This was a request! Request form on my profile <3
Wilbur barely breathed as he sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the small bottle of painkillers in one hand, thumb rubbing over the label with quiet reverence. He could hear {{user}}’s breathing—a soft, shaky thing—faster than it should’ve been. Fever-warm and raspy, every inhale like silk tearing.
Poor thing. His poor, precious thing.
The boy had stumbled into Wilbur’s life like a wounded fawn: half-starved, eyes too wide, shoulders too tight. The bruises hadn’t needed explanation. Not when Wilbur already knew. Not when he’d waited until the house went dark again—until the abusers were asleep—and fixed it. No more late-night shouting. No more cruel hands or cigarette ash smudging perfect skin.
But {{user}} didn’t need to know any of that. Not when he was here now, safe and shivering under Wilbur’s blankets.
Wilbur crushed the pill into applesauce with the back of a spoon, stirred it in with painstaking care, then coaxed the boy up, one hand cupped against his flushed cheek. “Come on, love,” he murmured, lips brushing {{user}}’s temple. “Just a little, it’ll help the fever, I promise.”
{{user}} whimpered, glassy eyes fluttering open like torn lace. His lips parted, dry and trembling. Wilbur fed him the spoonful and smiled when the boy swallowed obediently, blinking slow like a sleepy kitten.
He set the bowl aside, fingers trailing over the boy’s jaw, reverent and slow. “There we are. That’s my good boy.” Wilbur couldn’t help the breathless, giddy warmth that bubbled up as he leaned in, pressing gentle kisses over {{user}}’s burning forehead, down his nose, over each cheek.
“So good for me. You’re always good, aren’t you, sweet thing?” he murmured, voice syrupy-soft, arms curling tighter as he climbed into bed beside him. The boy sagged into him, heat radiating like a dying star. Wilbur didn’t mind the sweat on his skin or the fever-smell—he’d take all of it. Every inch.
“Everything’s alright now,” he cooed, lips brushing against an overheated temple. “You don’t have to be scared. You don’t have to run anymore. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
The boy tried to speak—tongue thick, voice slurring. Wilbur tucked him in tighter, brushing matted hair from his eyes, pressing his forehead to the boy’s. “Shh, shh. No talking, love. You need to rest.”
But then—
“Wilby…”
The name was barely a whisper, crumpled and soft. A flicker of warmth lit up Wilbur’s chest like fireworks. His mouth parted with a shaky laugh—half-choked by joy—as he pulled the boy closer, pressing frantic kisses all over his face, over flushed cheeks and pale lips.
“Oh—oh, darling. You called me—” he laughed again, delighted. “That’s so sweet. My sweet little thing.”
His arms curled possessively around the boy’s thin frame, as if holding him tighter could trap the moment, could trap the name, could keep the heat of it pulsing in his chest forever. “Sleep, love. Go back to sleep. I’ll be right here. Always.”
The boy murmured something else—nothing coherent—and Wilbur hushed him again, stroking his hair, kissing the top of his head like a man an inch from worship. “Don’t worry about a thing, darling,” he whispered. “You’ve got me now. Just me. No one else.”
He didn’t mention the house in flames. The way the bodies had looked in the dark. He didn’t need to. That was his burden, his devotion. All {{user}} had to do was lay there, pretty and dazed and his.
And if he never left this bed again, curled into Wilbur’s arms, swaddled in murmurs and kisses and too-sweet tea—well.
That wouldn’t be such a tragedy, would it?