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Wilbur is staring at the ceiling.
Save for the pattern of light and shadows casted on the plasterboard, he can't make out any details — his glasses lie collecting dust on his nightstand. There's what seems to be a water damage stain on the lower right corner, in the direction of the bathroom.
Slowly, he shifts his gaze down, to the walls painted a neutral grey blue. He thinks he meant to repaint them at some point. He can't quite remember. They've been that dreary color since he started renting this flat.
His phone is loosely held in his hand, battery long since drained. He'd been mindlessly scrolling through Reddit since his eyes blearily blinked open, and he watched as the charge made its descent to zero, vaguely thinking that he should plug it in. The outlet is right next to his bed.
He never did.
His eyes sort of ache. But it's not really his eyes, it's more like the spot behind them. He focuses his eyes. He doesn't know when they unfocused.
There's a banging. Almost like someone's knocking on a door — probably the neighbor's door; he's not expecting anyone.
His eyes trace the line between wall and ceiling. They go from the left corner to the right one and then they reverse direction.
Whoever's knocking is still going at it. The sound resounds through his flat. He wonders if his neighbors are home to answer the door.
Left corner to right corner.
Right corner to left corner.
The knocking stops. The rhythm of it still pulsates in his head, a war drum heralding an onslaught of a headache.
Left to right.
Right to left.
His lips are chapped. His mouth is dry. It still tastes of morning rot. He lolls his lifeless tongue around his mouth.
Left to right.
Right to left.
He thinks he knows how the woman in The Yellow Wallpaper felt. Tracing the same patterns day after day until they morphed into something new.
He closes his eyes.
He opens them to a man standing in his bedroom.
Ah. This is unfortunate.
The lights flick on. He squeezes his eyes shut against the assault of bright, scrunching up his nose.
"Jesus Christ, Wilbur. How long have you been lying there? It stinks."
Ah. It's Tommy. Somehow more unfortunate.
He doesn't want Tommy to see him like this. He doesn't want to deal with his loud, boisterous voice. Yet, he can't find the energy to protest his presence.
The light beyond his eyelids assuages, and he wrenches his eyes open to see Tommy perched in front of him, squatted down so he's face-to-face with Wilbur.
Tommy grins. "Sleeping beauty finally decided to awaken, hm? Didn't even need a kiss."
"Tom — " Wilbur tries, but his voice is hoarse and cracks from disuse. He clears his throat. It's much too dry. It doesn't make a difference. "Tommy."
"Hello, big man. It's almost evening. You should shower and shit." He points at Wilbur's hair. "You're all greasy."
Tommy's bouncing on his heels. It's too much movement for Wilbur. He wants to close his eyes again, shut out the world.
"How did you get in here?"
"Sherry let me in." He points behind him with his thumb.
"You know my landlady?"
"Well, not really. But I'm polite enough to ask for you. Proper gentleman and all that."
Wilbur lets out a huff through his nose at that.
"She's worried about you, y'know."
Oh. A trickle of guilt makes itself known, but it's only that — a trickle.
"Says you haven't left your flat in two days. I know we're sweaty gamers and all, but—" Tommy's eyes soften as he brushes aside Wilbur's fringe. He never finishes his sentence.
"Let's get you up, yeah? I've put a pot of soup on."
Wilbur sees an opportunity for a quip. This, he can do. He raises a brow. "Chef Innit, are you?"
Tommy grins much too wide for his stupid little joke. "Damn right, I am. That's how I get all the girls — through their stomach or whatever."
Wilbur actually laughs at that. It's short-lived and dry, but a laugh nonetheless.
Tommy beams. He drags Wilbur to a sitting position and supports him with his hip as he lifts and half carries him to the bathroom.
Something disgusting twists in Wilbur's gut, raking rusty claws into the lining of his stomach. He can't even wash up by himself. He needs someone eight years his junior to assist him. Disappointing and —
"Oi!" Tommy bonks him on the temple with his own. "I can fucking hear you overthinking, Wil."
Wilbur finds himself musing for the umpteenth time that for someone so generally assumed to be obtuse, Tommy's very perceptive. He supposes that his humor belies his intelligence.
After a brief moment where Wilbur almost slips from Tommy's hold to make direct contact with the sink counter, Tommy sits Wilbur down on the toilet, and he crouches so they're at eye level. "Don't be so hard on yourself, alright?" He gives him a small smile. "Even big man Tommy has his days."
Wilbur tries to return the smile, but his mouth just twitches. He ends up nodding instead. Tommy points to the tub. "Bath or shower?"
Wilbur doesn't think he'll be able to stand long enough to even wet his hair. He relays this to Tommy, who only nods. Nonjudgmental.
Disappointed, his head hisses. He ignores it.
"Alright. I'll run the bath, and then check on the soup. You get yourself squeaky clean, alright?"
Wilbur nods. Tommy purses his lips, then after a brief moment, stands up. He folds the shower curtain up in the railing so it's out of the way and leans over the side of the bath, muttering, "Now, where the fuck is the stopper… Ah, there's the cheeky lad."
Not before long, the tub's filled with water, with wisps of barely visible steam. A cup for pouring water stands proudly on the sink counter. Tommy nods, satisfied with his work. He moves to leave, but hovers at the doorway.
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. Then: "Where d'you keep the towels?"
"Ah, there's one on the rack. I'll… I'll be fine." Wilbur hesitates. "Thank you, Tommy."
Tommy gives him a small, lopsided smile, then closes the door behind him with a gentle click.
Wilbur looks down at himself.
Tommy was right, he is greasy. He feels its residue on his fingertips, on his cheeks, on the bridge of his nose. He doesn't even want to try running a hand through his hair. He's sure it's knotted to hell and back.
He doesn't know how to feel with how comfortable he's gotten in his own filth.
Now comes the arduous task of removing his clothes. He starts with his jumper, ratty but soft. Thank fuck he wasn't wearing a button up, or he'd be here for ages.
One arm in. The other arm in. Pull up the hem. Push it over the head.
It lands on the floor. He'll pick it up later.
Trousers next. They're joggers — again, button free bliss.
Grab the waistband. Slide down, arse up. Back down. Down one leg, pull foot out. Down the other leg, toss to join its brethren.
He's naked.
And suddenly, very very tired. All his momentum's left him, and he slouches forward on the floor. He stares at the darkened grout lining his bathroom tiles.
He tries telling himself that it's not too different, sitting in the warm porcelain of the tub as opposed to the cold porcelain of the floor.
All he has to do is heave himself into the water. Not that difficult.
Or at least it shouldn't be.
And yet, it is.
C'mon, Wilbur, just. Lift yourself — up off the ground. Into the water. You'll feel better afterwards. You can wash up and have a bowl of soup.
But the thought of all that just makes him tired again. Jesus Christ.
This is ridiculous.
One limb at a time, Wilbur. Start with a leg.
One leg, he can do that. He hefts his leg onto the side of the tub and pushes his foot into the water. The heat's a satisfying balm against his cold skin.
One leg down.
Next, an arm. He rests his elbow on the edge, dropping his hand into the water.
He's essentially halfway there.
He clambers the rest of the way in, knocking his elbows and knees against the wall multiple times.
But it's worth all the dull aches in his joints in the end, because he's sitting in the bath, letting the warmth seep into his bones.
He thinks he could lie down here for a very, very long time. Hours even, long after the water would have turned cold and his skin would have gotten wrinkled and pruned.
It doesn't sound that bad, honestly. He closes his eyes and leans back in the tub.
It must've been a second later when there's gentle knocking on the door.
"Wilbur? You alright? You've been in there for forty-five minutes."
Maybe not a second.
He lifts his head, blinking owlishly at the door.
"Wilbur?"
Oh shit, he should answer the man. "Come in."
Tommy opens the door.
(Wilbur does not notice how his face flushes and the way his eyes immediately flicker to his crotch before widening and pointedly focusing on his face.)
The blond clears his throat. "Had me worried for a minute there. Any longer and I was about to just barge in, privacy be damned."
Suddenly, Wilbur's annoyed with Tommy. He didn't ask for Tommy to come over, or worry about him. He didn't ask for his care, so why was Tommy so hellbent on helping Wilbur? He should've just let him rot, would've been easier for the both —
Wilbur recognizes where this train of thought is going, and squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
He grits out, "Sorry. Didn't mean to worry you."
"S'okay. I ate the soup, though. It was getting cold. I'll order you something later though." Tommy then furrows his brows, disbelief etched into the lines of his face. "Your hair's not even wet? Have you just been lying there since I've left?"
Wilbur hesitates. He wants to lie, but — "Just about."
Tommy mirrors his earlier action, shoulders rising with his breath. "Alright. Okay. Should we replace the water?"
Wilbur shakes his head. It'd be such a waste — all he's done is lie in it.
"You gonna wash yourself, then?"
Wilbur purses his lips. "I… I don't know." Candor overtakes him yet again.
Frustration flickers through Tommy's face before he's hiding it with a shrug. "D'you want me to do it, then?"
The mix of annoyance and guilt makes a resurgence, hissing of how Wilbur's be better off alone, but Wilbur stuffs down the urge to snap at Tommy for it. It's uncalled for. Tommy is just genuinely looking out for him.
"I think that'd be alright." He sits up so Tommy can have easier access to his hair.
"Cool." Tommy rolls up his sleeves and sits on the edge of the tub, cup in hand. "Alright, I've only ever given Betty and Walter baths, so you're gonna have to make do if humans and dogs bathe differently." He scoops some water from the bath. Creating a shield for Wilbur's eyes with his hand, he pours the water on his head, effectively wetting his hair but keeping his face dry. He does this twice more.
The water's a bit cold; it's only got a little bit of its heat left, but that's Wilbur's own fault, so he doesn't pay it any mind.
As Wilbur brushes hair out of his eyes, Tommy puts down the cup, then grabs at a random bottle. "Moroccan argan oil conditioner? This some fancy shit, Wil."
"Hair care is important," he mumbles. He doesn't know why he's embarrassed about it all of a sudden.
"'Course, big man." Tommy busies himself with reading the instructions. "Oh, shampoo first. Where's that at?"
"Over here." Wilbur hands it to him.
"Thanks." Tommy squirts some on his hands, then rubs them together, releasing its soft scent, which ebs a conditioned response through Wilbur: relaxation. Cleanliness and freshness follow this scent, and his body knows it.
"Wil, how come it's not bubblin'?"
"No sulfates," Wilbur answers, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them.
"What's that for?" Tommy pushes his hands into his hair, combing through the locks with his soapy hands.
"Better for your hair. 'nd mine's curly. Needs extra care." Tommy comes across one of his many knots, gently tugging at it until it unravels itself. Tommy's soft enough with it that it barely hurts.
"Should I be using it?" Another knot. Gentle tug, tug, tug, until it goes free.
Wilbur shrugs. "Maybe. I don't think you need it."
"Alrighty."
They sit in silence while Tommy scrubs at Wilbur's scalp with the shampoo, periodically squirting more into his hands, periodically encountering another tangle. The repetitive scratching of his scalp runs pleasant tingles across his neck and down his spine. His eyes drift close, tension draining from his shoulders.
He almost slips into sleep, but then a curiosity gnawing at him makes itself known. "Tommy, why… why are you doing this?"
What goes unsaid: Wouldn't it be easier to leave me be? It's rotten work, caring for someone like this. Why do you stay?
Tommy stops, and it's completely silent in the room. Wilbur's worried that he's overstepped some boundary, but then Tommy starts scrubbing again. "'Cause I care about you, dick'ead. Isn't that enough?"
Wilbur hums. "I guess."
"I know…" Tommy trails off, his cleaning slowing to a stop. "And I know it's hard for you, sometimes. To do this sort of stuff." He gathers Wilbur's hair and starts forming it into a mountain at the top of his head, using the soap to sculpt.
"Mt. Soot," Tommy whispers to himself, shaping its peak. "And yeah, it fucking sucks pestering my dad to make the two hour trek here when you pass out in the bath and I'm left worrying if you're alright for half an hour, but — " Tommy twirls the tip of the soapy hair mountain into a coil.
His next words are low. Hushed, as if sharing a secret."It's worth it. You're worth it, 'cause — " He stops. The coil wilts. " — 'cause you're my best friend, Wil."
Oh.
Wilbur swallows. Despite Tommy's kind, genuine words, something sinks in Wilbur's gut. But, he still finds solace in the candid vulnerability of it. It lightens a load he'd been carrying on his shoulders that he didn't even know existed.
"Thank you," he whispers, voice hoarse.
"No problem." The soft smile is clear in his murmur. "Alright, I'm gonna start rinsing it off," Tommy says, signalling the end of that conversation. His voice is thick, but neither of them mention it.
"Okay."
Tommy pours bathwater back on Wilbur's head, shielding Wilbur's eyes again. As the water clears the soap from his hair, Tommy runs his fingers through it, thoroughly rinsing it out.
Wilbur has to admit, the grime and oil being cleared from his scalp is an immense relief. Having Tommy to talk to, all well-intentioned with his kind charm is even better.
A reminder of how traumatized individuals cope better if they have a steady, judgement-free support network flashes through his head. He supposes they aren't only effective for trauma.
Tommy gives Wilbur's one final comb through and deems it passable, saying, "Fuck yeah, clean crime boy."
"Rest in peace, dirty crime boy," Wilbur tosses back. Tommy's wheeze explodes from behind him.
It isn't even that funny. None of what Wilbur has been saying is funny, but Tommy laughs all the same. If Wilbur had taken two steps towards exhaustion, his laughter wouldve been grating, but to Wilbur right now, it's just melodic and validating.
"Alright, Jesus, where's the conditioner, the — " Tommy shifts pitch and accent, exponentially gaining pretentiousness, " — moroccan argan oil conditioner?"
Wilbur snorts, handing him the bottle. "Over here, your royal highness."
Tommy takes it with a delicate grip, pinky obnoxiously pushed out. "Why, thank you, kind sir — Sir William Charlington the Third. III. " He overenunciates the Roman numerals, throat bobbing with each 'I'.
A giggle bubbles from Wilbur's chest. "My pleasure, Prince Innit."
Tommy immediately breaks character. "Oh, so now I'm just a fucking prince?" He aggressively squirts conditioner into his palms, and Wilbur's thinking that he's gonna comb it through his hair with the same vigour, but Tommy is almost painfully gentle with it, meticuously rubbing the product into each part of his hair. He shifts back to the earlier accent. " Thirty-seven years I've sat on that throne; I'll not have a member of my own court denying my kingship."
"My lord, I do sincerely apologize — you act so much a child; my perception saw you no older than the ripe young age of sixteen!"
"Shut the fuck up," Tommy says, entirely in his natural Nottingham accent. A full-bodied laugh escapes Wilbur, shaking conditioner off his curls. "You know I'm legal now, bitch! I can drink and shit."
"You'll always be a gremlin child to me, Toms." Wilbur pokes at him. But's only met with silence. "Tommy?"
Tommy stills, hands buried in Wilbur's hair. "... What if I don't want to be that anymore? What if I want to be more, Wil?"
Wilbur doesn't know how to take that. Well, he knows how one interpretation of it could go, and it makes his heart stutter a hopeful stacatto in his chest. He swallows. "What d'you mean, Tommy?"
"What if — fuck, y'know what? Forget it. Pretend I didn't say anything." Tommy pointedly busies himself with the conditioner bottle.
"Tommy...?"
"I said, drop it."
The acid in his voice hurts more than it should. All of a sudden, Wilbur's nakedness bothers him. He wants to slip on pyjamas and go back under the covers, hiding his head away from the rest of the world. He curls in, hugging his knees tighter to himself.
"Alright."
His voice must betray more of his current feelings than he wanted it to, because Tommy sighs. "Aw, fuck, Wilbur, don't take it like that." He goes over to the rack to wipe his hands on the towel, then squats so that he's looking into Wilbur's gaze.
"Look, I'm not mad at you, alright?" Wilbur nods. "I'm sorry for snapping at you; it wasn't right." Tommy hefts a breath through his nose, and he breaks eye contact to drift his gaze to the side, twisting up his mouth in thought.
"I... I came over here to help you 'cause you're having a hard time; I shouldn't have let my... I shouldn't have done that." He looks back into Wilbur's eyes. "I'm sorry."
Silence. Then: "S'okay," Wilbur answers. He can't really stay upset with the younger, anyway. He streches out an olive branch. "Wash the conditioner from my hair?"
Tommy smiles, open and vulnerable. "'Course."
For the rest of the bath, they sit in comfortable silence. Tommy hums a series of tunes — starting with Able Sisters, and then jumping back and forth between game music and pop songs that Wilbur only vaguely knows the melodies of.
While Wilbur is perfectly fine to wash himself now, he just — he likes Tommy doting on him, so he lets the younger confuse himself with the directions of Wilbur's products.
"What do you mean you have to lather the body wash with a scrub?" "You don't?" "No, I just rub the bar over my body, and it works perfectly fine." "Tommy." "What? What? Clean that smirk off your face, Wil, you know I'm not good with this stuff!"
It's only a little awkward when Tommy reaches Wilbur's crotch when scrubbing down his body, because Wilbur gently grabs his wrist and says, "Don't worry, I can handle this one."
Before long, Wilbur is genuinely clean for the first time in days. Tommy steps away to order pizza while Wilbur gets changed and brushes his teeth, and Wilbur feels like a normal human being. Enough to open the windows and air out his room of dust and his own musty smell, picking up laundry and trash as he goes.
After the pizza arrives, they sit on Wilbur's couch, watching a random film Tommy picked off Netflix. They take turns jeering at the characters — Tommy's taken a special liking to poking fun at an actor with Wilbur's exact glasses and hairstyle. Wilbur notices how Tommy inches closer to him for the duration of the film, ending up buried in his side by the time the credits roll. He just wraps an arm around Tommy's shoulders, who relaxes into his embrace.
It's nice. Really, really nice. There have been a few bouts here and there where Wilbur suddenly loses energy, but he picks it up soon after. By the end of the night, when Tommy proudly announces that he's spending the night ("And before you ask, my mum already said yes."), and Wilbur converts his pull-out couch to a bed.
They're lying together on the couch-bed, an arm's length apart. The lights are off — it's just them talking about everything and nothing before Wilbur retreats to his own room when Wilbur remembers Tommy's earlier words.
"Y'know," he starts, voice low, on the tail end of Tommy's rant of how vile hunting is, "If you wanted to be something — something more to me... I think that'd be alright."
Tommy's head snaps over to him. Even in the dim lighting from the overcast moonlight, he sees Tommy's wide eyed expression.
"Y-you don't know what you're talking about."
Wilbur scoots a little closer to Tommy, brushing some of his hair behind his ear. "I think I do," he murmurs.
"You sure...?" Tommy asks, even as he leans into his touch.
"Yeah," Wilbur reaffirms. "Yeah, I am." His hand shifts to hold his cheek, stroking at it with his thumb. Tommy closes his eyes, melting into Wilbur's hand.
Wilbur moves even closer, so that they're breathing each other's air. His gaze flicks down to Tommy's lips, then back to his eyes, which are open again.
He starts leaning in. "Tell me if you don't want this," he whispers, "Tell me 'no' right now, and I'll stop."
Tommy answers by closing the distance between them. It's a fleeting brush of their lips — chaste, soft.
When Wilbur pulls away, Tommy's beaming.
Wilbur doesn't go back to his room that night.