Disclaimer: I don't own Meet the Robinsons. Pixar does. Sadly I cannot claim ownership of Matty either. He belongs to the wonderful Jill. Go and check her out.
Sleep.
It's funny, Wilbur thinks as he lies in bed. If someone had of come up to him when he was younger and told him of where he would be at twenty he would have not believed them. Or laughed in their face. Or both.
Rolling over he lies on his stomach, watching a stray brown lock as it rises and falls with the breathe of the sleeper. Closed eyelids hide deep brown eyes, that used to scare Wilbur, but now he relishes drowning in those chocolate pools.
Fighting back the urge to run his fingertips, down Matt's cheek, and risk waking him he merely resigns himself to letting his eyes do the touching. Down his cheek, his shoulder blades, his bared back. Hitting the sheet he let his memories continue the path.
Never had he thought he'd wind up here. Sure he had figured out he was gay at a youngish age, but it was more the person he was with that still shocked him. Matty, his childhood friend, his reluctant lab partner from the seventh grade, his caring boyfriend from the twelfth.
Giddy he runs the word through his head. Boyfriend. It still gives him shives, placing the words boyfriend and Matty together. He shakes slightly, half from the words, half from the cold.
The clouds shift, and suddenly Matty's face is glowing, illuminated by the full moonlight. He squirms, burying his head into the pillow, his bare legs brushing against Wilbur's. Once again Wilbur restrains his urges, just manages to stop himself from kissing this delectable spot just below Matt's neck, knowing the action would most likely wake him.
It wasn't that Wilbur didn't like Matt when he was awake. No he loved when he was awake. All the fun things happened in awakeness. A wolfish smile crept to his lips, as Wilbur remembered such fun things.
It's just that a sleeping Matt was easier to deal with occasionally. Matty, as an artist, was compulsively disorganised, forgetting to feed himself regularly. This results in a childish confusion when he begins to wonder why he is hungry. Wilbur often has to pull Matt away from his art, ignoring the death glares and threats, forcing him to sit and eat, even if it was in total silence.
These are the times that slightly hurt Wilbur, when Matty refuses to acknowledge him. Its not that he doesn't see Wilbur, because he does, it just doesn't register. The artist takes over, and often the artist wonders who is this black haired person talking to him, dragging him away from work, or whinging occasionally.
But in the end it works out, and their issues just tend to strengthen their bond. After all it's the little quirks of Matt that made Wilbur fall in love with him. The shy recluse, the loner that would cut you down with words if you came to near. The boy who was the first his age to see Wilbur, and not the money, the prestige of being a Robinson.
The clouds shift again, and the room is flushed in darkness. But still Matt shines, even if it is only to Wilbur. Lying down, Wilbur finds himself embracing Matt, the slightly smaller boy snoring in his ear. The noise makes Wilbur grin, his chest buckling slightly, his lips squeezed tight to stop the noise from escaping.
His laughter dies and slowly Wilbur drifts off to sleep, Matt's quiet breathing and snores are a lullaby, his body the warmest of blankets. Giving Wilbur kisses him lightly on the temple, Matt's face burrowing into the crook of his neck in return in a semi-kiss. Running his hands along Matt's back he lets the sleep pull him into its arms, slightly tightening his grip on his partner.
Because, you see, Wilbur's been raised to know when his got it good. And right now it's the best he's ever had. The best he'll ever have, he thinks. And he's not letting go. Never.