Work Text:
wasting your time
wilbur sucked a sharp breath in as he thanked the taxi driver who drove him to a nearby tram.
he let the breath out slowly, cold wind wrapping around his exhale and causing a fog to daze him momentarily. with eyes lidded, he viewed the dimming, fluorescent sign reading the time and approximate minute the tram would appear at the abandoned pick-up. two forty two. he clapped numbed hands together in a cupped shape, putting his curled fists to his air-chapped lips and blowing in hopes of warming some part of himself.
you're wasting mine
wilbur had just gotten into the final insignificant squabble he could handle with his partner – he felt so stupid for not realizing how abusive they were towards him, how in hindsight their emotional manipulation and constant grip of control over his life was ruining him and he couldn't handle it anymore – he stormed out of their shared flat, grabbing nothing but a tousled leather jacket and a bag he kept spare money and clothes in in case of emergency.
he wanted to show them how in control he was, how much power he had over himself; he was getting on that tram and finding a flat hours away. they weren't going to be able to harm him any longer, he wouldn't allow their eyes even flickering towards him over his dead body!
i hate to see you leaving
he heaved a hitched sigh as he begged his brain to let go of fond memories and distant revelations he held tightly onto during his relationship – he pleaded with his own subconscious to forget how lovesick he was, how he would do anything to stop them from loading their belongings into an old gym bag and dashing off to board a tram – but his mind wouldn't still as the impossible ideas of his once loving lover hitching a ride to the next town over fueled his grim imagination.
he felt at fault. it was his fault his partner didn't love him enough. and it was his fault his partner wanted him buried six feet under six cities away.
a fate worse than dying
a torrent of tears threatened to overbear his vision and bring his limp body keeling downwards; he made a fist of his left hand and quickly swiped all implications of a droplet from his eyes, his vice like grip on the battered fabric of the bags handle was the only thing keeping wilbur standing.
cursing himself for leaving his phone at his lo – his ex-partner's loft (though he'd only admit that through gritted teeth) – he begrudgingly brought his inconsistently stabilizing view to the barely working bulbs of the tram's clock. two forty seven. with barely any time having passed, he forced himself over to the nearest bench; being his luck it had been the singular (or the apparent singular) one with raindrops sprinkling it from the earlier flash rain shower.
your city gave me asthma
rushing a hand to his pocket, he quickly pulled out a handkerchief and coughed into it. if this damn place won anything it won first place in wilbur's tier list for 'the town i've gotten the most colds in.' he had always tried to convince his partner to head back to london; "it's just a town over, love. it won't require much effort to go there."
it was always futile.
so that's why i'm fucking leaving
the bright red of the ever dying bulbs finally read two fifty five – a tram always made its way by five after three – he silently cheered, abandoning his bag and moving to the painted tram waiting line.
he hummed a soft tune to himself, hoping his hobby would somehow ward off the cold pricks of air biting at his spine and ribs, freezer burns eating him from the inside out as the wind just blew harder and the temperature just dropped further.
and your water gave me cancer
he felt an even colder stab directly on his head; hail. it was hailing.
he'd always hated the weather here. london was cold and drab in a comfortable, welcoming way. here, it was bitter and distant – he felt unwanted, like his half-decade living there wasn't shit and that he was a patron checking in and out and in and out until his card declined and he was forced to exit.
he let the stone-cold tombs which were once his lungs breathe in the glacial oxygen; he palmed all of the icy, melting shards of balled hail off of his jacket before sparing a glance, once again, at the sign. two fifty seven. fuck.
and the pavement hurt my feelings
he slid to the ground, one leg hiked up so his foot was flat against the path and his knee was level enough to his arm for it to stretch over his bent leg. his other leg was stretched out, his lower leg teetering over the edge of the pavement and floating over the barren tracks. he bounced his balanced hand a bit, drumming the pads of his fingers on his calf to bide time.
shout at the wall
eventually, both of his legs were burrowed tightly to his chest to keep the invisible warmth alive inside of him. he rested wobbly elbows upon his kneecaps, chin lying pliant atop fanned out palms.
he took time to read graffiti surrounding him, scoffing at the work of a teenager with mommy issues. he could almost hear the anger from the beige of the wall; the scream of childhood trauma that painted over previous installments of colour. wilbur nodded his head along to his thought process, internally rooting for the kid's future success.
with a huff as he found nothing else interesting to distract himself with, he directed his mind to a blank state and stared at the mocking sign. two fifty nine. "fuck."
'cause the walls don't fucking love you
"fuck!" he had stressed hands knotted in his hair – his mental state finally taking a toll, finally settling in and fucking him over – he rocked his body to preserve any heat that wasn't from his own scorching hot fury.
he's out here freezing his ass off because of someone who ruined his life, he was beyond pissed.
shaking him from his thoughts was the ring of an obnoxious, old timey school bell like sound; three o'clock had finally hit.
shout at the wall
he used the heel of his palm to hoist himself up and off the paving. he took two long strides, grabbed his previously forgotten bag, and waited in the line again. the line that only consisted of him – he wasn't surprised – who else would be running away from a horrendous partner at three am?
who else would be running away from a horrendous partner at three am?
as he heard the blaring sound of the tram's wheels on the track, he sped downwards towards where it was coming from.
what better way is there to run from something
than to remove the problem
permanently?
with a leap, a train horn, and a feeling of instantaneous pain drowned out by total emptiness - wilbur's problem was solved.
'cause the walls don't fucking love you
there's a reason,
the london puts barriers on the tube line.
there's a reason,
the london puts barriers on the rails.
there's a reason,
the london puts barriers on the tube line.
there's a reason
they fail.