Chapter Text
“Wilbur!” Tommy hollers. “WILBUR!”
Wilbur turns around in the airport just in time to get an armful of flying teenager. They hit the ground with a resounding thud.
“Hi, idiot,” Wilbur says croakily, as Tommy attempts to control his beating heart (and silently curses his decision to run, because he’s in his Comfort Prosthetic at the moment and it is not meant for more than a speed-walk). “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” Tommy agrees. “It’s … it’s good to see you, Will.”
Wilbur laughs. It’s a bit wet-sounding. As Tommy pushes himself off the marble floor, Wilbur gets to his feet as well, offering his hand; his eyes flick downward to Tommy’s prosthetic foot, disguised beneath running shoes and sweatpants, before he smiles. “You’re real,” he says. “You’re alive.”
Tommy beams. “I am.”
And they head out of the airport, Wilbur’s father Phil (Tommy hopes Phil doesn’t hate him for tackling his son, oh god) smiling.
⸻⸻⸻
“So,” Tommy says, propping his arms on the windowsill. “Where’re we going?”
“The carnival,” Wilbur says.
“The one where you work?”
“No, the other carnival,” Wilbur deadpans.
“Be nice, Wilbur.”
Wilbur huffs. “Yes, Dad.” He nudges Tommy fondly; Tommy bumps their shoulders together, grinning. “It’ll be fun. They’ve got a lot of stuff. Like the Dunk Tank—”
“Oh my god, we don’t talk about that.”
“What Dunk Tank?” Phil asks. “You two haven’t met in person yet, have you?”
Wilbur and Tommy exchange a panicked glance.
The lie they’ve chosen to go with (for the benefit of the various news outlets of the country, who just love a useless human-interest story like Tommy’s) is that Tommy, a track star who refused to give up after trauma and injury, met seventeen-year-old Wilbur ‘while recovering’ and ‘bonded over their shared trauma,’ whatever that means.
Tommy isn’t sure whether Wilbur’s told Phil the truth yet. He certainly hasn’t told his parents. How do you say that? Oh, by the way, you remember that time when I was dead? Yeah, I was just in a silly goofy mood, haha. Anyway, while I was on life-support, I ended up in Missouri with gigantic chicken wings as some random dude’s guardian angel. Wild, right?
“It’s an inside joke,” Wilbur tells Phil. “Because I work at the carnival.”
“I’m gonna dunk him,” Tommy says confidently.
Phil laughs. “Get a video of it,” he suggests, and the rest of the drive is warm and calm.
⸻⸻⸻
Wilbur laughs and jeers, cross-legged on the Dunk Tank platform.
“Loooseerrrrr,” he calls to Tommy, and, to drive in the blow, makes an L with his fingers and sets it on his forehead. “Stick to running, Track boy!”
“Shut up!” Tommy laughs. “Just give me one more try—”
“You only have one more try.”
“Quit bursting my bubble.” Tommy accepts the last tennis ball from the carnival attendant, who keeps looking him up and down suspiciously (almost like they know him from the national news—he should probably get out of here before someone asks for an autograph), and sets his feet. “This can’t be that hard. I mean, the shotput guys do it all the time, right?”
“With all due respect, Tommy,” Wilbur says, “you have noodle arms.”
Tommy makes a face at him and throws the tennis ball.
With a beautiful, beautiful thwack, it hits the button smack-dab in the center, and Wilbur curses and flops into the water.
“Ha!” Tommy cackles. “Who’s the loser now, bi—idiot boy? Hmm? Hmm?”
“Here you go, Will,” says the carnival attendant, offering Wilbur a towel. Wilbur, a reluctant grin on his face, accepts it and scrubs his hair dry. He wrings out his hoodie, flicking water droplets at Tommy.
“Thanks, Jay,” he says to the employee. “Tommy, you wanna get popcorn?”
“Sure,” Tommy says, just as the employee says, “Tommy … ?” He seizes Wilbur by the wrist and drags him toward the main section of the carnival. “Let’s go before they notice that I’m here,” he hisses, and Wilbur snorts.
They end up at the popcorn machine, waiting in line, and Tommy hums an idle tune. His ankle doesn’t hurt today. That’s good. It’s a good day.
“Are you gonna tell your dad?” he says, after a moment.
Wilbur jolts. “About what?”
“About … me, obviously.”
“You’re not that special.” Tommy snorts and bumps Wilbur’s shoulder with his own; Wilbur staggers before regaining his balance, rolling his eyes fondly. “I know what you mean. I just … he’s just getting over … well, Mom’s death. I don’t want to throw him another curveball.”
“It’s not that big a curveball,” Tommy says. “Just, you know, Hey, Dad, you remember that time I almost died but I didn’t? It was my guardian angel. He’s poggers and epic and also the kid in your guest bedroom, by the way.”
Wilbur snorts. “We’ll see about that.”
And then—
“Can I have your autograph?”
Tommy jolts.
To be entirely fair, it’s probably his fault, at least partially. However: Some random dumbass has crept up behind him, and Tommy’s balance is shit on good days (cough, cough, fake foot), and so it’s entirely reasonable for him to stumble forward, slam into the popcorn machine, and hit the ground with a flump.
“Ugh,” Tommy says, slightly dizzy. He squints up at the person above him, brow furrowing. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Jackson?” Wilbur says skeptically.
“You’re the kid who was in the crash, right? I mean—not to be insensitive—” Too late, buddy. “If you wouldn’t mind giving an autograph—”
“Actually,” Wilbur says loudly. He crouches and hauls Tommy to his feet. “We have places to be.”
And then they’re running.
Tommy laughs breathlessly. “Holy shit, Will.”
“Jackson,” Wilbur says, enunciating every syllable, “is so fucking annoying.”
Tommy cackles.
They disappear into the tree line, leaving scattered kernels from the bag of popcorn in Wilbur’s hand, and Tommy laughs until his ribs are sore.