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You sat on the cold, wet ground, waiting for someone to walk by and take pity on you; buy you a pint, maybe. Beer wasn't your favourite, but you'd take almost anything at that point. Nobody came. It didn't particularly come as a surprise, since it was 4 in the goddamn morning. Nobody in their right mind would be up at this time. (You tell yourself that you are the exception, ignoring the fact that you haven't been in your right mind for a long time now).
(Wilbur Soot tells himself you're out of your fucking mind, being up this early. He admits, though, he's no less crazy than you are).
Exhaling, you lay down, the rain seeping into your clothes. (They weren't your clothes, you reminded yourself, before promptly dismissing the thought). You closed your eyes, ignoring everything around you, just trying to have a moment of peace. A moment of peace was too much to ask for, apparently, because you could faintly hear footsteps approaching. Familiar footsteps.
(Wilbur smiled this morning as he noticed some of his clothes missing. One was your favourite jumper of his. He reminded himself of who stayed over the night before).
The figure walked closer, and you heard them sit down, before lying next to you. Annoying. You knew who this was, and he infuriated you to no end. (You tried not to think of the brown trench coat you were wearing, and the fact that it faintly smelled of cigarettes). However, despite what you thought of the man, you gave him credit for staying silent. It seemed that he did know when to keep his mouth shut, huh?
Wilbur admired your relaxed state, your features lit only by the moon above. The moon. It fascinated him how such a small thing could still give light to the world and, despite not being as bright as the sun, be just as stunning. You were quite similar to the moon, he thought. You were his moon. (He tried not to think of how lovestruck he sounded, or the fact you were wearing a familiar trench coat that had gone missing a few hours ago, his cigarettes slid into the left pocket).
You exhaled again. Well, that time it was more of a long sigh, but if your company noticed, he didn't comment on it. You both lay there. For how long? You had no idea, but it was nice, as painful as it was to admit. He adjusted his position a little, and you assumed he was facing you. At the sound of him moving, you couldn't help but crack an eye open a little, just to see him for a second. You were only checking to make sure he wasn't a threat, you told yourself. (You refused to think of how pretty his face was, and just how badly you wanted to stare at it).
Wilbur noticed your sigh, but didn't comment. He shook his head, knowing you couldn't see him, adjusting himself so that he was facing you. (He just wanted to see your face properly; you really did look pretty).
Brown eyes stared back at you, Wilbur's usual smirk wiped from his expression. In the dark, the white streak in his dirtied and damp hair stood out. Despite your best efforts, your eyes stayed on his for far more than just a second, and you ended up staring at him for a good few minutes. He gave you a small smile; not like his usual, cocky, arrogant smile, but a rare, sweet, genuine smile. You, personally, had never seen this smile from him, but you had heard it being described by Tommy. You realised that no amount of words could possibly capture this smile. You could feel your hands twitch, suddenly having the urge to paint him whilst the once-in-a-lifetime expression was still there. (Try as you might, you couldn't forget about the sketchbook hidden under your bed, filled with drawings of this man you "hated" so much). You smiled back at him.
His heart was racing as he smiled at you. You. He had no idea where the confidence came from, but he was going to embrace it. You weren't pushing him away, so he was going to carry on the way he was until you did. He knew that you loved his smile, just as he loved yours, so he kept smiling. If you asked, he would smile until his cheeks ached, and then, he would smile some more. He had seen Niki draw you smiling before, but for him, no amount of paint could possibly capture this smile. He could feel his hands twitch, suddenly having the urge to write a song whilst his muse was still in front of him. (He reminded himself to clean his room before letting you in later, because all the sheet music strewn around his room was filled with embarrassingly loving lyrics about you).
You stared. You were scared that if you stopped to blink for even a split second, his expression would be gone. You wanted to savour it as much as you could. He stared back at you, adjusting his position beside you a little more before reaching his hand out to grab your own, squeezing it lightly. You supposed it was meant to be some type of comfort. Even if he was never good at comforting people, he always knew exactly what you needed, whether it was his hand or a simple smile. (You found that your façade was slowly slipping away, and you hurriedly attempted to fix it, afraid he would see how much you really cared. Keyword: attempted). Finally, he spoke.
"You know I like you, right?" He looked calm, but he was practically radiating with nerves. This was mostly obvious because of his hand anxiously fiddling with your fingers, and he hadn't even noticed that he was doing it. (cute).
"I know." Your smile was genuine, something that only he had the privilege to witness. "I know, Will."