Work Text:
wilbur still hated schlatt; dont get him wrong. everytime he thought of his stupidly pretty face he wanted to scream and cry and punch a wall, and everytime he thought of his stupid voice he wanted to stab himself 27 times in the stomach, but you cant blame a guy for missing someone they used to be so close to.
in the forest near when l'manberg used to be, wilbur had made a little..grave? if you could really call it that. it was just a little headstone with schlatts name and some stupid message about how he was a bitch and wilbur hated him engraved into it with a knife or something. its the thought that counts.
wilbur would bring flowers to it occassionally, and sometimes a bottle of whiskey to drink when he was there. no one else knew about it.
a thing not many people knew about schlatt was that he was an artist; a painter. hed been forced to learn the piano at an early age since his mum thought it would "benefit him and his "'anger issues'" (and yes, schlatt would always say anger issues in quotation marks as if he didnt actually have serious anger issues.) schlatt hated it. he liked the piano, but being forced to play it too much put him off it for the most part.
but he loved painting. wilbur preferred sketching personally; he didnt understand why schlatt enjoyed painting so much. he understood why schlatt liked it, but he thought schlatt got way too excited over it - but hey, schlatt liked it, it helped his anger issues more than playing the piano did.
wilbur picked up painting along the way. again, he preferred sketching. it was less messy and easier to clean of your hands. but nethertheless, he painted sometimes when he needed to calm down in a more..messy way, like when quackity "kicked him out" for the 100th time that day without actually listening to wilbur and his amazing ideas on how to make las nevadas better; like how him being there would increase the population by 1 and a half because hes taller than quackity...much, much taller than quackity.
he still somehow finds a way to have a crack at quackity.
but its not like wilbur actually left, which is something he actually tried to tell quackity sometimes.
(wilbur found blueprints to the hotel in quackitys office. hed taken them, of course, and found that next to quackitys penthouse, there was a room next to quackitys penthouse. why there was a room next to a penthouse, he didnt question. but he saw it as an opportunity as a place to live while keeping an eye on his dearest friend.)
sometimes when wilbur went to the grave, he took a few paintbrushes, some paint and something to keep the paint on. hed sit down by the grave, have a little chat, because who wouldnt? its completely normal to go to your ex-boyfriend's - who also left for two years and came back to ruin your life - grave and talk to him. and also possibly hallucinate them and/or their voice.
what isnt normal about that?
actually maybe its completely normal; wilbur doesnt know. having the goddess of death as your mother kind of fucks up your perspective on, well, death.
but in wilburs mind, schlatts there. hell sit on the other side of the grave and put his hand on wilburs, sometimes pick it up and trace his fingers along the scarring over the half-heart tattoo, over the scars, self-inflicted or not. sometimes wilbur knew if he tried to see him, schlatt would disappear. the night hed left, hed sit on the roof and hear schlatt next to him, or hed see him in mirrors or out the corner of his eye, but everytime hed look, hed be gone. maybe wilbur was going insane. or maybe schlatt was actually there, watching at him, laughing at how stupid wilbur looked when he felt someone touch his back or his neck, looking blindly for the culprit.
walking along through the forest, the grass starting to compress from how often he walked it. it was early morning, crickets still chirping and sky starting to turn a light blue, dusty clouds moving gently above wilburs head. the sun shone through the trees, a pleasant yellow colour staining the grass and fallen leaves. he felt the dew seep through his trousers and trenchcoat.
he sat how he did usually for a little bit, resting his back against the grave and looking up at the dusky sky, an unsaturated blue littered with bright stars. oddly fitting.
he sat up and turned around, taking off his trenchcoat and flicking through the pockets until he found the things he was looking for. he lay them out on the floor next to him.
the grave already had a few paintings from past times of being there that wilbur cant remember doing. one side was fully blue, vague shapes that could be considered clouds strewn across it. he scoffed out a laugh. schlatt would hate how bad it was if he was here; hed laugh at wilbur and paint over them himself, muttering something in german.
wilbur sighed, dipping some blue and white onto the bit of cardboard hed found. he picked up the brush and mixed the colours, taking a shuddering breath before starting to paint on the grave. the colour he had now was a bit darker than the background, smudging it against the lighter colour. he added some purple to the colour on the cardboard.
there wasnt a way for him to describe what he was doing. he was just...smearing colours onto a rock. he liked doing the clouds, coating the paintbrush in white and leaving thick trails of fluffy paint across a dawn-coloured sky. he put little grey streaks against it, using the water from the dew to water it down, making a sort of watercolour effect...although homemade oil paint mixed with morning dew made for a rather difficult task, especially considering how awkward it was getting enough water.
clouds were schlatts favourite. hed always draw them on wilburs scars, and his arms and legs and anywhere else schlatt decided to doodle would eventually be covered in clouds, stars and just swirls - all a fucking nightmare to get off. sometimes schlatt would paint on him too, gently brushing different coloured acryllic over wilburs arms or thighs. just cause he felt like it
wilbur liked the feeling when schlatt would hold his wrist in a feather-light grip, brushing a fanned paintbrush in big circles on his palm, leaving a trail of whatever colour schlatt was using - typically a pale red and blue, said it went with wilburs undertones or something. sometimes it was a honey-orange and primrose yellow. said it went with wilburs eyes.
wilbur thinks his favourite was the darker ones; when him and schlatt were sat on wilburs bed in the glow of wilburs lamp on the bedside table, and schlatt was tracing wilburs hand with his finger, praising him for pretty much just existing. hed trace all over wilburs scars, occassionally bringing his hand up to kiss it. hed dip the brush in water and brush it along the lines of wilburs palm. wilbur thinks he did it just to annoy him. hed then dip the brush in several colours, dark blues, or reds, and make a filled circle along the whole of wilburs palm, using a smaller brush to make some pattern.
it was almost therapuetic.
wilbur kept kneeling on the floor, adding extra little details he didnt really need to add. he could feel his corduroy jeans starting to soak at the knees and a white butterfly landed on top of the grave. he heard the wind and saw the lights in las nevadas start to die down as the sun rose even more.
as he was painting, he thought he felt a presence behind him. it felt different from usual. it wasnt like when he was upset, or hallucinating. he was having a nice moment. he heard the footsteps. he recognised them against the leaves, and it took everything in himself not to turn around and possibly punch him (if he was there).
he kept painting, until eventually he sat back and set the paintbrushes down. it looked nice. he was oddly proud of himself, and in some weird way, he hoped schlatt was too. he heard the footsteps move next to him, and saw the leaves compress, but he didnt see anyone. he sighed and got up, taking a mouthful of the whiskey to empty the bottle. he took a few steps back, and saw the leaves compress where he was previously kneeling. they shifted (probably crouched down).
he took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, taking a drag.
"goodbye, schlatt."
he said, before turning and leaving.