ll be fine, George doesn’t need to baby him. He’s not going to go into a rage of jealousy and beat up his boyfriend, he’s not going to take it out on George, or make George do something uncomfortable. George believes him. He smiles at Wilbur and Wilbur thinks this is finally when we see change.

Wilbur let’s himself believe that he’s not made of glass, too.

They’re twenty-four.

Well, Wilbur is. It’s his birthday and he’s spending it with Niki and Jack, the three of them hanging on a park bench while they eat sandwiches from a restaurant nearby. It’s kind of lame but they’re also poor and twenty-four so they don’t have very high expectations. He’s not into partying and George has a boyfriend so he doesn’t let himself linger on any fantasies.

Since confessing Wilbur thinks he’s gotten better. He’s not over George, but it feels less suffocating. Knowing George doesn’t reciprocate is a weirdly freeing feeling. It’s not fun to be unrequited, but it doesn’t necessarily matter because he always cuts his fantasies of holding George in more intimate ways short, he thinks less of kissing George and feeling his soft lips on his own. For some reason it’s a better feeling. To know he can’t have it.

“Any other plans?” Jack asks, his mouth is once again full of some sandwich that Wilbur didn’t pay attention to when Jack was ordering.

Wilbur shrugs, “I think George and I are watching a movie tonight. It’s been a while.”

Wilbur’s confession pulling them apart in subtle and killing ways goes unsaid. But not unnoticed.

Niki smiles, “That sounds fun!” She says, her voice is cheery and genuine, Wilbur can tell. It makes his stomach settle. “What are you going to watch?”

Wilbur pretends to think, “I dunno.” He lands on. “I know it’s my birthday but I don’t really care, just kinda wanna spend time with him.”

She smiles at him and he knows she means well, that she cares.

“Maybe we should all date instead.” Jack says.

“What?” Niki sputters.

“Wilbur, I think, is in love with the two of us. He’s spending his birthday with us!” Jack seems genuinely excited at the prospect.

Wilbur knows what he’s doing but he laughs anyway.

“You are so ridiculous.” He says.

Jack shakes his head, “No, because we are his, like, best friends, I think we would be so sexy if we went poly.”

“Did you drink before getting here?” Niki asks.

“Are you telling me you don’t want to go poly with Wilbur?”

Niki stares at Jack with deadly intent, it makes Wilbur laugh more. The three of them burst into laughter and giggles as they continue to eat their sandwiches and bicker. It makes Wilbur feel so grateful, he can feel his heart swelling up with love for his friends. His life has been lacking so much laughter, it’s a breath of fresh air when he sees the two of them. With Jack’s antics, it feels impossible to not have fun.

Wilbur pretends to not know that the whole world walks on eggshells around him. He knows it's his fault, because he barely shows his emotions, so when he breaks down, they all take it hard. And he knows it’s because they care. But as days bleed into weeks and time passes slower and hazier than before, he can’t find himself to care. Because he looks out the window and sees George kiss his boyfriend goodbye, because his boyfriend isn’t allowed to be around Wilbur. He knows it’s because George means well and does it because he thinks it’ll help Wilbur, but he sees George with a smile brighter than the sun and sees it fade as the boy leaves to go home and all he feels is guilt. A heavy feeling in his stomach, knowing he stands in between George and genuine happiness, something he’s always wanted.

He doesn’t want to make it all about him, to sound incredibly selfish and pretend that the world stops and goes for him. So he also pretends that George’s boyfriend really does just have to go. And it has nothing to do with Wilbur who sits perched on the windowsill in the apartment. It has nothing to do with the dramatic confession that was nearly three months ago. Nothing to do with the feeling that remains blooming in Wilbur’s chest, threatening to leave thorn marks on his heart.

It’s nothing personal.

That’s what he repeats to himself when he hears the locks click, a telltale sign of George coming home.

Wilbur waits a few seconds, because he doesn’t want to come off too strong, like he’s still obsessed and in love with George.

“In here!” He does end up screaming out.

George walks in, after a few moments, not that Wilbur’s counting. “Hey,” He says softly. His voice is sweet and it soothes Wilbur’s anxiety that seems to never leave. Wilbur smiles at him, still sitting on the windowsill in his bedroom, pulling at the strands on the drapes. “What’s up?” George asks, sitting down on Wilbur’s bed.

“Nothing, I guess.” Wilbur says. But there is something. It’s not much, but he wants people to stop acting like he’s glass and porcelain. Like tomorrow he will shatter on the ground in a million pieces.

“You guess?” George jokes, lighthearted. Wilbur smiles at him again. It won’t reach his eyes but he plays it off on nerves, not heartbreak. “I’m going on a date tomorrow.” Wilbur says. George blinks a few times before nodding, “Really?” He’s not judging, nor is he accusing. He’s just reacting. Asking as a way to let Wilbur speak more.

“Yeah, I know it’s been really weird lately, because of what happened, what I did. I just wanted to let you know that it’s fine, and you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.” Wilbur says. He doesn’t sound very sure of himself ( because he isn’t ) but he hopes George doesn’t prod further.

George nods slowly, but doesn’t speak. The silence washes over them like waves crashing against the shore. Wilbur thinks he’s drowning. He can feel the tide taking him below, feeling the water enter his lungs and tear them out. He can feel the salt in the back of his tongue and he just wishes George would say something, anything. He can’t breathe. He can’t feel his fingers, he thinks they’re going to turn blue.

“It’s not your fault.” He lands on. It makes Wilbur blink a few more times.

“I didn’t have to tell you.” Wilbur says. Because it’s true. He didn’t have to say anything, he didn’t want to say anything. But he’s always been too brash for his liking, a little too forward, a little off-putting.

“I want you to tell me these things, Will. I’m sorry if I don’t handle it the greatest, but I’m trying. And I care about you. I want you to be happy. I’m always here for you. I’m happy you’re trying, you deserve to be happy and you deserve to have someone love you for everything about you.” George smiles at Wilbur. It’s a mix between sadness and happiness. Like George is still deciding which to be.

“I love you.” Wilbur says. George nods, walking over to Wilbur and embracing him in his arms.

“I love you, too.” George says.

They’re sitting on the museum bench.

“It’s weird to think that different colors on paper can seem so beautiful in a way that barely makes sense. It’s weird to think people can look at it and can see memories and videos and things that surpass the painting.” George speaks up.

“I guess.” Wilbur says.

Dates come and go for Wilbur. The truth is, he doesn’t even want to go on them. But everytime he tells George he has a date, George gets this look in his eye and a smile that resembles before, so he sucks it up and goes on dates with men and women. None of them are George and maybe it’s supposed to be a good thing, he’s not sure. But he can barely last a few dates with them. The ratio of him breaking it off and them breaking it off are 50/50. They can usually sense that he won’t be into them, and some of them try, pretend they don’t see the signs. But they always do, and it always ends up in a sense of dread that has made permanent residence in Wilbur’s stomach.

George is newly single -- too. His boyfriend of far too long had called it quits a few weeks back. Told George a bunch of bullshit that Wilbur can barely remember because he wasn’t paying attention, too focused on soothing George’s tears. George fully believes Wilbur has moved on, he’s not sure why, but he lets George believe it. Because now George will cuddle with him again, go on outings, cry to him about his ex-boyfriend. All of it. And Wilbur is selfish, so he accepts it and goes along with it.

Wilbur looks into the painting that sits in front of them. The sunset colors meshed together in a way that’s so beautiful to him. There are specs of white splattered on it, the orange and pinks meeting together in a pretty engagement. He understands what George meant by his statement. Because he doesn’t really understand how people paint, and how some are considered brilliant and others are plain rubbish. He doesn’t know how people judge it, but he doesn’t really care. Because he looks to his left and sees the blush that rests on George’s cheeks and he thinks that he’s the prettiest sight he’s ever seen. The painting’s will always pale in comparison. Whenever George is involved. He looks at George and smiles.

“Maybe it’s because I’m colourblind.” George says.

Wilbur nods, “Yeah, that would put a dent into the art thing.”

“I’d be a very good artist if I tried.” He says. Wilbur smiles and nods, “Yeah, I can see it.”

“Paint is paint. How do you see shit in it?” George asks.

Wilbur shrugs and turns back to the painting that lays in front of them.

He stares intently, furrowing his eyebrows and narrowing his eyes. His brain hurts slightly because he’s trying oh, so hard.

“I can’t see shit!” George complains, his voice borders slightly on a whine.

Wilbur laughs, “It’s not a competition, George, you can just appreciate it.”

“I can barely see it.” He deadpans. Wilbur rolls his eyes.

“Then pretend.”

George is silent, he stares at the painting for what seems like centuries. Wilbur stares, too. He soaks it in, not moving or even fiddling with anything, he gets lost in his head, in thoughts that sit in the depths of his mind. He lets the quiet humming and footsteps of others get in his head, letting the noise drone out. He takes in his surroundings, committing everything to memory. The small dust that sit on top of paintings, the scuffle of people’s shoes, the sounds of hushed conversation.

“I see it.” George announces. His chest is puffed up, like he’s proud of his finding. Wilbur turns to George, locking eye contact with him. “Yeah?” He says. George nods, “Yeah.” “Tell me about it.” Wilbur says.

And so George does, “I see two people, sitting on a beach, looking at the ocean. They want to travel the world, leave their current one behind. They want more. They want to be together forever, them against the world. But they can’t. So they sit, waiting and waiting for something to happen. For something big to take them away, give them a purpose. I see people that want more in life but are scared for the step. So they sit and wait. But it will never come, so they stay in the sand, letting it overtake them until they’re no more.”

“Sound’s grim.” Wilbur says.

George shrugs, “Hey, I didn’t come up with it!” Except he did.

Wilbur looks back at the painting, narrowing his eyes, trying to see what George sees. Trying to see the two people who have been doomed since childhood. Trying to see the two people who will never get their happy ending, never get their big adventure. He tries to see two people who sit and wait, wait for nothing to ever show up and come. He narrows his eyes even more, making sure that no stone is left unturned.

All he finds is a sinking feeling in his chest, his heart beating so erratically fast that it’s going to run out on it’s own. He can feel the caffeine run through his veins and he genuinely thinks he could break into a rock.

“Hm. . .” Wilbur hums out.

“Don’t take it too seriously, I was just fucking around.” George says, his tone is light and airy and it’s everything that Wilbur isn’t. George is easy and he’s weightless. He floats in and out of people’s lives, comes and goes. He’s easy to get along with, easy to love, he’s everything that Wilbur isn’t. He doesn’t demand the same consistency that Wilbur does. He wants more, when Wilbur gave up on that a long time ago. He wants to adventure, go out. Wilbur is fine with his life, because he realized a long time ago that he can’t control animals or plants and not even his own family.

Wilbur nods.

He doesn’t see the two people in the painting.

Wilbur meets a girl. She’s sweet and kind and puts up with Wilbur even though he’s stupid and a little bit odd. For some reason, he feels a small click into place with her. He laughs with her and finds himself actually enjoying the time, not just going on another date to please George.

It’s been five months and he still sees her. They go on dates, hold hands, kiss, introduce themselves to their friends as boyfriend and girlfriend and it’s pretty mundane. It seems normal. He has fun, they go on dates that make Wilbur laugh until his stomach hurts. They kiss until Wilbur’s lips feel numb. They hold hands until Wilbur’s hands feel clammy and warm.

For the first time in years, Wilbur can feel himself breathe. George seems happy for him, too. He smiles with Wilbur as Wilbur recounts another date with her, one where they kissed so hard that Wilbur’s lips feel blue. George enthusiastically invites her over for dinner, cooks for her, welcoming her in like she’s family. He makes jokes about them getting married, jokes that Wilbur strategically laughs at, ignoring the dying feeling in his chest whenever he thinks about it too hard.

Life can’t be more perfect. So Wilbur lays on his kitchen floor with George, drunk, laughing at something he has forgotten about already.

“What do you like about her?” George asks.

“She’s kind, she’s always going on about her younger brother, how she is dedicated to him. To her whole family. She holds my hand and it’s cute. I like her passion, when she works, she puts her entire being into it. I like her spirit, she can hold her end up on the banter, that’s always a must. Umm. . . I dunno. I like a lot about her but my mind is, like, melting right now.” The two of them burst into giggles.

“That’s nice.” George settles on after the giggling dies down.

“Yeah, I really like her.” He says.

“I’m glad. You deserve to be happy, Will.” George says, his voice is quieter now.

“I do?” He says, turning his head to make eye contact with George.

George nods, as well as he can do on the tiled floor of their kitchen. “Of course.”

Wilbur smiles sadly.

“I used to like you, y’know.” George says.

Wilbur’s head spins.

“Huh?”

“When we were fifteen. After that fight, I realized something. I could never live without you. And I had meant it when I said I wanted us to get married.” George says.

Wilbur’s entire earth shatters.

“What?”

“Yeah, I never told you because I kind of grew out of when I hit, like, eighteen. Because I knew you’d never like me back.”

“Why?” Wilbur croaks out, his voice is breaking at the seams.

“Why what?” He seems confused.

“Why would you tell me this now? When I’m happy. When I was finally over it.” His eyes are burning now.

“I- what?”

“Why would you tell me now?” Wilbur asks again.

George looks confused, like Wilbur’s words aren’t making sense to him.

“I have to go.”

And with that, Wilbur gets off the kitchen floor and flops onto his bed. And he cries. He cries into his pillow, leaving marks and denting his pillow into the shape of him. He cries for the boy he used to be, the boy with no charisma and one friend. The boy who fell in love with his one friend, leaving a permanent hole in his heart because said friend could never love him back. He cries for the boy who pictured a perfect world with his best friend. He cries for the boy who sits on couches and beds, waiting for his best friend to come back to him. He cries for the boy who finally thought he found a happy ending, away from the constant heartbreak that he’s known for years. He cries and cries and it never stops.

They’re twenty-five.

They’re twenty-five and it’s stupidly reminiscent. Wilbur sleeps over at his girlfriend’s house, never telling her why, which is fine because she never asks why. She doesn’t ask why her boyfriend cries in her bed, doesn’t ask why he looks so beat up on a daily basis, why he looks barely alive. She accepts it and helps him. It makes him feel guilty.

They’re twenty-five and it’s been three months since Wilbur has said more than five sentences to George. George accepts it, never pushing any further from Wilbur. Even though Wilbur hadn’t officially moved out like George did all those years ago, it’s still not the normal. It’s not the boys that planned their life together in a sandbox. It’s different this time.

“I’m sorry.” George says one Wednesday, Wilbur sitting in the kitchen, drinking orange juice.

“Me too.” Wilbur replies.

“I feel awful. I was drunk and didn’t realize what I was saying, it was stupid.”

“I know, I’m sorry for ignoring you.”

“I deserved it.”

“It’s okay.” Wilbur replies, forcing a small smile onto his lips.

The shift is gradual. He gradually spends more time around their flat, hanging out there more and only sleeping over at his girlfriend's flat once or twice a week. He doesn’t know when it happens, when he starts spending more time with George again. But he starts to notice how much of his schedule is starting to revolve around him. It feels like old days, back when George and Wilbur didn’t do much but hang out with each other and do school work. Except they’re twenty-five so it’s no longer long division on the bedroom floor, but their computers on the kitchen counter, typing away at mindless files that have little impact on their lives.

They don’t address it. Wilbur doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why this feels so different from the last two times he’s run into this problem. He doesn’t know why he constantly has the sinking feeling back. It’s been eight months and he thinks he’s happy. He’s on top of the world.

He takes her on dates and kisses her stupid. They sit on balconies, holding each other and watch the city move below them. He whispers secrets about his life to her, secrets that she accepts and hugs him when he speaks. In hushed voices and silent rooms they exchange words that Wilbur never saw himself saying. They go out to the city and do stupid things, laughing incredibly loud when they make it back to the flat. They say stupid things to each other and run into the rain. It’s everything Wilbur expects.

So he doesn’t know why he can’t just let himself be happy.

He holds her hand and accepts the butterflies, accepts the feeling that swells in his chest as love. He sits on her bed, running his fingers through her hair, letting the silence wash through them like a warm bath. He feels happiness but--

He doesn’t know what that but is, but he knows it’s there. It makes him sick. He doesn’t think about it often, because he refuses to let the but suffocate his life with her. He only lets the feeling cut through his gut in the hushed silence of night, when he lies on his bed alone, sheets skewed on his bed, feeling warm and cold all at the same time. He lets himself dwell on shitty feelings that he’s never learned how to process. It makes him think back to when he first realized he loved George. Sitting in his kitchen, remembering their childhood, hands being held on the slide when they were five. Remembering George’s spirit when they were ten, remembering when they were fifteen and yelling at each other in the safety of their bedrooms.

He remembers George’s face when he told him he loved him. The feeling that had reached into his heart and tore it out, like it was nothing but a mere stray cotton that stayed on his shirt. He remembers the despair he felt when George told him that he doesn’t love him like that. It makes him just a little bit sick when he remembers them on the kitchen floor, George telling Wilbur that at one point, George reciprocated. That George looked at Wilbur and felt the same swell of love that Wilbur felt.

Felt.

He holds her hand. They sit on the couch, watching a rerun of a movie they’ve seen before, letting the noise fill the room and ignore the prospect of actually speaking to each other. It’s not that they can’t. They just don’t want to. Or, Wilbur doesn’t.

“Hey!” George shouts, walking into the room. It’s a loud disruption to the quiet voices that come from the television.

She turns her head, “Hey George.” She says, her voice is soft and airy. Wilbur wonders when that became a pattern.

“Hey!” He says, sitting down next to them on a loveseat next to the couch.

“What’s up?” She asks, sitting up straighter because she likes people to know that she cares when they talk.

“I’m bored, work is killing me slowly, the normal.” George shrugs. He looks really nice, Wilbur thinks. He’s not in his usual sweats, he’s in jeans and a shirt that Wilbur hasn’t really seen before. He looks far too nice for him to have just been in his room coding.

“You look nice,” Wilbur hums. George looks surprised, like he hadn’t expected Wilbur to notice. Wilbur wonders why.

“Thanks.” George says, looking bashful.

“Yeah, you do! Someone special?” She jokes, her voice is lighthearted, both boys know that George doesn’t really have to answer, because she doesn’t actually care like that.

“Not really, I was just talking to my friend. He said that dressing like you’re awake, or whatever, would help battle my drowsiness.”

“Did it work?” Wilbur questions.

“Kind of, I think.” George laughs. It’s not a full laugh, a laugh where he goes all out and lets his eyes bulge out of his head slightly. But he smiles and it doesn’t look too incredibly forced, so he lets it go. Not that he would ask now, because how do you explain to your girlfriend that you memorized your best friends laugh.

She nods, dropping the conversation from going any further, turning her attention back to the screen.

She reminds him of Niki. They sit in her apartment, playing with each other’s hands, and she looks at him in the way that Niki used to look at him when they were nineteen.

“It’s okay, you know.” She says, playing with a ring on his pointer finger.

“I dunno what you’re talking about.” He doesn’t.

“Listen, Wilbur, I like you, I do. You listen to my rants about batshit, and you walk around the city with me at the asscrack of dawn. You hold my hand when I want to and drop it when I get squirmy. You hold me like you actually care, you kiss me like you pour your entire being into the kiss. I like it. I like you, Wilbur.” She starts, she’s still fiddling with his fingers but she stares into Wilbur’s eyes. She has a passion behind her eyes that he doesn’t get.

“I don’t understand.” Because he doesn’t.

“I notice, a lot.”

“I know you do, it’s why I like you so much.”

She winces at his words, he doesn’t know why.

“I know you do, to some extent. But it’s not the same, it won’t ever be the same.” She says, her eyes are boring holes into Wilbur’s own. It makes him dizzy.

“The same?” He whispers, because he thinks that if their voices are any louder, it’ll break him.

“As him.”

He knows now. He knows who the him is. He doesn’t have to ask. He doesn’t know what to say, though. Words race through his mind and he’s not sure which is the best to land on.

“It doesn’t matter.” He lands on. It’s pretty stupid because a million different words pop into his brain. Like, I’m sorry, and I tried, and I like you. But those don’t come out.

“It does, Wilbur, to me. I can’t be with you knowing that you don’t love me.” She says. Her hands stop fiddling with his fingers, and she’s serious. It makes Wilbur’s heart race.

“No, like,” He struggles with his words, sentences and letters jumble in his brain and he can barely think.

“I really like you, I do. I like holding your hand and going on dates, running around the city, sharing milkshakes, eating dinner with you. I really like you. What do I have to do to prove it?”

“Wilbur, it doesn’t matter. I can see it in your eyes when you look at him.” She sounds so sad. And it’s all his fault. Because he’s an idiot.

“It doesn’t matter! He doesn’t love me like that, he told me. He told me he would never love me like that. And I’m still working through it, but I really like you. I think if we just keep on moving, it would be fine. That’s what I keep telling myself. I don’t want to hurt you, so if you do want to leave, that’s okay. But I wasn’t trying to lead you on, or get you tangled in my shit. I just liked you.” He tries to explain. It’s a shitty explanation, he knows. His words are tangled and mixed together and he can’t untie them.

“Wilbur,”

“No! I- I. I just want to be happy, don’t I deserve to be happy? I just want to be happy. But I’ve been like this since I was fucking five. I’ve let my life be consumed with him to the point where I barely know one without him. And I’m not mad, not really. But I love him so much, it hurts. It hurts in my bones. I would see him with these boys and they wouldn’t treat him the way I could. I’ve known him since we were five, since we were playing in the sandbox and now we’re twenty-five and I’m crying in my girlfriend's flat because he won’t ever love me back. It sucks so fucking much because I’m twenty-five and just want to be happy. And when I think I am, he still hurricanes into my life. He comes and crashes and I don’t fucking get it.” He’s sobbing.

She looks at him, he can’t tell what’s behind her eyes. Whether it’s pity or sadness or some other emotion with a depressing descriptor and proof that Wilbur can’t ever be happy.

“I’m sorry, Wilbur. You do deserve to be happy.”

“We aren’t codependent.” He says, because he can hear her saying it. She nods at him, allowing him to talk further. “We spend time without each other, it’s not his fault.” Because he has this innate feeling to defend him.

She nods, “Yeah, I know.”

They sit in the room, letting the silence suffocate them.

“I love him.” Wilbur says. She nods again. “Yeah, I know.” Her eyes are softer now. He can still barely read them. But he lets it go. She leans over and hugs him, letting him lower his head into her shoulder, the saltwater that lays on his cheeks transfers to her shirt.

He’s twenty-six.

“Am I destined for happiness?” He asks Niki. They sit in Niki’s flat, listening to the music that Niki has on shuffle, the two of them reading their phones and laying on her bed. She looks at him like he’s crazy. “Of course.” She says, putting down her phone.

“I thought I was happy with him, you know? And I am. I love seeing him in the morning and at night, I love seeing him in the kitchen making me soup, I love when he sits me down and tells me about his day. I love when he tells me about shit he coded that afternoon, when he explains to me all about different things that he sees in the world. I love him. But he doesn’t love me, and when I tell myself to move on, to find someone else to love, I always think I’m happy. I think I’m the happiest I could be, but there was always a but. Like I’m happy but. I just. She told me she liked me, but she couldn’t watch any longer. And I really liked her, maybe I could have loved her. If I tried. If I kept on going.”

Niki frowns at him, pushing a bang out of his face. “You deserve to be happy, Wilbur. If anyone on this planet deserves to have a smile on his face, it’s you.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?”

“It will. I don’t know when, but it will. You will walk into your house and feel an overwhelming feel of love for someone, and they will reciprocate it. They’ll kiss you back and you’ll know it was worth it. You’ll love them so much it hurts your heart, and they’ll love you back so much that it hurts their bones. You will get your overwhelming, all encompassing love.” She explains. And it makes so much sense, when she says it. He craves the overwhelming and thrilling love that he’s seen in the movies. Her words remind him of things and people, perfectly envisioning a picture where he drops his bags at the front door, a figure running to him, hugging him and planting a perfect kiss square on his lips.

They’re eighteen and freshly moved out. Him and George spent so much money and time finding the perfect flat, it’s a miracle it’s here. He remembers the haggling process, how they felt when they finally secured it, when they held each other so tight they couldn’t breathe.

They’re eighteen and George runs to Wilbur everytime he comes home from class. He runs and jumps into Wilbur’s arms, squeezing the fucking life out of him. Wilbur laughs and asks George what’s the special occasion. George blushes and says there is no special occasion, he just missed him. Wilbur accepts it. He hugs George every day, letting George run into his arms and drag him to the couch.

They’re nineteen and it’s been well over a year since the tradition and it doesn’t stop. They’re twenty and it doesn’t stop. They’re twenty-one and George does it less, purely because George comes home later than Wilbur now. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. They’re twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four and twenty-five. And Wilbur forgets. He forgets the feeling of coming home to George, having him jump into his arms and squeezing him. He forgets and yearns for the past.

He’s twenty-six and sits in Niki’s flat and thinks.

They’re twenty-six.

“Tell me about it.” Wilbur says, out of the blue.

They sit on the couch, letting music from a Spotify playlist that isn’t their own play through the soft speakers.

“About what?” George asks, looking genuinely confused.

“You told me you used to like me. When we were fifteen. What was it like?” Maybe it’s wrong to ask, because they’re twenty-six and single and Wilbur is so used to heartbreak that he barely remembers what it’s like to be in love with someone. Wilbur remembers when he came home to George after Niki’s. When George asked where she was. He had to answer truthfully, that he didn’t love her and it was unfair to her. Maybe something clicked in George’s eyes that day, maybe Wilbur can trick himself into believing he saw hope in George’s eyes. But he doesn’t tell George he didn’t love her because he loved him, he tells George that it was mutual. They didn’t love each other and didn’t see a future together.

So George held Wilbur when he cried. George soothed him, telling him that he would find someone one day. But it made Wilbur cry more. Because he didn’t want someone, he wanted the person who held him when he cried in his bed. He wanted the person who jumped into a sandbox and kicked sand onto his cheeks. He wanted the person who stood up for him and retrieved his sandwich from bullies. He didn’t want a girl’s touch on his arms when they ran through the city, nor the brash touch of a boy who barely knew how to handle his own strength.

He wanted the person who held him when life got too overwhelming, he wanted the person who told him that it was okay, that he didn’t need to rule the world to achieve happiness. He just needed a few individuals who stood next to him and held his hand at his grandfather’s funeral. He didn’t need to save the flowers from wilting, he just needed the person next to him who held his arm as they watched.

“I- if you want.” George sounds scared and unsure. Because it’s been too long since either of them mentioned what happened, and Wilbur knows why George would be scared. He would, too. “I do.” Wilbur assures him, he reaches out and squeezes his hand. Because he’s tired of denying the feelings that have been festering in him since he was a boy, he’s tired of running away and wanting other people to fill some weird void. He just wants to hold George’s hand and sees him smile.

“I guess, after our fight, we hugged for, like, an eternity. We held each other and cried and then fell asleep in your bed. I remember waking up with this pounding feeling in my chest and I didn’t really know why, but then I looked down and saw you sleeping so peacefully and it kind of faded. I don’t know when I recognized it as love, but I knew I did. I was so scared, at first. Because neither of us grew up with ideals on each side, so I didn’t know if it was normal or not, if my parents would still love me. If you would still love me. So I didn’t tell anyone.

“It kind of killed me, because we didn’t keep anything from each other, so this was my first, like, real thing that I had ever kept from you. I felt awful, every day. I felt so dirty. Because I was in love with you and you trusted me on such an intimate level, I always felt like I was violating that. Whether I was or wasn’t, it didn’t matter. Because I felt it. Every day.”

Wilbur’s heart sinks when George talks, because he didn’t know George struggled like that. Wilbur never struggled with that feeling, just the thought that George would never reciprocate. He never cared about his sexuality, still refusing to label it to this day. He likes who he likes, and he likes George so he never saw the point in ever going further. The boys and girls he dated seem so redundant when he sits with George, holding his hand and feeling the warmth from his hands radiate in his own.

“I’m sorry, George.” Wilbur says. George shrugs, “It’s fine, it was a really long time ago.” Wilbur nods, “Yeah, but, still,” George keeps talking, though. “It’s really funny, when you told me you loved me, I was kind of transported to being sixteen and being terrified in your room, how I was shaking, telling you I was gay. It just reminded me of the overwhelming dread in my stomach. But I had a boyfriend and I didn’t know what to do, so, I kind of ignored it. I thought he made me happy. I actually did. I thought all of them did. I don’t know why, I should have done something when you told me. But I had just gotten over the feelings and I was scared for our friendship and I spent every day overthinking about it all. I shielded him from you, but not because of you, because of me. It was really stupid, I know. But it’s not like there’s really a textbook on being in love with your best friend.”

Being in love with your best friend?

“W-what?” Because Wilbur’s ears burn and his cheeks are flushed pink.

“I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot.” George says but Wilbur doesn’t want to hear that. “I remember sitting on a park bench with him and feeling so fucking stupid, feeling the stupid thing in my stomach, stabbing me. I felt like I was genuinely dying, every day. And it was all my fault. I let you believe I didn’t love you. I don’t know why. I thought it was better off that way, I thought that it would be okay. Because I didn’t believe you loved me like I had fantasized about. I thought it was fleeting and you were going to change my mind and tomorrow you were going to leave me. I couldn’t handle it. I could handle guys coming and leaving, breaking my heart month after month, but not you, never you.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Wilbur says. He’s not for certain, because he’s still unsure of himself. And he didn’t want to hurt anyone, ever, but he has before.

“I know, I’m sorry.” George says. And then the silence blankets them once again. In a cozy feeling, when you were just in the cold and crave the warmth of wool. It blankets you and keeps you warm on a cold winter night, protecting you from the cold bite of the frost. But then it gets too warm and starts suffocating you, taking you by the neck and taking everything out of you. Strangling you for all your worth.

“She left me, because she knew.” Wilbur starts. “She knew that I looked at you like you hung up stars, like you were the only person in the world. I told her that it didn’t matter, because you didn’t love me. But she said it didn’t matter, because she knew how much I loved you, no matter what.

“And then after that I told Niki, she hugged me and she told me I deserved an overwhelming and all encompassing love, someone who would hug me when I got home. I deserved someone to hold me in my hard times, someone who held my hand and kissed me breathless. That I deserved them and I would find them and it would all be okay. I sat there and listened to her words. Really listened. I listened to the words and everything in between, and I remembered.”

George looks at Wilbur with this hopeful look in his eye, it’s undeniable. He looks at him like he’s holding the key to the universe, like Wilbur holds the last bottle of water and George is dying of thirst. He holds onto every word that comes past Wilbur’s lips, holding onto them like he could die.

“I just remembered you, when you used to run up to me when we were younger and stupider, tell me how much you missed me, because we weren’t used to going to different schools at different times. I remembered you kicking sand into my mouth, telling me you were going to be my Best Man. I remembered you holding me when my granddad passed away, you holding my hand as I started to realize that I couldn’t have the world, not even a little bit. But it was okay, because you were there, squeezing the fucking life out of me, but I loved it. I loved all of it. I loved you. I love you.”

George blinks a few times. He keeps opening his mouth, like he wants to say something, anything. But he doesn’t. He keeps his mouth shut, and Wilbur can see the wheels that turn behind George’s eyes. He squeezes George’s hand.

“I love you, Will, I’m sorry it took so long.” George says.

It’s all Wilbur needs to finally lean in and push his lips against George. He kisses George with the passion of a million burning suns, and it’s not perfect because they’re emotional and have pent up feelings that date back decades, but they’re George and Wilbur, so it’s perfect for them. George’s lips are soft and taste like cherries, just like Wilbur has always imagined. He feels the lips against his own, letting the feeling and the taste take him somewhere he had only dreamed of. He can’t believe it’s here as his right hand caresses George’s cheek, letting the grounding feeling of George’s skin against his own take him away.

They kiss for what seems like forever, then they pull away and stare into each other’s eyes. They stare and stare and bump foreheads together. They smile and let themselves giggle to cut the tension. Like they didn’t just express decades of pent up feelings and fleeting moments. They smile at each other and let themselves feel happiness.

They interlock hands, squeezing each other, reminding each other that they’re here. That they’re not perfect, but they’re there, in each other's space and they love each other.

He lets himself bask in the feeling of George, because he has him. He squeezes his hand like they were thirteen and staring in a funeral that seems too mature for his age. He lets himself lean into George like they were ten and George was protecting him from bullies. He holds George like they were twenty-three and Wilbur was consoling George after another breakup. Wilbur feels the burning in his stomach that first appeared when he was nineteen in a diner, watching George on a date. He holds George like he never had another in his arms, like George was the first and last.

He looks at George like he was five in the sandbox, watching an annoying kid kick sand into his mouth and ruin his plans to rule the world. But this time he has this fondness written over his face, like when he was eight and George promised to love him until the end of time. When he promised Wilbur that they would live together for the rest of their life.

It doesn’t matter, in that moment, if they don’t work out. If they fight and yell and come up with disagreement after disagreement, though, Wilbur can barely understand what they would fight about. Whether it’s how things are laid in the flat, how they hang out with their friends, when they go out. It doesn’t matter to Wilbur if they have a fight that blows up in their face and they go another five months without saying a word. He doesn’t care if it doesn’t work out, if they lay on a bed, breathless, and agree that they could never be romantic.

Because he holds George and he sees a future with a white picket fence and a dog and wedding bands on their fingers. He holds him and sees happiness at an altar, happiness as they play in the park with a dog that changes breed every time he blinks. He sees the happiness when he shakes with George, when they hold each other in bed, whispering sweet nothings to each other. When George lays on Wilbur’s shoulder and sighs deeply.

He doesn’t care if it blows up only to come together, to be a beautiful mess that Wilbur has come to expect in the past few years of adulthood. To fights of meaningless words, to passion coming to a null. He doesn’t care if they yell and throw things because they’re young and immature and in love in a way their friends can’t understand.

Because Wilbur is starting to memorize the soft feeling of George’s lips on his own, the feeling of his fingers caressing his cheeks, his arms, his biceps, all over him. He starts to memorize the way George blushes after he was kissed breathlessly. He looks and starts to commit every detail to memory, every hair that sticks out of place, every molecule that floats through the air. He commits the feeling to memory, because he has George in a way that was never seemingly possible by any stretch of the imagination.

So no, he doesn’t need to rule the world, he doesn’t need to become prime minister, he doesn’t need to watch over the life of every sunflower, every dandelion, every person, every grandpa. He doesn’t need to control the outcome of every solution, he doesn’t need to hold onto things and people that he doesn’t love. He doesn’t need to be a king and rule over the 7 continents. He doesn’t need any of it. He just needs his Best Man.

And as they sit on the couch, Spotify playlist still playing soft music in their ears, Wilbur knows he has him.