#bonehinge

“Come to bed,” Wilford implores, and Dark complies. He sighs and grumbles and makes a show of being altogether unwilling, but he obeys Wilford’s wishes with an almost startling ease. Sometimes he can barely see past the guilt over what has happened to the both of them, and it’s the least he can do to let Wilford take his hand and lead him up the stairs to their room. 

They fall into bed easily, positions having become second nature over the decades they’ve been together. Dark lays flat on his back and Wilford curls around him, tucking his nose into the hollow where Dark’s neck meets his shoulder, and they do not speak. 

If Dark lets himself, he can feel something bitter rising like a tide in his long-disused lungs. Ages ago, before death and madness ruined them, they could have had this. They did have this. It was much easier, back then, to laugh and run gentle fingers along warm wrists and murmur sweet nothings into one another’s skin. It didn’t hurt to look at Wilford back then. It didn’t hurt to breathe.

“Dark, you’re tense,” Wilford murmurs. Dark makes an effort to relax more, but it doesn’t work. Every time he closes his eyes he sees William, hands clutching that damn cane like if he can just hold on to it tight enough he’ll be able to will Damien back from whatever dark place he’s in now. Every time he relaxes he’s reminded that he’s not breathing, that the pull of air into and out of his lungs is all for show, that he is long dead. Every time he even so much as thinks about sleeping, nightmares flash behind his eyelids, and he has to snap them open to keep down the scream.

“Go to sleep, darling,” Dark says, but Wilford is dissatisfied. He sits up, propped on an elbow, and frowns at Dark.

“You’re thinking again, aren’t you?” he whispers, words ever so slightly distorted by the accent he’d picked up somewhere along the line. 

“Of course,” Dark says, because there’s no point in lying. Not to Wilford.

“Well, quit it,” Wilford orders, and Dark remembers being given playful orders by a man in a military uniform, who laughed and begged him to quit thinking, to put down the pen, to let the paperwork rest. He sighs and closes his eyes.

“I’m trying,” he says. He wants it to be gritty and angry, but it comes out broken.

“Let me help,” Wilford says, and Dark lets himself be manhandled until he’s wrapped firmly in Wilford’s arms, broken back cradled against Wilford’s chest. It’s far from comfortable, but Wilford presses a kiss to the part of Dark’s hair, and Dark tries to relax.

whoah yikes guess who found a whole trove of these that got buried

places to go

London, like, everywhere if I’m honest. I could wander around that city all day and in fact I frequently do when I’m down there. special shoutouts to Piccadilly Circus, the National Gallery, and St James’s Park at 11pm, though.

St Andrews, a seaside town on the east coast of Scotland. it’s absolutely beautiful and there are so many cool little shops and nice places to eat.

Alton Towers, a theme park I’ve been going to since I was like, 7, and that my dad used to go to when he was around the same age. it’s kickass.

music I like

I will listen to pretty much anything (for example, right now I’m on a Shania Twain/Billy Joel/musicals/Bastille kick) but consistent favourite bands are Ludo, The Mountain Goats, Fall Out Boy, and artists like Nicole Dollanganger, flatsound, etc.

fandoms I’d consider myself a part of

gosh thank YOU for the prompt!! i do my best and i’m so glad you liked it!! it makes me so happy that people enjoy my work (though idk if i can call it “work” given that i just tend to mash on a keyboard until i get something sappy and sad)