wanderlust » smplive au

chapter xi - dreamer

i'm just a dreamer, who dreams of better days

trigger warning - injection imagery (i went wild)

—

There and then, the dim scenario of the land stretched out before him layed down upon him, tearing off his composure. It was a moment of truth and rawness as he let his emotions seep through. A fucking fever dream.

Frantically, almost desperately, he gripped at his sides, tearing at his jacket, as if it was his last sense of reality. He felt cold, he felt vulnerable. The way he'd felt so vulnerable created an ablicant filter in his vision, the weakness and the regret soaking through like wet paint. Haematic liquid swelled in the horizon of his sight, almost tugging, tearing, dripping down his face destructively.

Was he turning into a monster? A fictional being? Or was he purely exhausted? If so, of what, for what, why, and how the fuck?

Distraught, he imagined the thorns of his mind prickling and embosoming him, he tried to convince himself it was all a dream.  A stupid fever dream.

He must be high, drunk. Surely.

Pure confusion impaled him, the thorns, they burnt. They stung, expanding inside of him, he collapsed.

A distant ringing injected his sanity, repeating, just like those words inside of his mind. A fever dream.

His skeletal fingers wrapped around the object, making contact with the virid button. Briefly, a toned, American accent could be sensed from within the void. His daze swiveled, he was surely about to pass.

"Wilbur! Please, please, say something!" The words were blurry, it's like he could visibly imagine the transparency of them.
A slow groan pierced through his ears as his vision entirely, yet so mockingly slowly became unnaturally white.

—

"Please, please tell me he's alright." A distressed frequency of words cut through the void. It swirled around.

It was mustard brown. It looked brown. Brown meant safe. Brown is comfort. Brown was surely familiar.

Further on, the grasp of the frequency failed, a short snap of wires, as if.

"Do you hear me?" There it was again, that familiar brown looking sound. Now vibrantly orange. God, so piercingly fruitful.

Connect? Independent? Now was the moment of variation, the choice.
Moment of truth.
It felt like a script, more of a scroll enrolled beyond his understanding. He'd no clue, no understanding, no idea, of what this stupid fever dream was.

Life felt so white. Pure, painful, truthful.
The other option... was so brown. So purely, hesitantly brown, like a bait.

This all felt so grey.
He felt himself speed down to the alluring colour. Firm on his decision, he reached, not just with his limbs, he furiously pressured through.

—

[ irl switch ]

Lethargically, they balanced on the log, in seperate, leisural, congenially focused. A monumental breeze had swept through the area, to advantage and disadvantage; balance would be harder but the temperature would decrease.
"Wilbur, grab my hand, I'll catch you," Charlie requested, "I promise!"
The Britishman was about to enquire, puzzled about the height difference and how the action would fail. He decided not to, the last he wanted was a discussion; he was the direct opposite of Schlatt.

Apart from the largely introverted mindset, of course.

He trespassed, carefully, then seizing the blonde's hand, and in greatfulness, fistbumping him.
"Hell yeah!" They grinned simultaneously.

Only Schlatt was left out of them all, Carson attempted to aid him on the second log, but the horned man was far too stubborn, the ambition getting the better of him.

"Carson, no! That would be gay. Holding hands is strictly gay in my book, he declared."
"But if I said no homo! Would that be enough?" The man with the bowl haircut claimed, contrasting incredibly in opinion.

"Honestly I don't regret leaving Connor behind, he would throw hands in this situation." Ted sighed, enfolding his arms in a prestigious manner, gaping at his feet and tapping his foot on the mushy ground.

Joko yawned, perching on the log, like Son. Schlatt was right, he was a fucking parrot.