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The street lights flicker and reflect in the small pools in asphalt, the scent of rain still hanging in the air long after the storm. It’s pitch black outside the corner shop, save for cars and street lamps, light pollution blocking the stars from view. The doors to the small store chime as two boys walk away from the scene, waving and smiling in thanks. They cross the street bumping shoulders and laughing.
“What the hell?” Tommy clutches at his stomach. “How did we-“ a breath,“How did we even get away with that?” He smiles and looks up at the older boy, who’s chuckling and fidgeting with the trinkets in his pockets.
“That’s the trick, Toms.” Wilbur says, glancing down a bit and his eyes crinkling in a smile. “You buy one or two things for cheap, and they'll never suspect you have more.”
Tommy sighs, shaking his head but still smiling. “They never even looked at us, the pricks.”
Wilbur takes long strides forward, facing Tommy as he walks backward. He throws his hands to the sides of him and smiles a mischievous smile. “That’s the game.” He says slowly, like he’s any more than a petty thief and occasional pot smoker, before turning forward and continuing on his way. Tommy jogs to keep up until they’re side-by-side and Wilbur has slowed down.
Tommy sighs, shaking his head again fondly. The conversation drops and they lapse into a comfortable silence, used to just enjoying the other's company. Wilbur looks above the lights, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars, to no avail. Maybe he’ll sit out on the roof tonight before bed, assuming he won’t pass out when he’s up there and deep in his thoughts as the stars twinkle with pretend reassurances.
He huffs to himself and keeps moving forward, listening to the idle chatter of night-shift workers on break or the muffled yelling of fights in bars. He glances down at Tommy, seeing him stare ahead of him in an unmoving gaze. Spacing out, most likely. Wilbur leaves him to it and kicks a shard of glass previously laying on the sidewalk.
The city had never been anything kind to him in all his twenty-three years of glory. He was bullied in school, more so in college when teasing and laughing became jabs with words and weapons alike. He remembers disappointed looks when he came home and announced he’d dropped out, disappointed looks from mothers with their children when they saw him smoking on a public bench, distasteful looks from girlfriends as they broke apart one way or another. Couple all that with Wilbur’s horrendous luck, and you get the perfect shit storm.
What Wilbur also remembers, though, something that surely had to do with a stroke of luck that couldn’t be his, is meeting Tommy.
Meeting Tommy was probably the only good thing that had happened to him that decided to stick around, besides Wilbur’s father and brother. Here Wilbur was, shuffling down the sidewalk on his way to catch the bus home, and a boy who couldn’t be over fourteen slams into him face-first. Who could have known that would have been the start to an unlikely alliance, then friendship, then a brotherhood Wilbur would tease about and Tommy would deny all he could.
The city of Manburg reminds Wilbur of some sort of higher power, in a way. Listen, it throws things at you that are shit and only makes your life worse, until you get those couple good things when the city pities you. You’ve had a rough day at work, you go home in a bad mood, and your shitty apartment lights flicker until they go out. Now you’re even more pissed and wonder why you even stay in that apartment. Then, your best friend comes over uninvited, sensing you were feeling down in the way best friends always do, and hands you some freshly baked cookies.
The apartment is like Manburg, and Tommy is like the cookies.
Wilbur is reluctant to say luck is fitting for the best friend role, but… what else could it have been?
Wilbur reaches into one of his trench coat pockets in search of a particular box of cigarettes and a lighter. When his fingers fumble upon them he grins lightly, before taking the contents out and fumbling with putting the cigarette to his lips. It’s so cold, and it’s not even November… he should have worn something other than fingerless gloves, but he insisted he looked like a “dirty crime boy” and wore what he thought looked good, knowing it wouldn’t shield the cold, as much as Tommy objected the look.
He flicks the lighter a couple of times and cups his hand around the Marlboro, enjoying the familiar glow and warmth of the flame so close to his face. As he stuffs his lighter in his pocket once more he takes a long drag, caging the smoke in his lungs longer than necessary, before letting it out with a deep sigh.
His sigh and the smell of smoke seem to snap Tommy out of his stupor, and the next thing he knows, the child he jokes about being his brother is making grabby hands to the cigarette now hanging limply between Wilbur’s fingers.
Wilbur shoots his hand above his head, holding tightly to the cigarette and making sure it was out of Tommy’s reach. “Tommy, please no, don’t try smoking like me, I promise you’ll regret it and-“ Tommy punches him square in the chest, not hard and not unkindly.
“I don’t want to smoke the damn thing,” He starts. “I want you to stop smoking it.” Tommy crosses his arms when he realizes jumping at Wilbur's hand would serve pointless, as Wilbur still has quite a few inches on him (as much he would deny it).
Wilbur sighs and lets out a small chuckle, bringing his hand down tentatively. “Alright, as long as you aren't only taking the worst parts of me to influence your growing mind.” He takes another drag, quicker and quieter this time.
Tommy stares at him flatly, keeping his pace as he walks along the cracked sidewalk. Wilbur worries he'll trip and hurt himself, but elects to ignore it for now. The blank look in his eyes is far more unsettling, especially coming from someone like Tommy.
“What?” Wilbur asks, finding the alley over Tommy’s shoulder very interesting all of the sudden.
Tommy’s eyes don’t move from his, lighting blue to honey brown. “Wilbur, I love you like a brother, but we literally just stole, like, twenty rings made of pure gold to sell for thousands on the black market, and now you’re lecturing me about being impressionable?” They take a right and keep walking. “You really do have some fucked morals, man.”
(I love you like a brother-)
Wilbur ignores the way his heart squeezes.
He puts his hands up as if surrendering, the cigarette hanging from his mouth and muffling his words a bit. “Tommy, Tommy, all the rings at the store are fake , we are not selling them on the black market, and the owner is a homophobic prick anyway. This isn’t bad morals ,” He sticks his index finger out and pokes Tommy lightly on the nose, successfully gaining a reaction and deterring his stare- “this is justice .”
Tommy grins knowingly and turns his head away to hide it, swiping at Wilbur’s hand half-heartedly. “Yeah yeah, whatever big dubs.”
Wilbur smiles, leaning over dramatically so his eyes are level with Tommy’s. “You know you love me-!” He drawls with a laugh, greatly amused by Tommy's insistence to continue looking the other way.
“I have never said such a thing, and I absolutely never will.” Tommy responds.
Wilbur gasps in a dramatic manner. “You’re not denying it!” He exclaims, holding the cigarette gently in one hand and shaking Tommy’s shoulder with the other.
Tommy rolls his eyes and throws his head back in exasperation, all while stifling a smile. “Oh, fuck off, man!”
Coming down from their giggles, they lapse into silence once more. Usually, he would be surprised if Tommy stayed quiet for so long, but it’s been a long day and they’re both tired. After some internal debating, eventually deciding Tommy was right earlier, he throws his cigarette to the ground and stomps on it, slamming down the ball of his foot and twisting it into the concrete for good measure, before continuing to walk. Tommy waits for him and smiles when Wilbur catches up.
As they continue walking, Wilbur starts fidgeting with the many assortments of jewelry in his pocket for the second time, twirling and twisting the rings between his fingers like coins. They’re made of nickel and spray-painted a sickly excuse for gold, but Phil would still think they’re pretty and Techno would still hoard some of them, even if they aren’t real gold. Tommy would probably give some to his roommate ( Tubso? Is his name actually ‘Big Man?’ Surely not- Wilbur can never remember) as well, boasting about stealing real gold from a mafia leader or whatever his silly mind came up with.
The fidgeting helps clear his mind when he can’t get his hands on a cigarette (or refuses to), even if it doesn’t help to the same extent. He knows his addiction is bad, he knows Tommy hates it, he knows Phil’s disappointed when Wilbur excuses himself in the middle of a conversation, fingers itching at his sides and grabbing the edge of his sweater like a lifeline. But silly, fifteen-year-old Wilbur had decided exams were too stressful and took a puff from one of his friends while they were studying, unable to shake the habit since.
Wilbur can only hope Tommy doesn’t take the same path, being fifteen himself.
From what Wilbur knows of his friend’s life outside of him, he lives in a small, rundown apartment with two other teenage boys all trying to survive. He’s seen the complex in passing, Tommy pointing it out to him while they’re walking home from another “successful heist”, as the boy would say. It’s small and dank, the sorry excuses for metal gates rotting away with every second, the windows cracked, and the front door splintering. The paint is chipping on every surface, and Wilbur is honestly surprised the place hasn’t crumbled.
Wilbur places a hand to his chin, gaze drifting to his feet as he’s lost to his thoughts. Why is Tommy even in that situation in the first place? He’s only fifteen, not even legally able to emancipate himself…Surely there has to be someone looking for him? But maybe Tommy ran away for a good reason, assuming he ran away at all. Maybe his home wasn’t very good, and Tommy ran to save himself… If that was the case, it would make sense for Tommy to not have much, forced to rely on two other teenagers (Is that what Tommy said? There were two, right?) for enough money to be off the streets. Wilbur glances at the aforementioned boy next to him, only to find him staring right back. The lights reflect above and behind Tommy, casting shadows over his eyes. He stops walking, but keeps his gaze firm. Wilbur stops as well.
“You alright, man?” Tommy asks, eyebrows creasing in poorly concealed worry. He holds his arms over his chest. “You’re lookin’ all sad and shit.” He explains briefly.
Wilbur nods, shaking his head and bringing himself out of his stupor. “Yeah, I’m fine, just…” He looks Tommy up and down, noting the jacket that’s seen better days, shoes that are falling apart. Even for having a roof over his head, Tommy is still in pretty bad shape. Wilbur had decided to have some semblance of decency and not push Tommy to talk about his personal life in the beginning, but…
“Tommy…” Wilbur swallows, hopefully not audibly. He hopes he doesn’t make Tommy too uncomfortable with such a forward question, spooking him away in the process, but he has to know. Maybe he could help somehow…? He shoves his hands further into his pockets, finding comfort in the cold metal his fingers grasp at.
“Tommy, why are you… living where you are now, if you don’t mind my asking? What happened…?” He tries, keeping eye contact.
Tommy’s body goes tense, standing just a bit straighter and shoulders rising almost imperceptibly. The boy doesn’t look at Wilbur‘s face anymore, opting to stare at his boots.
Wilbur puts his hands in front of him placatingly, a nervous smile on his lips and a waver in his voice he hopes Tommy doesn’t notice. “Sorry if that came out strong- you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, really, I was just curious, but you don’t have to-“
“Wilbur, Wilbur- shut up, man,” Tommy shakes his head and puts a hand on his shoulder, lifting his gaze. He gives him a look of resignation. “Chill out.”
Wilbur takes a deep breath and sighs, nodding his head slowly and ignoring the dissatisfaction he feels at the lack of smoke upon his exhale. Tommy takes his hand off his shoulder, seemingly satisfied.
“I’m not gonna feed into your hero complex, Wilbur,” Tommy starts, looking away again. He looks forward and continues walking. Wilbur’s heart does a little jump, entertaining the idea that Tommy has read his mind. He doesn’t process Tommy moving on without him immediately, leaving him motionless until his mind takes the split-second to catch up.
He opens his mouth to defend himself, but Tommy puts his hand up to silence him. He continues. “I know you’re only asking because you want to tell me you’ll fix everything for me- I know you, Wil. I’ve seen you do it before.” Wilbur swallows and doesn’t really know how to respond or what to think- so he just lets Tommy continue. “But I’ll give you the rundown so you’ll stop asking, got it?”
Wilbur nods sharply, surprised he’s getting an answer at all. Tommy nods in turn and continues. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the upcoming explanation. “I was living in a shit place; shit parents who wouldn’t care like they should have. By all means, I should have been taken into foster care, but I’d rather die than be tossed around from place to place like a toy, ya’know?”. Tommy grabs at his sleeve, picking at loose threads. “So I did some research, saved up some cash, and bought the next train ticket out of town.”
As they keep walking, Wilbur can see Tommy’s apartment complex in the distance. Tommy doesn’t notice and keeps talking, feet stomping harder into the ground as he explains and sending water droplets spraying around his ankles.
“I didn’t even check where the train went, just knew it was a three-hour ride, and that was good enough for me. I arrived here with a duffel bag, some chips and granola bars, and the clothes on my back.” Tommy sighs. “The rest is history, and here I am.” He concludes, looking up where the stars should be, if not for yellow street lamps with moths and other insects buzzing around.
Wilbur would like him to explain more, but doesn’t know how to ask, if he should ask at all. This is the closest Tommy’s ever been to opening up to him, and he doesn’t want to ruin it. So, Wilbur just nods and puts his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy looks back at him with a startle at the touch.
Wilbur smiles. “Thank you for telling me that.” He tilts his head in a soft grin. “You didn’t have to, you could have punched me in the nose and ran, but you trusted me enough to share. Thank you.”
For how insecure Wilbur is in that statement, almost immediately regretting it and scolding himself for being so soft and nervous, Tommy grins back at him and places his own hand over Wilbur’s.
“Yeah, no problem.” He says simply, and decides to leave it at that.
Wilbur tries to soak up the warm feeling in his chest for a minute longer, but Tommy is sick of the sappiness and walks forward with more purpose than before.
“Anyway, I gotta be home big dubs!” Tommy turns and walks backward, sending a grin and a salute Wilbur’s way. There’s no crosswalk in sight, and the apartments are still a bit distant, but Tommy walks onto the street to cross anyway. Wilbur chuckles as he leaps off the curb and splashes in a large puddle.
Wilbur waves in turn, a small smile on his lips. “See ya, big man. Same time tomorrow?” He asks, walking closer to the asphalt where Tommy pauses in the middle of the street.
Tommy takes a step closer and bows down, one hand on his chest and the other behind his back, as if to say of course, when else? He stumbles as he tries to keep his posture stiff, before standing upright again with a grin. Wilbur rolls his eyes and shoos him off.
“Be careful, gremlin, you’ll get hit by a car if you keep standing there.” He says, continuing to wave a hand in a shooing manner.
Tommy barks a laugh. “Any car doesn’t have the courage , the willpower , to hit me!” He exclaims, but makes his way to the sidewalk anyway. He waves again, almost tripping over a crack in the concrete. “Bye bye, big brother! ” He says the last part in a funny voice, likely making fun of the term. Cotton seems to fill Wilbur’s lungs anyway, warming him from the inside out.
Instead of returning his goodbye, however, he simply rolls his eyes again and smiles as he turns a corner, making his way to the nearest bus stop.