Can't Save Them All

Wilbur Doesn't Have a Good Time

In. Out. In. Out. He's gone. He's left you alone. You need to breathe. In. Out. Come on, lungs. Work. You will not pass out right now. Breathe.

Wil struggles to return to himself through the panic. While they wouldn't beat him for passing out here, they would be pissed at him for his failure. For drawing attention. For possibly lowering his sale price. That's all they cared about. The paycheck.

He tried to remember the man who stood there and asked for his master to manhandle him. The man with the stupid green and white bucket hat, the stupid brown eyes that looked at Wil with pity. Pity. Can you believe it? As though he chose to be locked up and sold. As though he chose to be a hybrid.

The iron dug into his wrists as he knelt on the ground. A length of chain kept his bound wrists tied behind his back and attached to the ground, preventing him from rising. He understood why he needed it, he was very crafty and has already tried to escape, but that doesn't mean he enjoys it. He is tired. His muscles are tired. He is also tired of this stupid muzzle. He knows the reputation of a siren has them all scared. Rumor has it one of his kind can sway anyone to do anything with only a few words in a sickly sweet, honeyed tone. If that were true, Wil would certainly not be in his current predicament. He knew that even if the muzzle was not forced on him, he would not make a noise. One of his previous masters has already ensured his silence.

The bang of the gavel brought Wil back to the present, sharp and snapping him out of the panic. It was starting. Just a bit longer and he'll be done. Hopefully able to stretch a bit, though he knows that decision is not up to him. He takes another deep breath and tries to shove all his anxiety about the future down into a little corner of his mind. He has no control of the situation, he shouldn't be this worried about it.

Wil tries to pay attention. He truly does. But the stress of the moment and the last few days catches up to him and he... just... leaves. Not physically of course, the chains and locks are doing a good job of holding him. Mentally, he checks out. He knows what's going on around him, it's just happening within a cloud. Kinda... fuzzy. Wil just takes a deep breath and allows it to happen. Allows himself to check out.

This has happened a couple of times before. Times he never really likes to remember, but he's grateful every time it does. Times where he can't handle it and his brain decides he only needs to exist. Nothing more. It's... peaceful. Quiet. Relaxing.

Too soon Wil's pulled back by a rattling of keys outside his cell. Quite a bit of time seemed to have passed. He quickly double checked his position to ensure everything was correct. He will not give his new master a reason to return him. At least not this early.

Well he could've checked his position if his legs weren't asleep. Stupid rules and stupid auction making him stay in one stupid place for way too many stupid hours. This whole process is stupid. The whole institution is stupid. Stupid handlers shoving the stupid muzzle onto his stupid face. Not like he'd let them hear his stupid voice anyway. Being a hybrid is stupid.

He was pulled from that train of thought with the click of a lock. They finally found the correct key. He looked up through his curls to see who ended up with him.

Blonde hair. Brown eyes. That stupid bucket hat. The man who indirectly manhandled him earlier. And called him a pet. Wil is not a pet. He will not do tricks for this man. A few more words were exchanged, papers traded hands and the auction owner moved away to the next hybrid. Hopefully Wil would never have to see that man again.

Keeping his head down, he gets a closer look at his new master. Or tries to. His curls are too long again. With all the dirt and grime in them it makes it hard to look through. Even though he cannot study his master as well as he'd like, Wil does prefer the longer hair. It allows him to make eye contact without the masters realizing. Small victories.

"Alright mate, let's get ya home." With that, the man approached Wil and started undoing the chain holding his hands. He tried not to flinch, he really did. But years of being conditioned to expect pain when a hand comes towards you is hard to break. He closed his eyes and braced for the pain that usually follows his flinch, only to hear a key click in a lock and the length of chain holding him down dropping. He slowly opened his eyes to see his master step back in front of him.

"Alright, up you get." Wil struggled up, his hands still tied making it difficult. He managed, or tried to manage. As soon as he got his legs under him he stumbled forward towards his master. The man quickly put up his arms and caught him before he fell.

Wil froze. Aw shit, he fucked up. He can't even stand properly, stupid fish brain. Stupid legs not doing the one thing they were made for. And now he touched his master, his new master, without permission and now he was going to be punished or he was going to get returned and he hadn't even left the auction house yet and his master will leave him here and he was still touching his new master. Wil scrambled to get his feet under him, taking a step back and bowed his head. He would get on his knees to beg for mercy but that's what got him in the situation in the first place and why wasn't his master saying anything and why are there black spots forming OH SHIT breathing that's something that he's still supposed to be doing. Wil tries to take a couple of breaths to try to stem the panic before glancing through his bangs at his new master.

The man was watching with his head tilted. He kept his hands by his side this time as he was saying "...easy mate, just breathe, there you go. See, no harm done. Follow my breathing. In, hold, out." Wil tried to follow, tried to be good, tried to breathe with the man. After a couple of minutes he caught on and caught his breath. The entire time the man just breathes with him, never rushing the process, never complaining about the scene Wil was making.

"Atta boy. Good job. No harm done. Let's get you home." Home. What a subjective word. "I do have to keep your hands tied until we get off property. Are you alright to walk?" Wil nodded to the man. That was a question. He could answer questions. He could be good.

His master smiled and started to walk off, glancing behind him to ensure Wil was following. Wil could follow. He could be good. He stayed exactly three steps behind, kept his head down, moved silently, and followed his master out to the car. To his new life. To his new ... home?