MCYTER ONE SHOTS (M)

I hope we both die. (schlattbur) (angst)

 Ship: Schlattbur
Prompts/TWs: alcoholism, arguing, guilt, unhealthy relationship i think, insults, just general angst shit. no comfort (well kinda but it's just their cycle)

   "No! I'm a horrible fucking person, why can't you understand that? I fucked up, just like I always do, stop trying to tell me it's okay! It's not!"

    "Schlatt, it is, you-"

     "No, no it's fucking not! I knew what I was doing! I knew... I knew, that if I let him walk out that door, he was going to suffer, his whole fucking family was going to suffer, but you know what, I did it anyways! I did it! And not for any fucking reason other than to cover for myself! You know that, you have to! Somewhere in that thick fucking brain you have to know." The words escaped Wilbur's throat quicker than he could conger them, leaving an empty, speechless void that seemed to drip something disturbing.

     "This isn't a movie, Wilbur. I'm not some good guy gone bad that you can just- love and accept into changing. I'm the villain. I- I have to be. Someone always has to be. The bad variable, it's always... me. Always has been. In almost ever situation. No matter how much I try and avoid it, Will."

    "Life doesn't always have to be black and white, Schlatt." Wilbur's tone was quiet, attepting to gulp back down the words as soon as they came out.

     "You think I don't fucking know that?" He says defeatedly, a sad anger quaking in his voice as he sits down on one of the stools facing the bar. "Just... please, Wilbur. I can't- I can't take it. You're always telling me how fucking amazing I am, how I'm doing better, how you're so fucking proud of me and I'm doing my best. But I'm not." His voice breaks. "I can't be. Because if this is my best, I don't-" his voice trails off into a quiver. Angrily, he shoved some magazines off the bar top, their pages flipping open and ripping on their way to the floor, a desperate empty attempt at he didn't even know what.

     Wilbur cautiously comes to put a hand on his shoulder, the man now holding his head in his hand, trying to hold back hot tears of anger, guilt, about every emotion concoctionable. Surprisingly, he allowed it to stay, gently rubbing on his shoulder with his thumb.

     Schlatt had about a million things he wanted to ask. It was practically bursting out of him. Why? Why me? Why did you have to fall in love with me? Why do you care about me? Why isn't there an easy way to set you free? Why can't we both just die? Wouldn't that just make this so much fucking easier for the both of us? Isn't that in itself, selfish? Or would it be nothing more than justice, retribution for all the awful fucking mistakes, no, choices he had done to everyone else around him, all the misery he caused?

    "I'm sorry." Was all that came out.

    "Shhh, it's okay, it's okay." He knew what he meant. What he was apologizing for. Not the things he'd done, but apologizing to Wilbur. He deserved more. "I love you, Johnathan." He places a tear stained kiss to his temple, what should have been burning with love only a acidic sickly sweet guilt crafted so divinely to cripple him.

    "Don't fucking do this to me, you know I can't keep... letting you-" he whispered out.

    "Will you please just let me talk for once?" Wilbur huffed angrily, cutting through to him. He always seemed to know just when he needed to toughen up to get through to him, however this time it was soon gone, his face soon melting back into a solemn version of itself.

     "I can't handle this right now, Wil." He pushed out of the seat he was sitting in, pulling away from him. "I have- I have to go." His voice broke, before trying to compose himself again as he turned to walk away. "Just- maybe, find me later, or something, I dunno."